California Killing (Edge series Book 7) Page 2

  "Oh my!" Justin Wood exclaimed.

  Kilroy swept the rifle around to cover Judd, who allowed his shoulders to fall in dejected acceptance of his fate.

  "Low down, Sam?" Kilroy hissed.

  "Dumb move," Edge muttered to nobody in particular.

  "At least he tried," Dexter snapped in disgust.

  "Give me the word, Sam," Kilroy pleaded.

  Hood did not reply for several moments and the hiss of the falling rain and the rushing of the countless tiny rivulets it formed were suddenly very loud. Then:

  "Bring the punk over here."

  Dayton and the young Mexican moved in to flank Judd, then clasped his arms and frog-marched him across to the stage. Hood hauled himself to his feet, his ugliness awesome in his fury. Fear stiffened Judd's muscles and set a tic working in his stubbled cheek.

  "Hands on the wheel," Hood ordered.

  Judd moaned, resisted for a moment and. then gave way to the inevitable as his captors urged him towards the rear wheel of the stage. They held a wrist each and laid his hands, palms down, on the muddy iron rim. Hood leaned the Spencer against the steps and drew an English Tranter from under his frock coat as he halted beside Judd.

  "You tried to kill me, mister," he said conversationally. Then he tossed the revolver in the air and caught it by the barrel Time seemed to stand still as he raised his arm. Then it fell with a tremendous force, smashing into the back of Judd's left hand.

  Judd screamed. The blow made a splatting sound and sent a spray of blood over the side of the stage.

  "I don't like that too well." As he spoke again, Hood raised the gun and brought it down, straight-armed for extra length. Judd gave a strangled gasp of agony and Dayton snarled in disgust as blood from the broken right hand splashed on to his shirt.

  "Oh, my," Justin Wood whispered.

  Dexter took a step forward but halted abruptly when a rifle muzzle rammed into the small of his back.

  Edge sucked on his teeth.

  "Over a fraction," Hood said softly as Judd screwed up his eyes and tried unsuccessfully to subdue his low moans of pain. Dayton and the Mexican tugged gently at Judd's hands, which moved limply across the wheel rim so that the fingers were splayed. The Tranter rose and fell at a furious speed, the sickening crack of each knuckle followed by a high-pitched scream. Pulsing blue veins stood out on the victim's brow and in his neck, like twisted cords against the livid flesh. Blood from torn flesh dripped to the ground to tinge a score of tiny water runs. Fragments of splintered bone rode the rushing red water.

  As the final blow struck home, leaving the little finger of Judd's left hand hanging by a sinew, Wood gasped and pitched forward into unconsciousness. He was ignored as he lay still in the mud. Hood stepped back.

  "Let him go," he instructed.

  As the captors released him, Judd stumbled forward against the wheel and turned to lean against it, his useless hands swinging at his sides, dripping blood on to his pants. His eyes were floating in a sea of pain as he made a tacit plea for help. Hood spun the Tranter in the air, caught it by the butt and stepped up close to the injured man. Judd closed his eyes tight, resigned to the thud of a bullet.

  "I'm a fair man," Hood said evenly. "You might be stupid but you got guts. So you get a chance." He leaned forward suddenly and lifted the slicker to slip the revolver into Judd's empty holster. Then he turned his bulging eyes towards Edge and Dexter, ignoring the slumped form of Wood. "You seen Kilroy shoot. It wasn't luck. He's the best. Dayton's lousy. He couldn't hit the Rockies if he was standin' on top of 'em. Your man ain't in too good a shape. So I'll match him with my worse shot. Kinda even things up. Dayton!"

  As Judd sagged more heavily against the wheel, fighting to get his chin up off his chest, Dayton paced out twelve strides, an evil grin spread on his features. The rest of the men moved clear of the area between him and the stage...

  "Why don't you just shoot him?" Dexter demanded.

  Hood glowered across the open space at the man. "Money ain't everything, mister," he snarled. "We figure to take a little pleasure with our business. Best if there's women aboard, but there ain't no females here. So don't you be no killjoy, mister." He turned to study the sagging form of Judd. "Reckon' he thinks he's fast, Dayton," he said reflectively. "Wants you to draw first."

