EDGE: Ten Tombstones to Texas (Edge series Book 18) by George G. Gilman

Author:George G. Gilman [Gilman, George G.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: Lobo publications (A High Plains Wesrern)
Published: 2013-06-06T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

THERE was no ambush in the canyon, or in the foothills beyond to the southeast where the terrain dropped down towards the Colorado River border of Arizona Territory. Edge rode a mile ahead of the wagon, setting a pace that was fast without tiring the horses overmuch. Vic Evans was scared, he had discovered that. And his men had, at first, had no enthusiasm for their job. But the killings could have changed their attitudes. Three of their number had died - building on their fear, perhaps, but at the same time igniting the fires of revenge. Evans could have gained courage from such a changed mood in his men. Or he could have been overruled in his desire to get the bull to its destination in the shortest possible time.

But the half-breed had seen no overt sign of a planned retaliation by Evans and his men by the time he crested a final rise and looked down, through the failing light of dusk, at the town of Mission Creek. He dismounted and waited, watching lamps being lit all over town, until the wagon rolled to a halt just before it would be silhouetted on the ridge.

‘What’s down there?’ Muriel asked sourly.

Edge pursed his lips. ‘Trouble, maybe. Or just information. Like to take a look on my own.’

The older woman was suffering from muscular pains again and remained on the high seat. Muriel climbed down to the ground and moved forward to join Edge. Her green eyes, as devoid of emotion as the half-breed’s, surveyed what lay at the foot of the hill. A town of four streets, laid out as if for a gigantic game of tic-tac-toe. One of the streets formed a section of a trail stretching from north to south. Another opened out on to a trail which snaked away to the east, following the course of the creek, which was now dry. The terrain to the north, south and east was flat, featured with a scattering of small farms. It was around supper time and there was no traffic on the streets.

‘If they’re watching, they’d see the wagon coming in,’ she said at the conclusion of her careful survey.

‘And I figured all you could think about was killing, ma’am.’ She glared at him. ‘Mathilda and I will wait here for you.’ He swung into the saddle. ‘You ought to be able to think of something better to do.’

He heeled the horse forward, over the crest of the hill and down towards Mission Creek. There was no marker on the slope or on the west side of the town, but he knew its name from seeing the tattered map the women were using to plan their route to El Paso. From studying that same map, he knew that the creek for which the town was named ran eastwards for three miles before joining the Colorado River. Once across this obstacle, he would be in familiar territory. Arizona, where he had committed a mass murder just a few short weeks after the slaughter of war was finished.

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