Silver in the Blood

EDGE

BLOOD ON SILVER

By George G. Gilman

First Published by Kindle 2012

Copyright © 2012 by George G. Gilman

First Kindle Edition: March 2012

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

to actual eventslocales, 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 by West World Designs © 2012

This is a High Plains Western for
Lobo
Publications

Visit the author at:

www.gggandpcs.proboards.com

For S.C.

Who pours it as it comes.

WARNING!

This is not for the fainthearted reader!

IT was a big spread and the man thought it looked peaceful. It stretched over a vast area of scenic country in the foothills of the Sierras, rich in green pastureland and fields of crops fed by streams that ran clear through uncluttered channels. He saw upwards of a thousand head of grazing cattle which had a healthy, high-priced appearance, held safely on the land by strong, well tended fencing. He hit the trail from the east and followed it with his back to the midday sun until he reached the gate, which had no sign warning strangers to keep off. There was an arch of freshly painted timber over the gate, high enough to allow a covered wagon to pass through. This did wear a sign, neatly lettered on a board nailed to the topmost curve: THE LUCKY LADY.

The man on the piebald narrowed his hooded eyes until they were mere luminescent blue slits in his weathered, high-cheek-boned face, as if trying to see beyond the name of the ranch, into the haze of a time past that had led to such an epithet. He was a tall man with a leanness that exuded a promise of latent, ever-ready power. The muscles of his upper arms, his chest and his shoulders bulged in a series of tacit threats beneath his black shirt, shrunk to the rugged lines of    his body by rain and quick drying in the sun on the long trek from Iowa. He had a narrow face, lined beyond his years by the bitter struggles of surviving in a land where life was taken cheaply but winning came high. The features owed more to his Mexican father than to his Scandinavian mother, in the set of the eyes, the slightly flared nostrils, the thin line of the mouth. It was not a handsome face by accepted standards but there was about its ruggedness, something which many women found compulsively attractive. Others were repelled. Few men looked into the features without experiencing a stab of fear in their hearts.

As he removed the misshapen low-crowned grey hat, to wipe a line of dirt-marked sweat-from his high forehead, long black hair fell as far as his shoulders, masking the ugly welt of a bullet wound at the back, of his neck and the upper point of a bulge at the top of his spine which owed nothing to muscular development. It was, in fact, a pouch slung under his shirt and held in place by a beaded cord fastened at his throat and concealed by a sweat-stiffened black kerchief. In the pouch was a sharply honed, bone-handled razor which he hadn't used for shaving in a very long time. His more orthodox weapons were a Winchester 66 in the saddle boot and an Army Colt revolver in a tied-down holster on his right hip. Thirty rounds of .44
caliber shells to fit the handgun were held snugly around the length of the supporting belt. Only the razor and repeating rifle were his own legal property. The Colt and ammunition, like the piebald stallion and homed saddle, had become his by default—when a sheriff in Utah picked him up for vagrancy, and failed to realize the kind of man he had captured as he tried to throw two hundred and ten pounds of smoldering hate into jail. Perhaps
had the sheriff known whom he had captured, he would have taken more care. But his ignorance had proved fortunate: because of it he was still alive.

The tall man sighed, put his hat back on and heeled his horse towards the neat, recently painted gate. The latch opened easily as he leaned down from the saddle and the gate swung inwards on well-oiled hinges. He rode through and carefully latched the gate behind him. The ranch buildings were nowhere in sight, but he rode confidently at an easy pace down the trail which wound around the foot of a bluff maybe a mile ahead. He knew he was taking a chance, but, to a man such as this, every step of his lonely way was a risk. He needed a decent meal for himself and feed for his horse: it was inevitable that he would have to put his freedom, maybe his life, on the line to get it. He accepted the odds because he had to play the cards life dealt, betting his native and acquired skills against whatever the opposition was holding. So far he was ahead because he was still alive. A lot of men who thought they had a stronger hand were dead. The sheriff in Utah hadn't even known the size of the pot.