  A burst of laughter erupted from the watching holdup men, and the sound brought Wood back to consciousness. The photographer hauled himself up into a crouch, blinking and shaking his head. He came fully awake when Dayton swiveled his holster and fired. The bullet tore into Judd's right shoulder, slamming him upright against the wheel.

  "Goddamit, what'd I always tell you, Dayton," Hood yelled. "Low down is where I like to see 'em go."

  Dayton fired again from the same position and this time the bullet took Judd in the left shoulder. There was no longer any emotion left in Judd as he channeled every iota of his energy into the useless effort of staying on his feet. His mouth and eyes were wide against the lashing rain, but no sound came from him and his expression was blank.

  "Gun shoots high," Dayton complained and sank into crouch, drawing the revolver. He fired three times in quick succession. Judd began to fall to the side when his left kneecap was shattered, came forward when the second bullet blossomed blood from his right leg and then went back and down against the wheel as the final bullet tunneled into his stomach.

  "He weren't so fast," Dayton announced proudly as he straightened up and holstered his gun.

  "Animals!" Dexter exclaimed.

  Hood strolled casually across to the dead man and Jerked the Tranter from him, transferring it to his own holster.

  "Don't you give me no lip, mister," he yelled, glaring at Dexter, then at Wood as the photographer scrambled to his feet: filially at Edge. "I give him my iron. He had a chance, didn't he?"

  Edge clucked his tongue against his teeth and glared down at Judd's shattered hands. "'Yeah," he agreed softly. "You gave him all the breaks."

  Chapter Three

  MAGDA Stricklyn pulled the cloak more snugly about her voluptuous body and peered with eyes the color of New England greenery into the slanting curtain of rain. She was an extremely beautiful woman whose lush body and well sculptured features were complemented by long blonde hair. Once she had been a New York showgirl with no talent to back her looks and marriage to John Stricklyn had seemed the better of two -bargains at a time when the future was grim.

  For the most part, she was content with her lot, but this was not such a time. John had dangled California before her as the sweetest carrot in the world and she had made the transcontinental journey in stout heart, suffering the privations of the trail with good-humored fortitude. For California had lain ahead with its clean air, warm sunshine and blue ocean - according to John. But the moment they had crossed the stateline, the rain had come, after a frightening prelude of thunder and lightning. And it had not let up for two days.

  But John had welcomed it, maintaining the deluge would act as cover as they crossed a valley notorious for hold-ups. Before they were three-quarters of the way across the valley, however, the horse had been spooked by a rattler and veered the wagon off the trail to smash a wheel on a rock.

  Thus, Magda reasoned, she had every reason to feel both dejected and fearful as she huddled in the rear of the listing wagon and waited for John to return with something he could use as a lever. But when she heard the sounds of his approach, she steeled herself against the temptation to taunt him. And, when she saw him, the struggle was won: for her heart went out to him. He was not a strong man, small of stature and soft of muscle from a lifetime of the kind of work that required a keen mind rather, than a broad back. Thus, as he dragged the log through the mud, his clothes sticking to him with rain, his head bent against the downpour; she began to climb down from the wagon.

  "It's all right, sweetheart," he called. "I can manage."

  Stricklyn was not one of a matched pair with his life. At forty, he was twelve years her senior and his slig
ht build was topped off by a bland, characterless face that fell far short of handsome. One had to look deeply into his eyes, an insignificant grey in color, to find a hint of the astute, logical mind lurking beneath the thinning thatch of reddish hair. As he rested the log on the, ground and approached, the rear of the wagon, he forced a weak smile to his thin lips.

  "Washington was never like this, uh?"

  "We can't always be lucky," she answered, looking down at him lovingly as he began to roll the spare wheel along the side of the wagon. Stricklyn turned his face heavenwards, allowing the rain to needle into his skin. "One thing. We won't get caught in any brush fires, that's for sure."

  The boulder that had caused the damage was now ideally placed to act as a fulcrum and Stricklyn rested the log across it and applied all his weight and strength in an attempt to lift it. The horse still harnessed in the shafts turned a jaundiced eye towards the man and then looked away in seeming disgust when the lever had no effect. Stricklyn altered his grip and tried again with the same result.

