EDGE: Blood Run (Edge series Book 14) Page 4

  “The start of the Cathedral of Paradise!” Angus announced with pride. “When it is completed it will be the most magnificent House of the Lord in the New World.”

  “If we live long enough to finish the work,” Francis responded miserably.

  “It will be finished!” the Scotsman said vehemently.

  As the riders came off the valley floor and Luke called a halt outside the stable block, the doors of the small, crudely built shacks opened and the other citizens of Paradise emerged into the new sunlight. They advanced just a few feet into the street and stood, waiting. Every man was dressed exactly like those who had ridden to the gorge. And the women were just as somberly attired, the skirts of their black dresses sweeping the ground and the stiff-collars thrusting high enough to prod their throats. Each wore a poke bonnet with every strand of hair tucked up inside.

  They looked at Edge coolly, unprovoked by the impassive stare with which he responded to their appraisal. More than three-quarters of the eyes which examined him were weak with age, peering out from sockets surrounded by the wrinkled skin of long life. He saw only two women young enough to have attracted the fur-trappers: in their twenties and still showing traces of youthful prettiness. The remainder were all over fifty, he guessed. There were no children.

  “Animals are not admitted into our town,” Luke intoned, dismounting with careful dignity. “If you will wait here, sinner, an angel will come shortly to attend to the needs of your horse and yourself.”

  The other riders climbed from their saddles and Francis gathered up the reins and led the horses into the stables.

  “My vision was right!” a squeaky voice called from the far end of the street.

  Edge was gazing idly in that direction, towards a level area beyond the town at the foot of a towering wall of sheer rock face thrusting three hundred feet up to an overhang. Spread over this area was a set of stocks, a whipping post and a pillory. All were empty.

  “This man saw fit to release the two sinners we gave unto the punishment of the Lord!” Luke announced, raking his eyes across the blank faces of the townspeople.

  A midget of a man—no more than five feet tall, with silver hair and a round face with a button nose and shiny, coal black eyes—stepped forward from the crowd at the far end of the street. “There was mischief!” he said shrilly. “Did I not predict it?”

  “Do not be proud, Prophet Thomas!” Luke boomed with a trace of anger. “Your powers are a gift of the Lord.”

  Many heads swung towards the little man and he faded fast back into the crowd, his face flushed with embarrassment. The men who had ridden out to the gorge with Luke now began to move sedately up the sloping street. Their fellow citizens waited for them to pass, then slowly followed them, forming a procession towards the punishment area at the top. Luke held back, and turned to look up at the still mounted half-breed.

  “Our ways must appear strange to you, sinner,” he said.

  Edge took out the makings and began to roll a cigarette. “You hear me asking any questions, Luke?” he asked easily.

  But the white-haired old man was determined to say his piece. “We Earthly Angels have come to this place to forsake all sin, to build an edifice to the glory of the Lord and to die.”

  The half-breed licked the gummed paper, the back of his hand rasping over the stubble on his jaw. “I ain’t here to rock your boat, feller,” he allowed. “Just to buy some feed and supplies and get my horse shod.”

  Luke was not ready to be swayed from his purpose. “We raise crops and cattle, eat a little ourselves and sell the bulk to raise money to build the edifice. We believe all events to be the will of the Lord.”

  Edge lit the cigarette and swung down from the saddle. “The Lord said point those Starrs at me, then he said lower them again.” He leaned down to unfasten the saddle cinch.

  At the other end of town, the black-clad citizenry were forming a circle around the punishment area.

  “We cannot spare money for powder and shot,” Luke replied evenly, and abruptly captured the interest of the half-breed. “It was the will of the Lord that you chose to threaten the Earthly Angel and thus evade capture. Just as it was the will of the Lord that the two sinners were set free.” He turned and pointed up towards the overhang at the top of the towering cliff face. It was almost noon and both he and Edge had to squint against the glare of the high sun. “That is execution rock. We must see if it is the will of the Lord that the sinner Patrick O’Rerry lives or dies.”

