EDGE
Without doubt, he is the meanest,
most vicious man you’ll ever meet.
He’s a man of violence, driven
by revenge.
You won’t forget him.
To L.J.
who thought of the name.
FOREWORD
Foreword by Malcolm Davey AKA Western Writer, Cody Wells
First, I would like to say what an honor and a privilege it is for me to have the opportunity to be a part of the rebirth of this great legend.
I believe I speak for every ‘Edge’ fan there is, has ever been, and also the many new fans that will follow, when I simply say, Terry… Thank you! Thank you so much for giving us, George G. Gilman and Edge!
In my humble opinion of all the westerns I’ve ever read or watched on the big screen and TV, no one could hold a candle to this author and his creation.
The series was written with such zeal and finesse, it’s as fresh today as it was back when it first appeared on the shelves of our favorite bookstores. And the reason is … Edge was written well before its time.
Malcolm Davey - November 2011.
INTRODUCTION
Introduction: George G. Gilman (Terry Harknett)
In July 2010 a first e-book edition of this first title in the Edge series was published by a company called Solstice. For a variety of reasons which I do not intend to go into here I chose to withdraw this.
This new edition with its new cover, both produced by fellow Western writer Malcolm Davey AKA Cody Wells, perhaps needs the same introduction as the one that appeared back in 2010, so here it is for readers new to Edge on Kindle:
Almost 50 years ago (1952 to be precise) my first book was published. A rather pedestrian mystery featuring a London based private eye. Nine more followed, none of which sold more than a handful of copies in the UK and Argentina - the only overseas country to launch foreign editions.
And after some ten years the flames of my burning ambition to become a professional writer were beginning to gutter towards extinction. But my day job as a trade press journalist brought me into contact with all the London paperback publishers and an editor working for one of these suggested I might like to try my hand at writing novels based upon original screenplays.
These happened to be Westerns - a genre I knew little about except from the cinema and television, for my early years were in the l940s and 50s which was something of a golden age for the oaters on the large and small screen. So with some trepidation I agreed to the project.
I wrote a small clutch of these books based upon films and the publisher concerned was sufficiently impressed to ask me to try an original novel set in the West. And since at the time the spaghetti Westerns were doing such tremendous box office business and no publishers were printing books that were anything like such movies it was suggested I fill this gap in the market.
The rest, as they say, is history, which came to a premature end in 1989 when I decided I had written my final Edge adventure.
Now all these years later Edge has entered the digital age.
Long may he continue in readers’ imaginations to ride the bloody trails through hostile territory between violent towns in books that will be revisited by loyal long time fans and read by newcomers to the Wild West. A locale peopled by characters that on the printed page - and now on the digital screen - which has to be very different from that created by other writers in the genre since George G. Gilman had never read a Western before he started to write them.
Terry Harknett AKA George G. Gilman - November 2011.
CHAPTER ONE
JAMIE Hedges counted six riders and there should have been only one. But Joe was surely among them and so he didn’t worry for he would willingly shout aloud his happiness to the whole re-united USA if that were the way it had to be. His brother was coming back home after more than five years away at the war and Jamie didn’t care whether five men or five million were there to witness his jubilation at the event.
It was the evening of a beautiful Iowa day in June 1865 and on the farmstead where Jamie waited with mounted excitement there was not one single sign of a war that had torn a nation in two and claimed the lives of six hundred thousand young Americans. There was just the small wooden house, the bigger grain barn and the corral with its eight horses, neatly fenced off with white picket from the yellowing fields of wheat that stretched out on three sides. On the fourth side virgin country diminished into the distance, bisected by the trail along which the six riders were coming. The gate which gave access to the farmstead was open for Joe to ride through and Jamie and his mongrel dog Patch waited in the gateway, in the shade of the big old live oak that rustled its leaves in the same cooling breeze which turned the wheat fields into a huge yellow lake.
The wind came from the east, from behind the approaching riders and soon the horses in the corral picked up the scent of their own kind and began to move restlessly, keening the edge of anticipation that Jamie seemed to feel in the very air. Not yet nineteen, the boy was tall, with sandy hair and a handsome face the color of well tanned leather from long hours working in the harsh sun. He was dressed in a store-bought check shirt and homemade Levis. He wore no shoes nor did he carry a gun. His build was broad for his age and appeared to be completely sound until he walked, when he had a pronounced limp in his right leg to the extent that he had to grasp his thigh with both hands and swing it forward with each pace he took.
“Joe’s coming home, boy,” he said to the dog for perhaps the hundredth time that day and the animal, sensing his master’s excitement gave a subdued bark and wagged his tail in the dust.
The group moved slowly up the trail and at first, Jamie experienced a sense of disappointment for he thought that once in sight of home, Joe would have come at a gallop, anxious to see his young brother again, to taste the fresh coffee and pork and beans he must know would be ready on the stove for him. But Joe had been at the Appomattox peace signing and it was a long ride from Virginia to Iowa: Joe was sure to be tired.
They were close enough now for Jamie to see they were still in uniform and he was glad about this. The north had been victorious and Joe was sure to be proud that he had been a captain in the Federal cavalry. But then Jamie saw something which clouded his face, caused him to reach down and press Patch’s head against his leg, giving or seeking assurance.
“There’s a sergeant leading them,” he muttered, puzzled, and the dog looked up at the boy, hearing a note of concern in his voice. “Joe’s a captain. He ought to be at the head.”