  He stared ruefully at the broken wheel, then started towards the rear of the wagon. "I think we'll have to unload it, honey," he said.

  The nervous whinny of a horse caused him to halt abruptly and he cocked his head, listening intently.

  "What's wrong, John?" Magda asked anxiously.

  He motioned her into silence and she adopted a listening pose. Another sound came from down the trail and the horse in the shafts moved its hooves restlessly, squelching mud. Hoofbeats made an impression against the hiss of falling rain; then the unmistakable sound of rimmed wheels.

  "Help?" Magda asked softly.

  "Maybe," her husband replied, reaching inside the wagon to withdraw a Symmes rifle, ready loaded and primed. "Better stay out of sight, Magda. My pistol's on top of the trunk."

  Fear dulled the woman's eyes. "John, what is it?"

  "Do as I say," he demanded and now he was completely the man in charge, his sudden change of attitude indicating that he was used to giving orders and accustomed to having them obeyed.

  Magda, familiar with this side of her husband's character, hurried to do what he ordered. He watched her haul on the ropes securing the back flaps before he turned to peer down the trail. "Stay under cover unless I call you."

  "Yes, John," she responded meekly as the canvas covers fell into place.

  They were still moving slightly when the stage rolled into sight from out of the rain, flanked by two outriders either side and trailed by several more horsemen. Stricklyn allowed the aim of the rifle to drop as Dayton hauled on the reins to bring the four horse stage team to a halt. The riders moved forward to form an arc around the rear of the crippled wagon, their faces blank of expression. Their hands hovered near, but did not touch their guns.

  "Why we stopped?" Hood called from within the stage.

  "I think we been held up, Sam," Kilroy answered from the center of the group of horsemen.

  As a burst of laughter sounded, Stricklyn tightened his grip on the rifle and fought the impulse to raise the barrel. Hood poked his hairless head through the stage window. He stared coldly at Stricklyn for long moments, then cracked open his lips in a crooked smile.

  "Howdy, mister," he greeted brightly. He pushed open the door and stepped down. He held Dexter's money satchel loosely in his left hand and swung it gently to and fro as he moved, between the horsemen and halted a few yards in front of Stricklyn, peering around the man at the broken wheel. He shook his head in mock sympathy. "You got a problem."

  "Horse was scared off the trail by a snake," Stricklyn replied, licking rain from his lips, fully aware he could expect no help from this quarter.

  "See you tried to lift her."

  "Haven't got the weight."

  Hood sniffed. "Us little fellers got a lot to put up with." He glanced over his shoulder. "You guys got any ideas?"

  "Aw, Sam, you know it hurts my head to think," Dayton whined, and drew laughter.

  Kilroy looked up at the low sky. "Rain don't let off, come morning she ought to float down to the coast."

  Stricklyn swallowed hard, his apprehension deepening.

  "Go see what's in the wagon; Jose," Hood instructed. "Maybe if we can get some freight off, feller'll be able to get her up."

  As the young Mexican dismounted, Stricklyn took a pace backwards and brought up the rifle. He drew a bead on Hood's chest. Hood wiped the parody of a smile from his face and his eyes seemed to protrude even more.

  "Stay away!" Stricklyn ordered, and every man was surprised by the authority in the command.

  Hood recovered quickly and glanced at the rear of the wagon in time to see the canvas covers sway. He sighed and looked back into Stricklyn's nondescript face. "You men," he said evenly. "This guy don't stick his rifle in the mud, barrel down, by the time I count to three, blast the wagon. An' don't' stop 'til there ain't nothin' left 'cepting kindling wood. Then you can roast him alive. One ... two…"

  Stricklyn saw every man but Hood reach for a weapon. Desperation flashed through his eyes. He turned the Symmes towards the ground and thrust it forcefully downwards. When he released his hold, the rifle remained upright with half of its long barrel buried in the mud.

  Hood nodded. "You're like me, mister. Small but smart." He jerked the rifle from its resting place. "Jose, I thought I told you to go look in the wagon?"

