EDGE: The Blind Side by George G. Gilman

Author:George G. Gilman [Gilman, George G.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: LOBO Publications
Published: 2016-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Back at the mouth of the ravine, the half-breed swung up into the saddle on the chestnut geld­ing and slid his Winchester into the boot. Then chewed on some jerked beef as he listened to the voices from below—not so distinctly heard now he was away from the top of the slope—and watched the smoke of the fire get thicker. Then he wheeled his mount slowly and started back the way he had come: as easy riding and cautiously alert as before. Just briefly and without resentment envious of Clark Selmar and his men who were going to boil up some coffee before they set off with their prisoners and the evidence of rustling for Fallon.

Just off the trail to the distant town, Edge found a stand of timber in which he was able to watch from cover for the captors and captives to emerge from the expanse of rock-rugged country which fringed the basin: this over a distance of some mile and a half. And, perhaps an hour and a half after he lowered his rump on to a tree root and leaned his back against the trunk, he saw the men ride out from between flanking cliffs.

Selmar was at the front of the column which moved at an easy trot, with the duster-coated quartet of prisoners two abreast behind him. Then came the nine C-bar-S hands: eight of them riding in a double file while the odd man brought up the rear—the steer with the changed brand on a lead line behind him.

There was an almost cavalry-like orderliness about the formation and its progress toward and then along the trail. An impression that was heightened by the uniform style of the riders' garb—ten of the men attired in the out­fits of working cowpunchers that varied so little one from another while the other four looked even more like troopers in their identical dusters. Albeit dejected by defeat as they rode in the custody of the victors, shoulders slumped and heads hung low. Astride mounts that were roped together, both side by side and front to rear. The woebegone attitudes of Hayden, Engels, the Negro and the kid emphasized by the obvious sense of triumph that was being experienced by the rancher and his hands.

Edge was about to lead the gelding deeper into the timber as the column drew close, but a dark cloud that had been threatening rain for almost an hour suddenly let loose a downpour to restrict visibility and deaden sound. And the deluge acted, too, to wash out all recent signs on the trail—signs that Edge knew the watch­ful Clark Selmar had spotted. Left most recently by the chestnut gelding, the hoof-prints of the horse superimposed on the tracks made—also not too long ago—by a four-wheeled wagon with a pair of animals in the traces.

The rain ceased as abruptly as it had started, but the wind that came with it continued to blow as the half-breed moved off in the wake of the column. And for the rest of the afternoon and into early evening the norther did not let up.

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