EDGE 49 Revenge Ride by George G. Gilman

Author:George G. Gilman
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: NEL
Published: 2017-11-29T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

NOBODY SAID anything for a long time. Long enough for the wagon and the horseback rider to cover another slow-moving mile into Sonora.

For a minute or so the older woman nursed resentment at the half-breed's irony, then became detached in a private world of thought. In her introspective mood she appeared to be as content as Edge with the lack of talk. But Dinah was obviously uneasy, as if she mistook the long silence for something the other two never meant it to be. She seemed constantly poised to break it with a question about what was the matter. Or suggest that there was no point in brooding over things now the air had been cleared.

Finally, Dinah brought them together again when she exclaimed, "Oh, my good Lord, what on earth is that?"

Edge had heard the sound in the distance at the same moment as the younger woman and guessed she had probably identified it as easily as he had. He answered, "Somebody crying."

"A woman," Dinah murmured.

Edge had already moved his right hand off the reins to rest it on his thigh, close to where Troy's Winchester jutted from the boot.

"Sharp as they come, the both of you," Harriet growled derisively. "Even I figured that from what I'm hearing. But I ain't hearing nothing that's got me shaking in my frigging boots!"

She abruptly snapped the reins over the backs of the team and yelled at the horses to plunge into a gallop.

"Harry!" Dinah shrieked, and clung to the older woman and the handrail at the side of the seat to keep from being flung off the jolting wagon.

"What I'm hearing is somebody needs help, seems to me!" the redhead yelled, her voice ringing out loud and shrill above the barrage of noise as the wagon raced away in a swirling cloud of dust.

Edge squinted his eyes and compressed his lips against the rising dust. He held back on the urge to curse and drive the gelding into a spurt of speed in the wake of the wagon. Instead, he stroked the neck of his mount with a gentle hand, calming the animal away from the impulse to panic and heeling him forward at the same easy pace as before. Edge watched the wagon disappear around a distant rock face. It was from around this forty-foot-high, sheer wall of weather-scarred granite that the disembodied sound of mournful weeping had floated on the hot, still air.

As Edge rounded the rock face himself, he saw the beginnings of a valley and, down a ways, a shack toward which the wagon was headed, not at such a breakneck speed now. He had his right hand close to the jutting stock of the Winchester while he constantly swept his gaze in every direction.

The small place was sited at the point where the trail came down off the slope and onto the flat bottomland at the start of the valley. The adobe shack, smaller than the one in Dry River Valley and probably with just

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