Death's Bounty Page 2

  “Watch out for the gopher hole,” he snapped.

  Alarm expanded her eyes as she dropped her gaze to the ground. Edge kicked free of his left stirrup and used the right to power his leap across the width of the trail. He grasped the rifle barrel with both hands and dragged it to the side. The girl screamed and squeezed the trigger. The bullet burrowed into the hard-packed earth of the trail. Her horse reared at the explosion, and she slid from the saddle, releasing the gun. Edge landed in a surefooted crouch and caught her in his arms as he let the rifle drop.

  “Please!” she gasped, staring up into his impassive face as she struggled to escape from his grip.

  “Never say that to a man unless you first tell him what you’re pleading for,,lady,” he advised, hooking his heel over the Henry’s barrel before he set her down on her feet.

  She was at once angry and terrified as she stood before the man, towering almost a foot over her. The mare snorted and scratched at the ground with a forehoof.

  “What . . . what did you ... do that for?” she stammered, scared that she already knew the answer. Her wide eyes moved from his face, down to the rifle trapped beneath his foot, then up to the butt of the Colt sticking from his holster.

  The cold grin cracked Edge’s impassiveness. “Forget both ideas, lady,” he told her softly. “The gun you wouldn’t make. The other you might. And enjoyment ain’t no punishment.”

  “Punishment?” she said, her voice shaky, “But I only—”

  “You pointed a gun at me, lady,” Edge rasped. “Nobody does that without paying somehow.”

  She gulped. “What are you going to do?”

  His discarded cigarette sent up a thin column of smoke from the ground, blue in the filtered sunlight. He moved his foot off the rifle to step on, the smoldering tobacco. “How old are you?” he demanded.

  She made no attempt to get closer to the Henry. “Nineteen next month,” she replied in a whisper.

  “Young enough,” Edge said with a nod and curled out an arm.

  The girl screamed again. ^Edge dropped to one knee as his arm hooked around her neck and jerked her forward, then down. She fell, struggling, across the hard bar of his leg. The tone of her scream changed from fright to outrage as his free hand flipped up her skirt and petticoats and hooked over the waistband of her pantaloons. The almost sheer fabric of her underwear ripped with the ease of paper and seemed to shrivel to the sides, presenting the milky whiteness of her rear to full view.

  “You—”

  Edge’s hard, copper brown hand slapped forcefully against the naked flesh and the girl gave a shriek of pain. “Never did me no harm,” Edge shouted against the high-pitched sound screeching from her throat. His hand rose and fell in another spanking blow. “Course, I was younger than you when Pa gave my butt a whopping.”

  He hit her six times, making her flesh glow scarlet and reducing her screams to sobs. Then he rose, pushing her upright. Her face was highly-colored with the rush of blood and anger. Tears of hurt coursed down it.

  “You beast!” she flung at him.

  He ignored her, stooping to pick up the Henry, then ejected its full load of shells. They glittered with an evil sheen as they flew through the sunlit air. He dropped the gun back on the ground and eyed the girl levelly as she massaged her pained rear end.

  “You enjoyed that!” she accused.

  He clicked his tongue against die roof of his mouth. “I won’t say it hurt me more than it did you,” he allowed as he turned to swing up into the saddle.

  Her expression became scornful. “You’re real brave, beating a girl!”

  “It’s easier than a man,” he admitted. “But think about the whopping next time you reckon to point a gun at a stranger. The life you save could be your own.”

  He tapped the gelding’s flanks with his heels and started on down the trail toward town. Once he shot a glance over his shoulder, but the girl had made no move to pick up the Henry and reload it. She stood as he had left her, rubbing the source of her pain and staring after him vindictively.

  “I hope I meet the man who pulls a gun on you and fires it, mister!” she yelled at him. “I’d sure like to shake his hand.”

  He grinned back at her. “Even for a lady as pretty as you, I don’t reckon they’d dig him up just for that,” he called in reply and rode out of sight around a bend in the trail.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The marker board proclaimed: Jerusalem—The beating heart of this green and pleasant land (Elevation 4,000 Feet).