The lone horseman reined his mount to a halt as he rounded the bluff and looked down a gently sloping, grassy hillside towards the ranch house and its attendant buildings. It was a fitting centerpiece to the spread. The main building was two stories, constructed of weather-mellowed stone to the first floor and white-painted timber above. The roof was of red tile, its slope featured with dormer windows. The bunkhouse and two barns were less grand, but equally neat and well cared for. The dozen horses in the corral behind the buildings had the sleek looks and graceful movements of the best bloodstock. There were some mares in the group and the man's horse whinnied nervously and scraped a hoof against the ground. "Easy boy," the rider calmed in a soft gentle voice that seemed at odds with his hard exterior. "It ain't that kind of oats we're looking for right now."

He continued to hold the horse steady at the top of the slope as his narrowed eyes raked back and forth across the ranch buildings. Then be heeled the animal forward on a tight rein, allowing his right hand to swing free at his side, level with the butt of the holstered Colt. He had been aware of something odd about the spread shortly after he rode up to the fence, and the mystery had deepened as he followed the stout boundary marker around to the gate. For although there were everywhere signs of good order, there was not a soul in sight: and the house below him was apparently as deserted as every other part of The Lucky Lady. Smoke drifted lazily from a tall chimney at the side of the house and there was a buckboard still hitched to a pair of grays standing opposite the front-porch. Two of the second story windows were open and lace curtains fluttered in a gentle, renegade breeze that had infiltrated the warm late summer day. But over it all hung an aura of desolation, as if those who had lived here in such style had suddenly been spirited away.

Then, as he was less than a hundred feet away from the house, crossing the hard-packed surface of the yard, the air was suddenly vibrant with the notes of the Wedding March thudding out from a pump organ. The piebald began to rear at the abrupt explosion of sound, but the rider brought the animal expertly under control and angled it towards a corner of the house as several voices, strident with excitement and pleasure, almost drowned the music. He rounded another corner, bringing him into the shade at the rear of the house and reined his horse to a sudden stop, throwing up his hands to protect his face as something skimmed towards it. All talk ceased and the organ walled out three more notes before the lack of pumping caused it to drop into the pool of silence spread by the appearance of the stranger.

He looked past the neck of his horse and into the startled expression of a pretty young girl in a pink and white dress. Then he lifted his .steady gaze and saw the many faces of fear regarding him as a congregation of about twenty men and women, the bride and groom’s two tiny bridesmaids, the parson and the lady organist with her small boy pumper stared back at him. Every person there was startled by his sudden appearance, but the terror emanating from the woman in the wedding gown was so strong it painted her beautiful features with a mask of ugliness. The man examined what he had caught in his strong, work-hard hands and smiled: it was a bouquet of pink roses: He grinned into the face of the bride, touching the brim of his hat.

"No disrespect ma'am," he said softly. "But I don't think I'm ready yet," He looked down at the young girl closest to him. "Here."

He tossed the bouquet towards her and she caught it as she took a frightened step backwards. They all continued to look at him with nervous suspicion for his grin showed no warmth: only ice-cold cruelty. He had that kind of face.

"Who are you?" The speaker was a paunchy man with the bloated face of good living. Like every other man there he was dressed in his Sunday best suit and looked uncomfortable and sweaty in it.

"Have you heard of a man called Edge?"

He shook his head and the stranger glanced around at everybody else. The mere flicking of his hooded blue eyes across a face was enough to force a response from each of them. All were negative.

"I'm Edge," he told them, and swung easily down from his horse, rubbing the seat of his saddle-polished pants. "Sorry I interrupted the festivities. I just wanted to buy some feed for my horse and some chow for myself. Didn't figure anybody would throw bouquets at me."

The pretty girl in pink and white was the first to smile. "People might think you're in love?" she asked coyly.

"You're not playing my song," Edge answered.

"Pump; boy!" the lady organist instructed sternly.

She had the sour face of a frustrated schoolteacher spinster and the youngster went to work with the alacrity of a nervous pupil.

Tentatively at first, but then with increasing enthusiasm, the cries of good wishes began again, and handfuls of rice were showered upon the newly married couple as they started through the throng. The aging parson beamed his pleasure at completing yet another union sanctified in the sight of God.

