EDGE: Blood Run (Edge series Book 14) Read online

  Table of Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DON’T MISS THE NEXT EXCITING EPISODE

  BLOOD RUN

  By George G. Gilman

  First Published by Kindle 2013

  Copyright © 2013 by George G. Gilman

  First Kindle Edition February 2013

  Names, Characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance

  to actual events locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any

  information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author,

  except where permitted by law.

  Cover Design and illustrations by West World Designs © 2013.

  This is a High Plains Western for Lobo Publications.

  Visit the author at: www.gggandpcs.proboards.com

  For B.G., who is so important to the production of Edge.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Although complete in itself, this book continues the Civil War adventures of the man now called Edge. Previous books in this flashback sequence are Killer’s Breed, The Blue, The Grey And The Red, Seven Out Of Hell, Vengeance is Black and The Biggest Bounty.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE clouds hung so low they seemed to scrape the jagged tops of the cliffs on either side of the rushing water that crashed and broiled towards its meeting place with the Columbia River twenty miles to the north. They were dark gray, shading to near full black in patches and streaks, and were racing southwards ahead of a spiteful wind that howled louder than the roar of the white water as it funneled into the narrowing neck of the gorge.

  Where the cliff faces tapered and almost touched, they provided towering banks to contain the angry water. But downstream where the gorge widened there was a natural step, of rock in some places and grass-covered earth in others, at the foot of each cliff. Mixed timber of willow, ash, oak and pine thrived along the earthy sections of the banks and it was through the leafless branches of a gnarled oak that the man called Edge looked down at the men who would die within an hour—unless he helped them.

  There were two of them, with their arms lashed to their sides and their legs bound at knees and ankles. They were strung, upside-down, by lengths of rope hitched around the lowest branch of the oak and tied to their ankles. One of the men was at least six inches shorter than the other, but the ropes had been cut so that both their heads were an equal few inches above the fast-flowing water.

  They seemed to have been suspended thus for a long time, but it was not until the half-breed reined his big stallion to a halt at the rim of the gorge’s east cliff that their helplessness became desperate. For it was at that moment that the scudding clouds delivered their threat and unleashed a cascade of teeming rain.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ Almighty, Gabby!” the shorter of the two screamed in panic. “Them crazy bastards got their damn prayers answered. We’re gonna die!”

  It would take time for the stream to swell with new rain, but in his terrified imagination the man was certain he was on the verge of instant drowning. He forced his head up and struggled desperately to arch his back and hold the position. His complexion, already crimson from the pressure of blood to his head, shaded to deep purple with the exertion.

  “Quit it, Estes,” the other man growled in a voice larded with the same brand of hillbilly accents as his partner in trouble. “Or could be you’ll die of the heart strain ‘fore the water gets you.”

  Estes could not hold the muscle-stretching posture any longer and he flopped back to the loose-hanging position. The branch creaked ominously and bowed. The ropes turned and the men spun slowly at their ends. Spume from partially submerged rocks reinforced the raindrops beating against their faces.

  “And quit bouncin’ up and down, lunkhead!” Gabby snarled. “Maybe you’re in a rush to die, but I ain’t, that’s for sure.”

  The branch returned to its natural growing angle and the ropes ceased to turn. The men glared at each other’s distorted, upside-down faces across a space of three feet. Edge eyed them coldly through lids narrowed against the wind and rain, able to hear each word they said before the spring storm whipped their voices into infinity.

  “What difference does it make?” Estes demanded. “Pat was the lucky one. For him it was quick.” He injected scorn into his tone. “Might as well drown now. Unless you got somethin’ important you wanna do before you cash in your chips?”

  “Maybe get away and live a few more years,” Gabby answered. “And teach them God-crazy guys not to fool with Silas Gabb.”

  Estes tried to spit into the stream, but the wind eddied and flung the saliva back into his blood-heavy face. He cursed. “You figure the Man upstairs’ll listen to your prayers?” he growled.

  “Prayin’ I got no time for,” Gabb yelled above the crash of water and roar of wind. “Luck, I have. And it’s time mine changed.”

  “Fat chance!” Estes taunted, and timed the spit better this time.

  “He don’t look so fat to me,” Gabb replied, and locked stares with Edge.

  Estes had started to concentrate upon a patch of brush growing out from the side of the bank beneath the tree: trying to gauge the rate of the rising water in relation to the lowest clump of foliage. But the flow was broken by bedrocks and the brush moved constantly in the tug of the wind. Then something in the flat tone of Gabb’s voice penetrated his fear and he snapped his head around to follow the direction of his partner’s gaze. He had to look upwards—along the length of his suspended form, through the branches of the oak and then across the grey rock face of the eastern cliff. At first, excitement at the sight of Edge choked him. But then he cleared his throat.

  “Damn it to hell, Gabby!” he yelled. “We’re gonna get saved.” Then he raised his voice higher, shouting loud enough to make the blood vessels stand out, like blue ropes, against his neck and temples. “Hey, you up there! Hey, mister! Give us a hand, uh? Mister, please!”

  Gabb and the half-breed continued to eye each other. “Estes!” Gabb called, just loud enough to be heard above the sounds of angry nature.