  The Mexican boy ran forward and Stricklyn turned to watch him, his face a mask of anguish. But then a swishing sound captured his attention. As he swung his head around, the bald-headed man was grinning. Then a laugh ripped from Hood's throat as a powerful swing of his arm sent the stock of the Symmes thudding into its owner's middle. Stricklyn choked his pain and began to fold, clutching his stomach and retching. Hood brought up his arm and swung the rifle from a different angle. It crashed into the back of Stricklyn's neck and sent the man face down into the mud and his own vomit.

  "Just ain't your day, mister," Hood muttered for his own amusement. "But it is ours, I think, Senor Sam," Jose said as he reached up and parted the canvas cover at the rear of the wagon.

  Magda was certain John was dead. She saw the half circle of hard-faced horsemen, the grotesque ugliness of Hood, the slumped form of her husband and lusting eyes of the young Mexican. A burning rage, a trembling anguish and a biting fear fused in her ravaged mind to force a reflex action to her hands. She aimed the Walker Colt directly into the face of the grinning Jose and squeezed the trigger. Then, as the sound of the report filled the wagon, she stared at him in horror. He reached up and plucked the gun from her before she could turn it against herself.

  But somebody had screamed and as the youngster sprang up on to the wagon and gripped her from behind, pressing himself against her, she saw a rider topple from his horse, blood spouting from a gaping wound in his bare arm.

  "Hey, this is much woman, Senor Sam," Jose yelled in delight .as his probing hands moved under her cloak, exploring her body from breasts to stomach.

  "Ain't much with a gun," Hood replied with a casual glance towards the injured gang member. The man was sitting in the mud, trying to hold in his blood. "Let's have a look at her."

  "All of her, Senor Sam?"

  The men cheered their encouragement.

  "Candy ain't much till you take the wrapper off," Hood pointed out, moving up close to the tailgate of the wagon, like a privileged customer at a burlesque house.

  Dayton climbed hurriedly down from the stage as the horsemen dismounted and crowded in around the frock-coated Hood. Magda fixed her stare upon the unmoving form of her husband: her face was a mask of hopelessness as Jose's arms released their grip and his fingers curled around the hood of her cape. A small cry of pain burst through her full lips as the tie cut into her throat a moment before it snapped under the vicious jerk.

  "Man, she's sure a woman," Kilroy said hoarsely.

  Magda was dressed in an expensive blue dress, molded tightly to her luscious body from neck to waist before falling in frothy fullness to her ankles.


  "Somebody do somethin' about my damn arm," the injured man cried from the rear of the lusting crowd. "I'm bleedin' to death."

  Not a single eye was turned in his direction as the men drank in the sight of the woman, her submissive despair heightening their anticipation as Jose's fumbling fingers hooked over the neckline of the gown. The material ripped with a rasping sound and several thin giggles rippled through the watchers as the torn dress was pushed forward off the woman's shoulders and released to sink to the bed of the wagon around her feet. She was completely naked, her flesh firm and white and tremulous,

  "Travels light, don't she?" Dayton muttered as his wide eyes moved up from her ankles to the top of her blonde head before returning to the center of her body.

  "Is it true what they say about women who don't wear nothin' underneath?" a man asked.

  "We're about to find out," Hood answered flatly, reaching up a cupped hand.

  Jose grasped one of Magda’s limp arms and folded it across her back in a vicious hammerlock that tore a cry from her mouth and forced her to lean forward.

  "No!" she exclaimed as Hood gripped one of her large breasts and allowed the money satchel to slip from her other hand. "That's what they all say," the bald-headed man said, his fingernails clawing deep into her flesh. "Don't never mean it, though. Jose?"

  The Mexican released his hold and Hood jerked cruelly at her breast. Magda was dragged off the wagon and her cry of despair was cut off as her mouth sank into the slime. The men crowded in around her, hands fumbling at their belt buckles. A boot hooked under her stomach and flipped her over on to her back. She vomited up the dirt from her throat as the teeming rain washed the mud from her body.

  She looked up into the circle of evilly excited faces and tried to rise, opening her mouth to plead. A boot stamped upon her long hair, wrenching her head back into the mud. Other boots stamped on her wrists, pinning them to the ground. A man crouched at each side of her and splayed her legs, their fingers clawing into her ankles.