  Edge thought the surroundings looked green and pleasant enough as he surveyed the undulating pasture spread out before him. The trail dipped clear of the wooded hills and ran arrow-straight down a long slope and across a broad sweep of open country. At the center, it broadened between the fagades of the buildings which marked the one-street town, then narrowed again and tapered in perspective toward the distant ridges of a northern range of mountains. He counted eight farmsteads scattered across the broad, upland valley. Each was fenced, but the better than five thousand head of cattle grazing on the lush grass , were free to roam over the entire range.

  From a distance the town did not seem to be beating with any show of vitality, and as Edge rode closer, the impression of lazy tranquility became more marked. It | was after midday now and very hot out of the shade of the trees. There was not a breath of a breeze. Smoke from cooking fires rose like solid columns of gray and blue into the still air. But something—perhaps his own imagination —wafted the appetizing aroma of food and coffee under Edge’s flared nostrils.

  Nobody was in sight around the farmsteads, but an old man slept in a rocker on the stoop before the barber’s shop, which was the first building at the southern end of town. He woke at the sound of the gelding’s hooves and cracked his lips to show a toothless smile.

  “Howdy, stranger!” he said brightly, not getting up. “Come for the celebration? Want a shave? Haircut?”

  Edge halted his horse and gave the town a narroweyed once-over. There were a church, two stores, a blacksmith’s, a sheriff’s office, a hotel incorporating a saloon and restaurant, and a dozen houses. All were built of wood, and only the St. David’s Hotel reached two stories. Paint gleamed and windows shone. The signs over the business premises looked as fresh and clean as the day they were put up. The grass inside the picket fence surrounding the church was clipped short, and the grave markers were scrubbed white. If anybody had raised dust from the street, it had been swept from the roofed sidewalks.

  “How long’s this town been here?” Edge answered with a question.

  The barber chuckled and wiped an overflow of saliva from his chin. “Ten years, stranger,” he said proudly. “Pretty good, uh? Looks like only yesterday, uh? Folks here like to keep things neat and tidy. Reason I figured you’d feel like a shave an’ haircut.”

  Edge scraped a hand over his stubble jaw. “Shave, maybe. Later. Hair’s okay.”

  He moved his horse forward, angling across the street toward the long length of hitching rail in front of the hotel.

  “Sheriff Pitman, he don’t like long-haired fellers, mister,” the aged barber called. “He’s got this theory about it and—”

  “Could be the start of something big,” Edge cut in wryly.

  The old-timer shrugged and resettled himself for another period of sleep as Edge dismounted and hitched his horse to the rail. A fat middle-aged woman with a sour expression emerged from the dry goods store, carrying a loaded basket. She eyed Edge suspiciously as he slid the Winchester from the saddle boot and stepped up onto the sidewalk. He looked at her indifferently, prepared to exchange a greeting if she made the opening. She slowed her pace and seemed to be waiting for something. Edge saw that the two-story building had three doorways— one at the center for the hotel, a second for the restaurant, and a third for the saloon. He licked his lips and tasted sweat and grit. He opted for the saloon.

  “Stay out of barrooms, young man!” the woman called stridently. “If you enter, the dev
il goes with you.”

  Edge halted with his hand on the batwing doors. His narrowed eyes met her stare and captured it. “Ma’am, I don’t give a shit,” he drawled, “just so long as he stands his round.”

  He pushed on into the dark interior to the sound of the woman’s shocked gasp. The saloon was small, but big enough for a town the size of Jerusalem. And its furnishings and decorations matched the neat, clean lines of the town’s exterior. The face of the handsome young bartender looked as polished as the rows of bottles and glasses arrayed in shelves behind him. Baskets of flowers hanging from the ceiling emanated a mixture of sweet fragrances to mask the smell of alcohol—and perhaps, Edge thought, the odor of his travel-weary body.

  Three pairs of eyes followed him to the bar. Those of the bartender smiled a greeting. Two customers seated at a polished table—one young and beefy, the other in his forties and almost skeletal—watched the newcomer with idle curiosity.

  “Whiskey,” Edge said, hooking a heel over the brass rail and leaning the Winchester against the bar front.

