EDGE: Massacre Mission by George G. Gilman

Author:George G. Gilman [Gilman, George G.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: Lobo Publications
Published: 2015-07-18T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘HOT DAMN!’ the lawman exclaimed and delved a hand into a pocket of his pants. ‘Why the hell didn’t I remember that?’

‘Because you worry too much about other people and not enough about yourself,’ the half breed replied as Larsen drew out a key.

‘Your kind always puts number one first,’ the marshal growled swinging toward the door and reaching through the bars to push the key into the lock.

Edge moved casually across the cell to the row of bars that divided it from the one in which von Scheel was held. The German was close by on the other side, staring in horror as the black-clad lawman struggled to turn the key in the lock.

‘In this number, feller, I’m the one the old timers at the mission are relying on.’

‘Damn, it don’t fit!’ Larsen groaned.

Edge took a final half stride forward, powered his right arm through the bars of the partition. A cry of alarm escaped the German as Edge fastened a grip on his fleshy left wrist. Then the hapless mass-killer screamed in pain as Edge wrenched him hard and fast against the bars.

‘Figured it wouldn’t,’ he said evenly. ‘Seeing as how the key Hoy used to keep us here was already in the lock.’

Von Scheel tried to pull away, but Edge forced the man’s arm hard against the bars, threatening to snap it at the elbow. Pain showed in beads of sweat and the veins which stood out like blue cords at the man’s temples and neck.

‘What the hell, mister?’ Larsen demanded.

‘I vill shout for help,’ von Scheel rasped. ‘There vill be people left in this town to make sure ve do not escape.’

Edge reached up his left hand as if to scratch his neck under the long black hair. But when it emerged it was fisted around the handle of the straight razor.

Von Scheel whispered something in German as the flat of the blade was rested on the bulge of his cheek between two bars, the point no more than a quarter of an inch below a wide, green eye.

‘You’re nothing to nobody, here or anywhere else,’ the half breed reminded softly. ‘Except a corpse on the hoof. If you’re ready for the slaughter now, start yelling. Or don’t do what I’m going to tell you. I don’t figure whoever comes running will love me any the less for seeing you with your brains trickling out of your eye socket.’

‘Ja, ja,’ the fat drummer rasped. ‘I vill do vhat you say, You tell me.’

‘Edge, damn it, let us in on—’

‘Out is what you said you wanted,’ the half breed interrupted Larsen. ‘Reach through and unhook the lariat off your saddle.’

The confused and angry lawman was slow to respond. But the Apache was quick to go down on his haunches and do the half breed’s bidding.

‘Fine,’ Edge said and altered his grip on the German, to take hold of the forearm. ‘Now tie an end around his wrist. Real tight. Not a slipknot.’

Poco Oso did this, while von Scheel trembled and began again to mutter a prayer in his native language.

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