  All the clouds had fled southwards now and the three men standing on top of the flat overhang of rock were skylined against a clear blue ceiling of infinity. Despite the distance, it was possible to see that two of the men were dressed in the familiar stovepipe hats and frock coats. The man between them wore a check shirt and blue Levis. His arms were tied in the same manner as Gabb and Mackinlay.

  “Guess betting ain’t allowed in Paradise?” Edge muttered as he dropped his saddle in the stable entrance. “The odds are sure stacked high against that guy surviving.”

  He hitched the stallion to the doorpost and slid the Winchester from the saddle boot.

  “The sinner O’Rerry laid his lustful hands upon the female Angels, Sarah and Edith,” Luke intoned as he began to accompany Edge up the sloping street. “His crime was therefore more serious than that of the sinners Gabb and Mackinlay who made lewd suggestions. Among the gamut of sins we forsake as Earthly Angels is the fulfillment of carnal desires.”

  Edge realized, disinterestedly, that it explained the absence of children in Paradise. And why the man named Francis was concerned the cathedral would not be built before the ageing citizens were all dead.

  “It is important you know the reasons for what we do,” Luke said as they reached the end of the street and a break appeared in the circle to allow them to join it. “We are not violent people. This is the first occasion we have found the need to utilize execution rock. Minor crimes are punished in the pillory, the stocks or at the whipping post. In an imperfect world such evils are necessary to dispense justice to the evil-doers.”

  “I foresee no escape for the sinner!” Prophet Thomas pro-claimed in his squeaky voice. “It is the will of the Lord that he shall perish!”

  Edge canted the rifle across his shoulder and hung the cigarette at the corner of his thin mouth. He squinted up the face of the cliff to where the helpless prisoner had been nudged to the lip of the overhang. “The little guy don’t believe in tipping long shots, does he?” he muttered.

  “The Lord’s will be done!” Luke boomed, raised his hand, then dropped it abruptly.

  The circle of black-garbed religious maniacs turned their blank faces towards the sunlit sky and clasped their hands together in prayer. Not a sound was uttered. The two executioners gave the condemned man a final push in the back. He toppled forward with his body held rigid, like a felled tree. But then, as he sensed the yawning space beneath him, he struggled against the free fall. His bound knees thudded up against his chest and he snapped his head from side to side. He turned over and over like an irregularly shaped ball, his arms lashed firmly to his sides. Edge was curious about the man’s eerie silence, until he straightened his body and began to twist. Then the half-breed saw the tight gag covering the mouth.

  The man hit the hard-packed ground in front of the stocks, full-stretch and head-first. There was a hiss of displaced air, then an awesome crunch as his skull impacted. The scalp split and then the bone splintered into a million fragments. The head exploded in a shower of spraying blood, brain matter, torn flesh and gleaming bone shards. The dead body slammed into a fold, the abdomen crashing down over the top of the stocks. The skin burst and the gory mess of the intestines spewed out, wrenching the balloon-like stomach free of the flesh. The sound was that of a splash, followed by the sharp crack of the breaking spine. The two halves of the broken body splattered to the ground at either side of the stocks.

  “The will of the Lord has been done!” Luke announced into the solid
silence which followed the ghastly noise of the crashing death.

  “It is as I predicted, Angels of Paradise!” the tiny Prophet Thomas responded.

  His voice shook with excitement and it was the only sign of emotion around the circle. The eyes of all the other somberly-dressed townspeople looked at the suddenly fly-covered halves of the dead man with utter lack of expression.

  “His mouth was covered to halt the blasphemous protestations issuing from it,” Luke explained to the half-breed.

  Edge sucked a final lungful of smoke from the cigarette, then dropped it and ground out the red ash beneath his heel as he looked up at execution rock. Then his hooded eyes followed the course taken by the falling body and settled on the mutilated remains where the flies fed. “Guess he was mad at being the fall guy,” he said wryly. “Sure is a long way to tip O’Rerry.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE cell was on the ground floor of the rear block, through an iron door with a Judas hole bored in it. It was about twelve feet square with a small barred, glassless window high up close to the ceiling ten feet overhead. The walls were of mortared blocks of stone, the ceiling of stout boarding and the floor of cracked and broken concrete. It smelled of damp and rot and human waste. It contained no bunks or chairs. It did have two prisoners already.

