The Quiet Gun - Edge Series 1 (15 page)

‘Phil and I were the same age,’ she pressed on. ‘But he was a lot younger than me in many ways.’ She shrugged. ‘His outlook. How he spent so much time dreaming about the future instead of facing up to the real world the way it is.’

‘If you say so, lady.’

She sighed and looked ruefully over her shoulder at him to asked: ‘Have you ever been in love, Edge?’

‘That’s something that’s none of
your
business,’ he claimed coldly as he pulled off a second boot and slid beneath the blanket, sighed in contentment and rested his head on the carpetbag.

She grudgingly accepted this signal of dismissal and moved silently away from the threshold. And he readied himself for sleep while what Kitty Raine had said caused him to reflect on some women from the past he considered he had loved, those he had told he loved and far fewer he had loved.

Which he thought was more likely to encourage untroubled sleep than allowing his imagination to dwell on the woman who was just beyond the entrance of this reputedly haunted shack.

96

A beautiful woman and self-confessed adulteress who had clung tightly to him in terror. But who, in fantasy, it was tempting to think of as holding him in passion. It seemed sleep was a long time coming to a restive mind in an exhausted body that found it difficult to assume a comfortable position beneath the blanket: while images of women from the distant past and one in the here and now vied to dominate his thoughts. But when he opened his eyes, convinced he would never find sleep while his mind was in turmoil, he instantly realised the struggle for rest had been part of a dream. For it was morning, the sun shafting brightly at a low angle through the glass-less window and door-less doorway.

He folded up into a sitting position and swept his glinting eyed gaze around a three hundred and sixty degree circle of his surroundings. Saw everything he had brought into the shack, except for the blankets, his carpetbag and hat had gone. The saddle, saddlebags and their contents and the pair of water filled canteens. Stealthily stolen by the fine looking widow who had featured intermittently with others of her kind in his often erotic dreams.

As he rose to his feet he checked the impulse to anger – at himself and Kitty Raine. Went to the doorway with a sudden faint hope she had chosen to stay on watch all night rather than sleep in the reputedly haunted shack: then taken it upon herself to prepare the gelding for an early start.

It was a short lived fancy this early morning – about six he judged from the position of the sun in another cloudless sky. He was alone in the barren landscape of dull grey rock and yellow earth relieved here and there by dusty green patches of scrub and an isolated cactus.

Mystically beautiful perhaps, to those who felt drawn to unspoiled nature. Like the Tremaines, who saw this piece of territory at its best, water flowing across it from the distant hills after a winter of plentiful rainfall. And worked their chosen place for too long after the weather reverted to normal. Strangers in a part of the country where local people could have told them – maybe had told them to no avail – that nothing was to be gained by remaining here in the face of the inevitable.

97

There was nobody to tell Edge anything as he formed the blankets into a roll, slung them over a shoulder and picked up his carpetbag. Stepped out of the shack and in his mind flipped a coin.

What was inevitable for him here and now? To return to Dalton Springs . . ? That was for sure, he decided as the metaphorical coin was still spinning and he set off back the way he came last night. South eastward, for he needed to pull his hat brim down on his forehead, shade his narrowed eyes from the dazzling brightness of the low, early morning sun.

Inevitable because what else could he do? A man on foot again? With a good size stake, but without either food or water to sustain himself in this barren stretch of rugged country? And no local knowledge to tell him if there was any other community within striking distance of a man without a horse? Where he could obtain the essentials of life, including shelter from the heat of the day and the cold of the night?

Somewhere to take cover from gunmen likely to shoot first and maybe attempt to find the answers to questions later – if they gave a damn?

Then he reached the fork of the trails he had missed last night and realised his basic premise was wrong. For he knew of a far safer place than Dalton Springs to hole up until Luke Shannon got what he wanted and moved on.

And now he put his back to the sun: felt an easy smile replace the scowl on his bristled face as he set off over familiar ground in the direction of a dead man’s farm. Started at a pace that was too fast but soon corrected this. He used to be skilled in the crafts of survival in the wilds, and considered he possessed a better than average quota of commonsense. And now he put the latter to good use, to conserve energy in the mounting heat of the morning while he kept his mind clear of groundless fears. Once he saw a small pack of prairie dogs. Sometimes imagined he heard the hiss of a rattlesnake. Every now and then glimpsed some high flying buzzards. But he knew the dogs were harmless, never actually set eyes on a rattler and the birds were always distant specks in the clear blue sky, so he was not tempted to think they sensed he was soon to be carrion.

98

Then he reached the rim of a familiar hollow and looked down on the expanse of growing corn, the lemon grove, the empty corral and the house and barn of the Drayton place: and, far more inviting right then, the well in the yard between the two buildings. He was not fully aware of the extent of his thirst until he needed to make an effort to keep from breaking into a run down the track between the trail and the farm. And not until he came within a few feet of the well did it occur to him the place may not be so deserted as it seemed.

But he did not sense danger of any kind as he unburdened himself of the bedroll and carpetbag and began to haul up the bucket from the well.

The silence on all sides remained unbroken, acting to magnify the tantalising sounds of water spilling from the ascending bucket to splash back down the well. But there was ample left for him to drink his fill after he rested the bucket on the wall. He drank slowly from his cupped hands, resisting the initial impulse to gulp down the cool, clear, sweet tasting water. Then he scooped up some more and rubbed it over the salty stickiness of trail dust and sweat that clung to his unshaven face. His thirst slaked, he became aware of the nagging ache of hunger, squinted toward the highly placed sun and estimated the time was close to noon this Sunday morning he had not eaten breakfast.