  “Coming up,” the bartender said brightly. “Here for the celebration?”

  Edge watched as a shot glass was slapped down on the bartop and a bottle was upended over it. Some of the liquor spilled. By the time he had raised the glass and thrown the drink against the back of his throat, a cloth had been produced and the spillage had been wiped off the wood.

  “For the sleep,” Edge said. “I figure I need twenty-four hours solid.”

  The bartender started to laugh. The glitter of the halfbreed’s eyes cut short Ms good humor. He gulped and blinked. “It’s just that nobody sleeps in Jerusalem on Sam Lynch’s birthday.”

  “I ain’t nobody, and I don’t know any Sam Lynch,” Edge replied, reaching for the Winchester.

  “Touch it and you’re dead!” a voice warned curtly.

  Edge froze, his eyes still locked on the nervous stare of the young bartender. The kid had to struggle, but finally he was able to look away, over the shoulder of his immobile customer.

  “No trouble, Sheriff,” he blurted.

  “You know my theory about guns and drink, Harvey,” the town’s lawman replied flatly. “They don’t mix. Turn around, mister. Slow, like you was in a jar of maple syrup.”

  “Or in a jam?” Edge countered easily as he complied with the order.

  He leaned his back against the bar and hooked his thumbs over the buckle of his gunbelt as he surveyed the sheriff and was subjected to a similar examination from the lawman. Pitman was pushing fifty. He was six feet tall and looked as if he might weigh in the region of two hundred fifty pounds. His head was in proportion to his body, big boned and fleshy. The flat gray eyes seemed to be the only points of hardness about him—discounting the Colt gripped in his pudgy right hand.

  “It’s one you made for yourself, feller,” the lawman said. “That was my wife you insulted out on the street a while back.”

  Edge showed no reaction. The other two customers switched their attention from the sheriff to Edge and back again. They seemed pleased that something was happening to liven up a dull day in a dull town.

  The half-breed’s silence irritated the lawman. “You got anything to say for yourself, mister?” he demanded.

  “Yeah,” Edge said, working saliva around in his mouth. “I’ll say it to you, and you can pass on the message to your wife. Keep your nose out of my business.”

  He spat on the spotlessly clean floor. Pitman gulped and Harvey gasped. The thin customer whistled sofdy. His friend leaned back in his chair, grinning.

  “Oh, mister!” the sheriff breathed, swelling out his chest. “You’re just a mess of trouble on two legs. Walking around looking for a place to happen.”

  “Kinda proves your theory about long hair, don’t it?” Edge asked easily.

  Pitman ignored the comment. “You got a choice,” he rasped. “Get on your horse and ride out of Jerusalem. Or walk down to the jail with me.”

  “You got a featherbed in the cell?”

  “What do you think?” Pitman snarled, as angry at himself as at Edge. For he knew he was facing a killer. Everything about the stranger stamped him as dangerous—the set of his features, the fact that he toted a rifle when calling for a drink, the gun in the tied-down holster, and the apparent casual ease with which he faced the drawn

  Colt—apparent only because beneath the veneer of carelessness he was tensed and ready. His eyes gave that away. And from the cool look deep in back of the eyes, Pitman realized his bluff had been called with complete self-assurance. This man was no ordinary drifter with a big mouth and no guts.

  “I think I’ll ride out of town,” Edge said softly, looking around the saloon and settling his indifferent gaze on a poster nailed to a wall. It was a program of events for the birthday celebrations, which he now knew to be forthcoming. One of the highspots was to be a prize fight between David Jefferson and Howy McNally.

  “That’s just fine,” Pitman replied, visibly shaken by Edge’s untroubled acceptance. “Pick up the rifle—onehanded by the barrel. And carry it that way.”

  The younger customer had replaced his grin with a sneer of contempt. His friend was as incredulous as the lawman. Edge picked up the gun in the manner described and levered himself away from the bar. Pitman moved to the side of the doorway, the Colt still trained on the halfbreed’s flat stomach.

  “Forgot to pay for the drink,” Edge said, coming to a halt halfway between the bar and the batwings.