  “Yeah, Gabby?” Estes showed his tobacco-stained and time-decayed teeth in a broad grin.

  “The guy’s seen us. He’s seen the fix we’re in. He either comes down here or he don’t. You hollerin’ like a stuck pig ain’t gonna make any difference one way or the other.”

  Still he continued to crane up his head to look at the top of the cliff. And still Edge did not move, held in stark black silhouette against the wet-sheened, fast-moving grayness of the rain clouds. Man and horse seemed to be carved out of black marble for long moments. Then, with a slight movement of his heels and a gentle tug on the reins, Edge wheeled his horse away from the cliff top and went from sight.

  “The bastard’s leavin’ us!” Estes screamed hysterically.

  “A hundred feet straight down into maybe three feet of water?” Gabb pointed out sourly.

  Once more the taller man’s calm logic drove Estes back from the brink of despair and both twisted their heads to the side. To look downstream, cracking their eyes against the wind and rain pummeling their faces. That was the direction in which Edge had turned his horse and although it was difficu
lt to see much through the driving downpour, both men knew what the terrain was like to the north. For that was the way they had been brought to their place of slow execution.

  The gorge petered out after three hundred yards or so, the cliffs veering away to the sides and losing height rapidly to crumble into boulder strewn, wooded slopes. Beyond was a broad valley, heavily timbered, with the stream curving across it and widening to the proportions of a river. Then, as the valley and river made a dogleg swing to the north-west, the foundations of the cathedral and the strange town came into view.

  “Sure as hell is takin’ his time, Gabby,” Estes complained after a few minutes had seemed to stretch into hours.

  “His privilege,” Gabb answered and although his tone remained colder than the wind-driven rain, there was just a trace of anxiety in his upside-down face.

  Then a look of intense concentration entered his slitted eyes and his head craned forward. A shadow moved in the murky curtain of rain on the same bank of the stream as the oak tree. A moment later the shadow took shape and substance: a tall man astride a big horse. Hooves clattered on rock and thudded against grass. Edge reined his horse to a halt beneath the insecure umbrella of the oak.

  “Lousy weather to have to hang around in,” he greeted evenly, and swung out of the saddle.

  “Lousy time to make jokes!” Estes rasped.

  “Quit it, lunkhead!” Gabb snarled, fixing the half-breed with an inquiring stare as he mentally swung around his upside-down image of the newcomer.

  He saw a man more than just tall—maybe six feet three inches —who looked to weigh close to two hundred pounds: a lot of it muscle and bone with no excess fat. But in the back of his lean, angular features with the light blue eyes, hawkish nose, high cheekbones, narrow mouth above a firm jaw—the whole stretched over with deeply-lined, burnished brown skin—was more than a hint that his head was not just muscle and bone. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and he also looked to have the blood of two races coursing through his veins. Mexican for sure. And European—northern European, Gabb guessed. His dress was dark-hued and ill suited to the chill of Oregon in the transition of the seasons from Winter to Spring. A black, low-crowned hat from which blacker hair swept down to brush the shoulders of his grey cotton shirt, open at the neck to show a length of whipcord strung with beads. His pants were of dark denim, the cuffs draped outside ancient riding boots. He wore a weathered gun belt fully stocked with shells supporting a holster tied down to the right thigh. A standard Colt six-shooter without trimmings jutted from the cracked leather. The stock of a Winchester angled from the saddle boot.

  Although his stance and expression were casual as he surveyed the predicament of the two men, there was something about the look of him which suggested he was quick to ice-cold anger: and fast to react to his impulses.

  He crouched down and tipped his head to one side, on a level with and getting a less distorted view of the faces of the hanging men. “Upset someone, uh?” he asked.

  “Took more than just someone to string us up like this, mister!” Estes rasped. He was about five feet seven inches tall and thickset with a squarish head and a face that had a pleasant but unintelligent cast with dull-looking brown eyes and a weak jaw line, a crookedly broken nose and a loose mouth. He was about forty.

  “But wouldn’t take no more than the one of you to cut us down,” Gabb augmented, his tone unruffled. “Name’s Silas Gabb. This here’s my partner, Estes Mackinlay.”

  Gabb was a few years the elder and a head taller. Much heavier, with wide shoulders, a broad chest and a hard looking, narrow waistline. His face was more thickly stubbled than Mackinlay’s, with ruggedly handsome features: clear grey eyes, finely sculptured nose and well-formed mouth above a solid jaw. Their set suggested a brooding nature and he looked like a man who did not smile often.

  Both men had thinning black hair and wore identical outfits: buckskin pants tucked into knee-high leather boots and fur-lined tunics buttoned over buckskin shirts with bandanas knotted at their throats.

  “Get called Edge most of the time,” the squatting half-breed replied. “Some other times I’m called a bastard.” His thin lips drew back to show even teeth in a cold grin. But his eyes, blue as a summer sky at dawn, fixed Mackinlay with a stare completely devoid of humor.

  “You heard me, uh?” Mackinlay rasped, and swallowed hard. “I was mad, mister. That’s all. Figured you was gonna ride off and leave us. That thought didn’t give me no peace of mind.”