Inside the welcome shade of the single room house he concentrated his attention first on the kitchen area: in a store cupboard found some stale bread, canned meat and beans and a sack of coffee. Checked an impulse to eat a cold meal and managed to quell his hunger for long enough to re-kindle an old fire in the range, heat some beef and beans and make a pot of coffee.

In these circumstances the food was better than good and when he was through eating he reflected that his sense of well-being would be complete just as soon as he had indulged himself in the luxury of a hot water shave. But then he glimpsed a glint of glass from the corner of his eye, went to the bed, reached under it and pulled out an almost three-quarters full bottle of rye.

He took a tentative sip, then a swig that reduced the contents to less than half full. Like with the food, the rye would not have been of first quality in the best of all possible worlds, but it was sure good enough today.

99

He had the hot water shave, then took a more thorough look around the farm than he had been able to do yesterday when coming upon its brutally dead owner had changed his priorities: failed again to find any sign of a single new farm implement, let alone a whole wagon load of them.

He returned to the house and found the narrow bed with its crumpled, long unlaundered blankets was suddenly as appealing to him as the water, food and whiskey had been.

Stretched out comfortably on a dead man’s bed he began to apply his mind to the matter of the missing farming tools. Not for long though, because he realised he could reach no specific solution to the irritating mystery. Just knew for certain he had unwittingly become involved in some bad business. Which was as far as it was possible to take it right then without drifting uselessly into the realm of futile speculation. The effects of the food and whiskey after a long walk in the hot sun following a dream disturbed sleep gradually got the better of him. And he seemed to catnap without ever fully leaving the state of consciousness – for like he was an anxious parent with a sick child to tend, one area of his mind remained constantly alert for a tell-tale sound something was amiss.

But peace and quiet continued to reign in the immediate vicinity of the Drayton spread while he slept his fill. Awoke late in the afternoon feeling refreshed and ready to face whatever the world intended to throw at him.

A little thick headed with a mild hangover, maybe, but this was soon dispelled after he drank two mugs of lukewarm coffee from the pot on the range. Then he finished the can of beans he had opened earlier: ate them cold with the remains of the stale bread. By which time the afternoon was far advanced toward evening and it seemed about then he should set out for Dalton Springs if he was to arrive in town under cover of darkness: not suffering too much from the kind of exhaustion a thirsty walk in the heat of the sun could induce.

Then, as he was about to leave the house he heard the hoof beats of a sizeable bunch of fast moving horses. Far off to the south, but closing at a gallop that would soon bring them to the farm. However, because the Drayton place was in a hollow, he knew he would not yet be able to see the approaching riders.

100

But commonsense allied with instinct persuaded him to act with caution and he decided it would be better if he were not found in a dead man’s house where he had no right to be: irrespective of whether the closing riders knew of the circumstances. Before he went outside he moved to the range and poured the dregs of the coffee on the warm embers. Then, toting the bedroll and carpetbag, he stepped out of the doorway, crossed the yard and went into the nearest patch of seven feet high corn. Moved far enough into the crop to be hidden from the house: and likewise it from him unless he reached forward and parted the luxuriantly foliaged plants. Soon afterwards the riders came over the high ground into the hollow and saw the house: spurred their horses into a faster pace, like they had journey’s end in sight which heightened their eagerness to reach it after a rigorous ride. Closer, the pace eased to a walk and Edge heard another sound apart from hooves on sun baked ground – the excited babble of voices. He could hear they spoke in the language of his father but the meaning of what they said was not discernible behind the more obtrusive barrage of noise. Until a man yelled in a mixture of two languages:

‘Hold it,
compadres!’

Edge stayed hunkered down in the cover of the corn as the horses were reined to a whinnying halt. There was a rasping exchange as the animals continued to snort and stamp, the words indistinct but the tone plainly apprehensive: the Mexicans seemingly concerned about the apparent deserted state of the spread. A man raised his voice to yell: ‘Hey, it is us who have come to – ‘

He was interrupted harshly by another man, angry as well as afraid. In heavily accented English the one who had got it wrong the first time tried again:

‘
Senor
Drayton! Are you there? It is us! You are expecting us,
si
?’

The late Fred Drayton was granted several stretched seconds to respond. Or perhaps it was tension that extended real time far out of proportion to its actual passing. The Mexicans sounded more agitated than ever as they dismounted, their exchanges pitched in husky whispers. Then came the unmistakable metallic sounds of guns being cocked. And Edge was momentarily fearful they would choose to move into the field of maize for the cover it offered. But he let out his pent up breath as he heard them start down the track: without their horses.

101

There was no more talk and he visualised the slowly advancing men as they swept suspicious gazes back and forth over the house and barn and surrounding fields: contrastingly illuminated and shadowed by the bright moon. He wiped sweat beads off his forehead then used the same hand to bend aside some stalks of corn and leaned forward to get a wide angle view of the yard without revealing more than one squinting eye in the ripening crop.

Saw the backs of six men as they aligned themselves across the yard and advanced cautiously on the house. Four with revolvers thrust out in front of them, two with double handed grips on repeater rifles angled across their bellies and chests. All of them were dressed in travel stained once white pants and dark hued shirts. Some wore sombreros, others Stetsons. Each had crossed bandoliers. They moved in the rigid gait of fear then halted when the tallest, most broadly built man snapped out the name: ‘Luis!’

The nominated man who was shorter and thinner than the rest, shouted: ‘
Senor
Drayton!
Senor
Drayton! We have come for the goods,
amigo!’