“You stupid cow,” he hurled at her, and drove a fist into her stomach, doubling her over. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I . . . I . . . thought . . .” she gasped, then went over sideways as Edge punched her on the side of the head.
“I’ve been guzzling my water like there was a lake round every turn,” he yelled, launching a kick into the small of her back. “I thought you had two full canteens.”
Amy looked up at him with the eyes of a faithful dog who knows the master’s anger is well-deserved.
“I used my last for the stew,” she managed to force out through her pain. “I didn’t tell you. I thought you might leave me.”
“Lady, you thought right,” he told her and prepared to kick her again, held off when he saw she made no attempt to defend herself. He turned in disgust and walked to where his horse waited, climbed into the saddle. He shook his canteen, sighed when he heard the meager sloshing of the short supply inside.
“I don’t want no water,” Amy called, pulling herself to her feet, still half doubled, one hand on her stomach, the other at her throat.
“You ain’t getting any,” Edge spat at her, and heeled his mount forward into a fast gallop.
By the time the woman was able to haul her aching body up into the saddle of the piebald and encourage him forward, every step he took sending a fresh sweep of pain through her, Edge was just a dot in the distance, a black speck at the head of a long cloud of grey dust. She followed, noticing for the first time that Edge was following a trail, leaving single fresh tracks on top of the older sign of many horses.
Soon, the ground began to rise, become rockier, the old and new tracks more difficult to see. The figure in the distance was raising less dust and often went from sight as the terrain dipped and rose. With each mile Amy covered, her pain lessened, her ill-used body calling upon the experience of many past mistreatments to fight the effects of the latest onslaught. She was able to move faster and since the man ahead knew better than to push his mount at the limit for more than short stretches of country, she narrowed the distance that separated them. But she did not get too close. She endeavored to maintain a gap just outside the rifle range and often she saw Edge turn in the saddle to look back at her but he made no move to come back or race ahead.
Once, she muttered, “You bastard,” the words rasping out over her parched lips when she saw him raise the canteen to his mouth to drink in a gesture of torment.
But the afternoon was drawing to a close and the cool promise of evening offered her some relief. So she held her distance, afraid of facing a night alone in the desolate country, hating the man ahead but at the same time drawing comfort from his impassive back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NIGHT pounced suddenly, like a thief to steal the light from the day, and toss it back as a pale luminescence which gave the terrain a freakish appearance, turning rock formations into frightening giants and the sparse vegetation into shapes of evil intent. Edge, a man with no imagination, found in the night only another difficult: the tracks of the Mexican bandits already faint were even harder to see in the pale moonlight. But he kept moving, heading along a broad gully which he knew the men would have had to travel to continue their trek south.
It was cold now, the dry cold of the desert night which cuts through the thin clothes of those who travel with attire suitable only for the heat of the day. So Edge halted his horse near a cleft the gully wall and untied his bedroll, took out a heavy blanket to drape around his shoulders. He had re-packed the roll when he heard the hoof beats coming up the gully, tossed it back across his mount when the woman’s shout rang out. He grinned wryly, figuring the darkness scared her more than he did: that she was prepared to take anything he handed out just so long as she could be near him.
He waited, saw the white of the piebald’s marking, then the paleness of the woman’s face. The horse’s shoes sent sparks flying as she reined him into a sliding, crabwise halt in front of Edge.
“We got company,” she said breathlessly, sliding from the saddle, showing no sign of her former pain.
Edge’s eyes became hooded. “How many?”
“Two.”
“Men?”
“Men.”
“How close?”
“Half a mile,” she answered sharply, then shrugged. “Maybe less. Damn moonlight plays tricks with your eyes.”
“Riding fast?”
“Slow at first,” she breathed. “Spotting our tracks. Then they saw me. Coming like bats out of hell now.”
Edge glanced around, saw the cleft. “In here,” he commanded and led his own horse into the opening.
The woman came in close behind. Edge took the reins from her, unbooted the Henry and slid her rifle from his bedroll, tossed it to her. He beckoned for her to follow him and went out of the cleft, broke into a run to the opposite side of the gully, started to climb as the sound of thundering hoofs announced the approach of the newcomers. He reached a shelf of rock and stretched down a hand for the woman, hauled her up beside him.
“You’re going to beat me again,” she said in a hushed whisper as the two riders appeared, galloped on down the gully then reined to a rearing halt as they realized the fresh tracks had disappeared. One of the horses in the cleft whinnied and stamped a foot, the riders taking this as a signal to slide hurriedly from their saddles, unbooting their rifles with practiced skill.
Edge watched them dive into shadow. “Why so?” he asked in low tones.
“This gun,” she answered, laying it on the ground. “The slug I put between your feet. It was the last one.”
Edge sighed. “You’re right.”
“What?”
“I’m going to beat you again.”
He had not moved his eyes off the patch of shadow where the men had taken refuge, saw movement now as one of them edged forward, going back towards the cleft where the horses now held their silence. He saw a glint of silver, high up. When the second man joined the first, a stray moonbeam produced the same effect.
“Somebody fingered me,” Edge muttered.
“What?” Amy asked.
“Those guys are marshals,” he answered absently. “Wearing their tin on their hats.”
“You ain’t the law then?”
“Not any more I ain’t,” he told her, and ripped the badge from his shirt, pressed it into her hand. “Here, have a souvenir.”
“Thanks a bunch.” She sneered. “I’ll treasure it and your memory ‘til my dying day.”
“Maybe your day has come,” he said and squeezed the Henry’s trigger.
The bullet spat chips from it rock close to the first marshal’s face and he went into a crouch as his partner dived for the ground.
“Who’s up there?” a voice called.
“Santa Claus come early this year,” Edge answered. “Figure you won’t be around come Christmas.”
“Funny,” Amy said drily.
“Shut up,” Edge told her.
“We’re US territorial marshals,” the spokesman from below called. “Your name Edge?”
“Close enough.”
“Throw down your gun and surrender,” came the response. “We got a warrant for you. You’ll get a fair trial. You’ll have a better chance with us than with the bounty hunters.”
“You pass a couple of guys up north aways?” Edge asked.
There was a pause. “You?”
“I ain’t admitting nothing, but they didn’t die of pneumonia.”
“You kill me,” Amy said.
“How long you been telling fortunes?” he hissed from the side of his mouth.
Amy glanced at him, huddled beneath the blanket and refrained from further comment. His bitter humor was a mere surface veneer, a transparent cover for the brutal killer beneath.