  Enough silvered moonlight trickled through the high window to show the two bearded, filthy, ragged dressed men cowering in a corner as the governor flung open the door and Spencer muzzles urged the newcomers inside.

  “Company for you two yellow-belly deserters!” the governor yelled gleefully as he slammed the door closed. “Don’t trouble with anything special. Won’t be with you long. Big trip tomorrow. Got to make an early start.”

  “Ain’t he a funny man!” Scott growled miserably as Hedges dropped Rhett ungently to the floor.

  “A barrel of friggin’ laughs,” one of the bearded men muttered.

  “We get to splittin’ our sides just thinkin’ what the bastard’s gonna do next,” the other man augmented.

  They both had the drawling voices which told of a Deep South background.

  “Guess it makes life here bearable?” Bell sighed, sinking to the floor, his back against a damp-run wall.

  Rhett lay where he had fallen, groaning his pain. The other troopers followed Bell’s example.

  “Billy, give me a boost to that window!” Hedges snapped after his eyes had adjusted to the low light level and he had made a survey of the cell.

  Seward grimaced. “Frank?”

  “Yeah?” the sergeant answered.

  “We still takin’ orders from the Captain?”

  Forrest was resting his back against the iron door. Across from him was a latrine hole scooped out of the broken concrete and the earth beneath. It was from here that the cell’s most noxious odor rose. He rolled some spit around in his mouth with a moist sound and then streaked it across the floor and into the latrine. “You got an idea how to get us out of this stinkin’ joint, trooper?” he asked.

  “Army don’t pay me to think up ideas,” Seward answered sourly.

  “So do like Mr. Hedges tells you and pray he can earn what Uncle Sam pays him.”

  Scowling, Seward moved close to the wall below the window and arched his back, bracing himself with his hands gripped around his knees. “Just glad Bob ain’t a Captain,” he muttered as Hedges climbed up on to his back and stood erect.

  “Don’t kid yourself!” the New Englander rasped through gritted teeth. “You bend down in front of me all you’d get up your ass is a foot.”

  “Friggin’ boastin’ again!” Douglas said with a hollow laugh.

  It was the only expression of amusement. The other troopers glanced disconsolately around the cell and took their mood of misery from the fact that there was apparently no way out. Standing at his full height on Seward’s straining back, Hedges had already decided upon the way of escape. But before starting the men to work he wanted to see what awaited them immediately outside. He surveyed the scene through narrowed, thoughtful eyes, his lean features betraying no hint of his reactions.

  Beyond the window was a long compound, fenced at either end, with the James River forming the boundary opposite the prison’s rear cell block. Across the slow-moving, moon-silvered water was the dark, sleeping city of Richmond, its skyline dominated by church steeples and towers. As Hedges raked his gaze over the dark mass of the city, relieved at intervals by the occasional illuminated window, a clock struck the hour of two. The notes had the mournful sound of a short death knell. But this idea was triggered by the scene in the compound immediately below the window.

  Fourteen unarmed guards were at work, using picks and shovels to scoop out seven graves across the centre of the compound. At sunrise, the graves would be in direct line to be darkly barred by the shadow from the vertical strut of the platform gallows which stood ominously at the eastern side of the compound. They worked two men to a grave in the damp, misty night: digging and scooping with smooth speed: aware of the dawn deadline they had to meet.

  “You gonna stay up there stargazing the whole damn night?” Seward groaned. “My back’s damn near breakin’.”

  “Then it must be as weak as your lousy brain!” Forrest snarled. “Billy, you stay there and keep your mouth buttoned until Mr. Hedges is good and ready to come down.”

  Hedges allowed a trace of a smile to turn up the corners of his mouth now. Forrest’s attitude to the man was a sure barometer to his usefulness as a non-com: an indication of whether or not he felt able to handle any given situation. In these circumstances, it was obvious he would have no alternatives to the orders Hedges intended to give.

  “I’ve seen enough, sergeant,” the Captain announced, and dropped to the floor.

  Seward straightened up, groaning and massaging the small of his back.