"Stranger in these parts?" the girl asked, gripping the posy of flowers as if it meant a great deal to her.

"First time here," Edge answered.

"Staying around?" Edge could tell from the look in her violet eyes and the soft tone of her voice that this was a girl who didn't find him frightening. He preferred her when she had been scared and he greeted with relief the sight of a red-faced kid of her own age who approached them, trying to appear tough.

"Cindy!" he said, and had trouble getting the single word around his bobbing Adam's apple.

"Yes, Morton?" she answered casually, still looking at Edge's heavily stubbled, dirt-streaked face.

The kid ran a hooked finger around the inside of his starched shirt collar. Jealous anger dried up his voice.

"She the one, kid?" Edge asked him.

"He thinks he is," Cindy snapped. "He may have been best man at his brother's wedding, but I'm not sure he's the best one for me."

Edge felt he was as much on the spot as Morton and again felt a mild flood of relief when the paunchy man detached himself from the group and approached the comer of the house, extending his hand and backing the gesture with a warm smile of welcome.

"How do you do, Mr. Edge," he greeted. "Sorry if we all appeared a little unfriendly awhile back, but seeing you come up as if from nowhere was a bit of a shock. I'm John Firman. I own The Lucky Lady. That's my son Chilton that was just married to Adele Wyatt. See you met my younger boy Morton and his intended."

Firman was talking too fast and Edge thought he was still nervous and trying to conceal it. Cindy gave a mild snort at the linking of her name with that of Morton.

"Thought the spread was deserted," Edge explained. "You people were as big a surprise to me as I was to you."

Firman laughed. "Guess it was a bit strange to ride across The Lucky Lady and not see anybody taking care of things. But this is a big event. I gave all the hands a day off. Morton, take care of Mr. Edge's horse. Won't you join us in a toast to the happy couple and a bite to eat?"

At the rear of the yard were three trestle tables, two surrounded by chairs and the third bowing under the weight of food and drink. As the organist stopped playing and led the sweating boy to join the group, four young girls in the black dresses and white aprons of maids' uniforms emerged from the house and began excitedly to serve the wedding breakfast.

"I can take care of my horse," Edge answered. "Morton don't want to get his best suit messed up in the stable."

"Nonsense!" Firman exclaimed. "Morton's got more best suits than you've got teeth in your head. Maybe you'd like to get cleaned up a little before you join the party?"

"It sure feels like I've got most of the dust of Nevada stuck to me," Edge told him.

"I'll show him where, Mr. Firman," Cindy put in hurriedly, drawing a hot look of anger from Morton.

"That's right, Cindy," Firman agreed. "I'd better get back in the thick of things." He laughed. "Guess I'll have to give a speech."

The way he said it indicated he would be very-annoyed if he wasn't given the opportunity. He moved away, with a stem nod towards Morton. The kid took the reins of Edge's horse with great reluctance and led him over to the stable with a well in front of it.

"Come on," Cindy said, taking Edge's arm and heading him towards the house. He glanced over towards the tables as a cheer went up and saw that one of the maids was placing an intricately decorated cake before the newlyweds. The handsome young groom was grinning happily down the length of the table, but his new wife found her attention distracted. She was regarding Edge with a degree of fear that threatened ugliness again. "Kitchen all right?"

Edge looked at Cindy and nodded. "If there's water there."

There was a screen door and he held it open for her, then followed her into the coolness of a spotlessly clean, well equipped kitchen. On a table was a back-up stock of food and drink for when the spread outside was exhausted. The girl pointed to a stone sink and piped water supplied by a pump.

"I can heat some if you like?" she offered.

He met her frank gaze. She was a very petite girl, about eighteen and slimly built but doing her best with a dress bodice that pressed her small breasts upwards to enforce a deep cleavage at the low neckline. Her pretty face was framed by heavily curled black hair falling to her, shoulders and, she purposely held her head on one side so that several strands swung to half mask one eye. She knew it added a mysterious allure to her appearance.