“Nobody,” he answered.
She nodded, happy with his answer. Perhaps feeling less alone because there was at least one other fellow human being on earth in similar circumstances. She raised the rifle and her finger whitened on the trigger as she drew a bead on the star. Edge prepared his muscles for a sideways leap, but suddenly the muzzle dropped and the rifle crack sent a bullet thudding into the ground between his spread feet.
“That’s to show I could have plugged you good,” she told him, holding the rifle in one hand, low at her side, offering no threat.
Edge holstered the Remington and moved slowly across to her, grinning. Not until he stopped immediately in front of her, his head at the same height as her own, did she recognize the expression as a parody, see the viciousness shining in the eyes. As one of his hands ripped the rifle from her grasp the other moved as a blur, back and forth, knuckles and palm slapping with force into each of her cheeks. She accepted the beating without flinching, her eyes dull, lips set in a firm line that barred any sound of pain. Finally, Edge stopped, breathing deeply from the exertion, watching the bruises rise on her thin face.
“I met men like you before,” she said without emotion. “They done worse than that to me.”
Edge nodded, acknowledging his belief of her words. A beating was not a new experience for this woman. Edge thought she had taken so many that she would miss them if they stopped.
“I get better as I go along,” Edge said wryly.
The woman shrugged her thin shoulders. “I’m a woman and I got the better of you, a man. You couldn’t let it rest. Where you headed, mister?”
The shot and the beating might never have happened. The words were spoken in a conversational tone, as if they were strangers who had met accidentally and were passing the time of day.
“My business,” Edge replied.
“I got no money and only a few supplies,” she answered. “It’s a bad country for a woman alone.”
Edge spat, and reached up his hand again, gently this time. His exploring fingers felt her scrawny neck, travelled down over her narrow shoulders, formed a cup over one small, hard breast, traversed the protrusions of her rib cage and halted on the taut flatness of her belly. She submitted tacitly to the assault of his hand. Like the beating, it was something she had been forced to accept many times before. Edge stepped back.
“I got delicate skin,” he said sardonically, “I could cut myself on you.”
It got no reaction. “I got other uses,” she said. “I cook good and whenever you get mad at anything, you can beat me. You were going south when Luke made his play. I’m heading for Mexico.”
“I travel light.”
“I won’t be no trouble.” For the first time the woman revealed a positive emotion, her features forming a tacit plea. “Just to the next town.”
“What if there ain’t no man there so hard-up he’d take you in?”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Go and get the horses,” Edge told her. “Just the best two.”
She had been holding her breath for his decision, and let it out with a small gasp as she turned and started back up the slope, towards a craggy column of rock. Edge went over to the dead horse, unfastened her girth and dragged off his saddle and bedroll. He dusted off the Henry and was reloading the Remington when the woman emerged from around the rock, started down the slope leading two stallions, a big bay and a smaller piebald. They were both saddled, but carried no bedrolls.
“What’s your name?” Edge asked as the woman approached.
“Amy,” she answered.
“Pretty,” he said, holstering the Remington. “Don’t match your looks.”
“What’s yours?”
“They call me Edge.”
“It suits,” she told him shortly.
Edge sat down, back against a rock and tipped his hat forward over his eyes, just enough so that he could see the lower half of her body, would know if she went for any of the dead men’s guns or her own Harmonica which was resting across the back of the dead horse.
“Back up your claim to be a cook,” he told her. “I don’t like what you pull out of the pot, I’ll slice off those hard little titties of yours and see if they tender in the cooking.”
He watched her ground tether the horses, then collect brush and make a fire. She got the makings of a meal from the saddlebags of the bay and water from the bottles on the piebald. Then she crouched down beside the pot and began to sing softly as she stirred its contents. Her speaking voice was harsh, with a rasp to it, but when she sang. it took on a sweetness and clarity that caused Edge to raise his hat brim, look at her face. But he dropped it again, for she was still as ugly as ever.
As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,
As I walked out in Laredo one day,
I spied a poor cowboy all wrapped in white linen.
All wrapped in white linen,
As cold as the clay.
I see by your outfit that . . .
“You from Texas?” Edge asked, cutting off the woman in mid-song.
“No. Why?”
“That’s where Laredo is.”
“I just like the song,” she answered, continuing to stir the pot, which was now giving off an appetizing aroma that stirred Edge’s taste buds. “I’m from the state of Maine. How about you?”
“My business,” he answered and the woman bent over her cooking, choosing to hum rather than sing. Edge found himself almost hypnotized by the gentleness of the sound, felt his lids lowering and fought them up again several times before allowing the tune and the heat of the day to lull him into a shallow sleep.
He came out of it with the speed of a whip lash when fingers raised the brim of his hat, his hand streaking out to grip a thin wrist as his other hand flashed to the back of his neck, stayed there without drawing the razor when he heard the cry of half surprise, half pain, saw Amy’s gaping mouth and wide eyes.
“Oh, lady ...” he breathed.
“I got you unawares again,” she said. “You want to hit me?”
He let go of her wrist, saw that in her other hand she held a metal bowl that steamed and gave off an aroma that raised saliva to his dry mouth.
“What is it?”
“Beef stew and potatoes,” she told him, thrusting the bowl forward. The spoon was already in it.
He took the food and began to eat as she straightened, hands on her hips. “Well?” she asked in a tone that indicated she already knew the verdict.
Edge grimaced. “Not bad. Get away from me. Your ugly mug is spoiling my appetite.”
It was delicious.
The woman ate little, Edge scraping the pot clean. Then he mounted and set off, leaving her to rush the task of cleaning the campsite, gallop in his wake before she lost sight of him. When she did catch up with him, he on the bay, she astride the piebald, she rode alongside, keeping a distance of several feet between the two horses.
The heat did not seem to get any less as the afternoon lengthened, and the stew had been highly seasoned. Edge drank long and often from the canteens hung on the bay’s saddle, emptied one and was halfway through the other before he noticed Amy’s dry lips. He glanced at her canteens.
“Don’t you get thirsty?”
“No,” she said, the word’s rattling in her parched throat.
Edge wheeled his horse and tugged on the reins, bringing him close to the woman. He reached out and under the dull, watchful eyes of Amy hooked her canteens clear, shook them one at a time and heard no sound from within. With a snort of rage he hurled them away and lashed out with his hand, his wrist chopping at the woman’s throat. She gasped and fell backwards out of the saddle, feet coming clear of the stirrups so that she slid easily over the rump of the animal and thudded to the ground. He vaulted from his own mount and reached down for her, pulled her to her feet as her hands went too her throat and she gasped for breath.