  “Captain . . . sergeant?” one of the bearded men muttered thoughtfully. “Hey, you guys ducked outta the army, too?”

  “Shut up, Floyd!” the other long-term prisoner warned.

  The Union troopers, who had tilted their heads to listen to Hedges, abruptly swung to glare at the strangers.

  “We look like yellow-bellies?” Scott snarled, then shrugged. “Apart from Bob, of course.”

  Floyd responded to the belligerent glares with a scowl. The other man looked scared, huddling closer to the wall.

  “We ain’t at our best right now,” Forrest growled. “When we are, we’re the best friggin’ fightin’ unit in the Union army, you crumbs!”

  Floyd’s anger rose. “Union? Friggin’ Yankees! You didn’t oughta be here in Riverside! Regular camp for captured Feds is over on Belle Isle!” He turned to the trembling prisoner whose fear heightened with every word spoken. “Ain’t that so, Myron? It ain’t right we gotta share quarters with a bunch of no-good Yankees.”

  While the man was looking at him so intently, Myron became fearfully fascinated by the mean face of Frank Forrest. What we saw caused him to try to motion Floyd into silence. But the shrieking man was too incensed to pay heed.

  “Don’t hurt my brother, mister!” Myron implored in a croaking voice. “We been locked up here since Fair Oaks. Almost two years. It’s been too much for him. He’s stir crazy!”

  “I ain’t sharin’ my quarters with no Northern shitheads!” Floyd yelled. He sprang to his feet and lunged for the door, beating against it with his fists.

  Forrest plunged into a private world of rage of his own, his mind closed to outside influences. He rose, whirled and fastened an iron-handed grip on Floyd’s beard. Then, with a vicious wrench, he yanked the man away from the door and slammed him to the floor. The Union troopers cheered and whistled in encouragement, drowning Floyd’s cry of pain and alarm. Myron was too frightened to move. Hedges leaned his back against the wall, the impassive, lean features not revealing his train of thought: which was concerned with the fact that the incident had snapped his men out of their depression.

  Forrest, his weathered, time-beaten face set
in the lines of an evil grin of pleasure, hauled Floyd from one side of the cell to the other then flipped him over on to his belly. He released his hold on the man’s beard, straightened up and thudded a boot down hard on to the back of the helpless man’s neck. Floyd’s cries of protest were muffled as his head was forced down the putrid-smelling latrine hole. Then, as the evil miasma infiltrated his nostrils, Floyd began to vomit. With each moist retch and wet splash, his diminished strength was reduced further and soon his emaciated body ceased to struggle.

  “We’re so damn good, Johnnie Rebs just get sick with fear from lookin’ at us,” the grinning sergeant proclaimed. Then he removed his heel from Floyd’s neck, crouched and jerked up the man’s head by grabbing a handful of his hair. “Right, crumb?”

  Floyd’s face was drained of color beneath the ingrained dirt. But his eyes blazed with the power of hate. “I never feel fine when I see and smell a load of crap!” he taunted.

  “Please?” Myron managed to croak into the solid, tension-brittle silence that followed Floyd’s insult. “My brother don’t know what he’s saying, mister.”

  “Don’t stand for that, sarge!” Billy Seward yelled.

  “Kill the bastard, Frank!” Bob Rhett shrieked.

  Forrest’s anger had changed from hot, through evil humor, to ice cold. In this state, he was able to react to suggestions not triggered in his own mind. Hedges saw this and knew the man was ready to follow Rhett’s urging.

  “We need all the help we can get to bust out of here, sergeant,” the Captain said softly. “But it don’t have to smell sweet.”

  Forrest nodded his understanding and grinned his appreciation of the idea. Once more he changed his grip from a hand to a foot hold on Floyd. There was nothing left in the man’s stomach to vacate into the hole. His retching was painfully dry. Then Forrest stooped, gripped Floyd’s ankles, up-ended him and dropped him head-first into the latrine hole.

  “Now who’s a shithead, Reb?” Forrest demanded against the nauseating sounds of Floyd fighting for breath through the stinking slime at the bottom of the hole.