Dying Is Forever (Edge series book 57) by George G. Gilman

Author:George G. Gilman [Gilman, George G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing
Published: 2023-02-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

THEY TURNED THEIR horses in unison, walked them off in opposite directions.

Whittier had rejoined the troop, become a distant member of the moving group of men, blurred by heat shimmer, before Edge felt he was not the focus of rapidly expanding malevolence. Moments later he was around the curve at the base of the rise, the high ground between him and the cavalrymen.

Then it was a matter of out of sight, out of mind and he was content with how things had turned out. He was off the hook of official repercussions concerned with the return of the stolen money and the killing of the man who took it. And he could but hope there would be no need to go back to the vicinity of Fort Highland where it would not require much to trigger Sergeant Roy Whittier into taking his revenge for the way his good friend had died so badly.

Soon, as he continued the slow ride, smoked the cigarette, he ceased to think in terms of hope for anything. Particularly that he would learn something of value from former Captain Jesse Peabody. Or even Dulcie. It was a new, disconcerting experience for him: this holding out hope for the unknown future. But, he was able to tell himself, he did not indulge in wishful thinking on his own account. He had his money. It was a woman and her baby back in San Cristobel who had little else but hope.

He was west of Tucson, on a trail that followed a water course he knew was called the Santa Cruz River. Assumed he was on a road named for what was today little more than a trickling creek, until he discovered he was only partly correct.

Reached an outlying dirt farm where a careworn, impoverished looking couple toiled in a dusty field at the side of a crudely built timber shack. They were dressed like Mexicans in sombreros and shapeless shirts and pants. But were Americans who welcomed the approach of a stranger to their place because of the opportunity it gave them to interrupt the back-breaking, stooping chore of seed planting.

‘This here’s the Santa Cruz Trail you’re ridin’ now, mister,’ the skinny, fifty-year-old man said in reply to Edge’s query.

The half-breed remained astride the gelding. The farmer leaned gingerly on a fence post that would have fallen down if he had put all his slight weight against it.

‘Cuts on into town and then out the south side down to the border. In town they call it Santa Cruz Street. Out to the south it’s the Santa Cruz Road. The one you want. But you’re lookin’ done in. So why don’t you set a spell with the missus and me? Name’s Hilliard. I’m Virgil and this here’s Hilda. Hilda baked up a whole heap of brownies just yesterday. And her brownies sure do go down well with a cup of fresh-brewed coffee.’

The wizened, hollow-eyed woman who was probably still in her mid-thirties, said nothing. But after she had

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