  “It’s okay,” Harvey replied to Edge’s back. “Everyone’s entitled to a free drink on Sam Lynch’s birthday. Seeing as how you won’t be in town tomorrow, you get yours today.”

  Edge gave a curt nod, then continued on toward the door, the Winchester trailing behind him, clutched by his left hand around the muzzle. The fat sheriff was to the left of him.

  “Watch, Davy,” the thin customer whispered to the well-built one.

  “No sweat, sheriff,” Edge said softly as he reached for the batwings with his free hand. “I’ll ride out of town ...” He went through the doors. The lawman moved into the gap behind him. Edge flicked his wrist and backheeled with his right foot. The stock of the Winchester crashed into one door. His boot hit the other. Both swung closed with terrific force. The Colt roared as the sheriff pushed it forward. But it was the lawman who screamed. Edge leaned far to the right, remaining on his feet and flipping over the rifle into both hands. The bullet from the revolver splintered wood from the front of a house across the street. People peered from windows, and the more adventurous rushed from doorways. Pitman continued to scream as the Colt slipped from his helpless hand and clattered to the sidewalk. His hand hung limply through the narrow crack between the doors. The wrist had been fractured by the violent closure. Blood oozed from pulped flesh and dripped onto the sheriff’s highly polished boots sticking out from under the batwings. As Edge moved in front of the saloon entrance and looked in over the top of the doors into the contorted, stark white face of the lawman, the screams subsided into a low moaning.

  . . when I’ve caught up on lost sleep,” the half-breed completed, shouldering the Winchester and digging into his hip pocket. He came up with a dollar bill, which he screwed up into a ball and flicked into the saloon. “For the drink, Harvey,” he explained. “I’ll collect on the free one tomorrow—if I’m up.”

  He turned away, heading for the hotel entrance and wondering why the name David Jefferson should trigger a memory deep at the bottom of his mind.

  A small man wearing a frock coat and carrying a carpetbag ran out of the hotel. “What’s happened?” he de-' manded anxiously. “Who’s hurt?”

  “Sheriff,” Edge replied easily. “Somebody ought to get

  his arm out of the door before gangrene sets in. Pitman could wind up short-handed.”

  He shouldered by the shocked man and went into the hotel lobby.

  CHAPTER THREE

  David Jefferson was only the clue to the memory, not the memory itself. The n
ame had. to be reversed and one letter had to be altered. The answer came out Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederacy during the War Between the States.

  It was mid-March in 1864, almost a month after the Federals had been defeated at Olustee, Florida, and the Red River Campaign had been launched in an attempt to win Louisiana back into the Union. Far north of the major theater of operations, Union cavalry Captain Josiah C. Hedges led a train of four heavily laden wagons through a lashing rainstorm into a small town on the Tennessee-Virginia state line. It was evening. The escort assigned to his command was comprised of six white troopers, who had been with him from the start of the war, and eighteen Negroes. The latter were the survivors of a far larger group, which had been freed from the yoke of southern slavery by the white men with whom they now rode. All were garbed in Union blue, for the ex-slaves had been invited to enlist by General Ulysses S. Grant himself.

  The entry into the tiny town of Hartford Gap on the south bank of the Clinch River marked the end of an uneasy ride, even though there had been no trouble since the bloody skirmish with Quantrill's Raiders. The major cause of friction between the men was the contempt in which the whites held the blacks and the resentment with which this was met. For the release of the slaves had not been engineered for any altruistic or humanitarian motives. The whites—Sergeant Frank Forrest, Corporal Hal ( Douglas and Troopers Billy Seward, Roger Bell, John I Scott, and Bob Rhett—never did anything freely with i consideration for anybody but themselves. The slaves i were needed, so they were used. But initially because of the blacks’ dogged stubbornness, and latterly by dictate of military orders, the white troopers had been forced to accept the ex-slaves as comrades.

  “You know something?” Bob Rhett said in his nasal New England accent, which was pitched just high enough to hint at his homosexuality.

  “I know a lot of things,” Seward rasped. He had a baby face in which the eyes of a bom-killer would have been incongruous, had not the savagery of war twisted the mouth into a cruel line.