  “Estes always gettin’ into trouble on account of his temper, Edge,” Gabb excused. “Hope you’ll forgive him.”

  “Forgiving’s no problem,” Edge said as he straightened up, lifting a hand to the back of his neck. The beaded cord held a buckskin pouch at the nape, pointing down the line of his spine. In the pouch was a cutthroat razor he had won long ago in a far off war.* (*See—Edge: Killer’s Breed.) Its blade had a subdued sheen in the dull storm light as the weapon was drawn clear of the long hair. “It’s forgetting gives the trouble—to other people.”

  He stepped down from the bank and waded sure-footed out to where the two men were hanging. The rushing water slapped into his legs and sprayed the faces of the men.

  “Mister... !” Mackinlay pleaded, his features contorted by fear as he looked up at the face of the half-breed.

  “My folks were married,” the half-breed said. “In a church with my mother dressed in white and me just a hope in her heart.”

  “Like Gabby said, mister,” Mackinlay blubbered, tearing his eyes away from Edge’s cold grin to stare in horror at the razor. “I got this lousy temper. I get mad easy.”

  Edge closed down the grin to purse his lips. Then he made a crosswise slash with the razor. The finely honed blade sliced through the rope suspending Mackinlay. The man screamed and plunged into the white water. It was a short-lived scream and then his gurgling was muted by all the other sounds in the storm-lashed gorge. The half-breed’s solidly placed splayed legs prevented the helpless man from being dragged downstream by the current.

  “Get him outta the water for Christ’s sake!” Gabb yelled. “The lunkhead’ll drown.”

  “Cool his temper and keep his mouth shut for awhile, is all,” Edge answered evenly. Then the razor slashed three times more, all the cuts in a downward direction. The first sliced through the ropes holding Gabb’s arms against his sides. The second severed the bonds at his knees. The third bit through the rope trapping his ankles and holding him to the tree branch. Arms and hands which had been starved of circulation for so long could make only a token attempt to break the man’s head-first plunge into the icy water.

  Edge slid the razor back into its pouch then swung around and waded to the bank. Behind him, Gabb struggled to sit up against the rush of water and managed to snatch Mackinlay to him before the deluge dragged him away. He forced his partner’s head above the surface and both men sucked in great gulps of air. Edge stepped up on to the bank and narrowed his eyes against the slanting rain.

  “Ain’t exactly picnic weather out there,” he called evenly. “But the talking’ll be easier if we don’t have to shout at each other.”

  “You’re mighty sparing with your help, mister!” Gabb accused, struggling to his feet and starting to haul Mackinlay towards the bank.

  “Only give as much as I need to get what I want,” Edge answered, crouching down and taking out the makings from his shirt pocket. He rolled the cigarette in the restricted dry space beneath the belly of his black stallion. He used the same sheltered area to light it and when he turned around, Gabb had dragged his partner up on to the bank. Both men were still gulping in air as their bodies shuddered with cold, like freshly landed fish.

  “We ain’t got a thing to give,” Gabb told the half-breed sourly as he began to work on Mackinlay’s bonds with shaking fingers. “Just the clothes we’re wearin’ is all.”

  “Not my style,” Edge said, moving in close to the thick trunk of the oak, on the side away from the driving rain.
“Trappers, uh?”

  “Now we’re trappers,” Gabb answered. “We done dirt-farming in Kentucky, cattle driving in Texas, raised wheat in Kansas, prospected in California and Mexico, fought in the war between the States ... You name it, we done it. For more than twenty years we been together.”

  “I need your life stories as much as I want your threads,” Edge said, relishing the cigarette.

  “So what else?” Gabb asked.

  “Information.”

  “Tell you all we can if I can have the loan of your razor, mister,” the taller trapper offered as he continued to struggle with the first knot. Weak from the long period of hanging from the tree, he had caught a chill from the soaking. The rain and wind weren’t helping and his whole body was attacked by a spasm of trembling.

  “I do that, I’ve got nothing to bargain with, feller,” Edge told him, shielding the cigarette in a cupped hand.

  Gabb’s rugged; stubbled face showed he didn’t like the answer. But a sigh of resignation admitted his inability to alter the situation. He gave up working on the knots and half rose. Mackinlay seemed to want to say something, but whenever he unclamped his mouth, the discolored upper and lower teeth rattled against each other. Gabb grasped him under the armpits and dragged him into the sparse shelter offered beneath the downwind foliage of the oak tree.

  Then he squatted on his haunches and crossed his arms across his chest to hug his shoulders. “Wouldn’t say no to a cigarette,” he rasped.

  “Didn’t make you the offer,” Edge told him flatly. “I cut you down and maybe you’ll get the means to loose your partner. But I wouldn’t want you to get too deep into debt before I knew you could cover it.”

  He had smoked only half the cigarette. Deliberately, he flicked the butt out into the wind and rain. The ash was extinguished immediately and the paper and tobacco became a sopping, disintegrated mess almost as soon as it hit the grass.

  “You’re an easy man to hate, mister,” Gabb growled.