Stella thrust the branding iron deep into the flaming heart of the burning hay bales, crossed to where the prisoner was held and reached up to jerk off his gag, her eyes blazing with the lust for violence. Linmann’s lower face was stark white and waxy looking where the tightness of the gag had interrupted his circulation.
“It wasn’t me, Brady,” Linmann screamed as soon as the gag came free. “Honest to God it wasn’t. I don’t want to die.”
Brady, sitting on the wagon, swinging his bulky legs, did not alter the small smile that played at the corners of his mouth.
Stella lashed out a hand, her palm cracking on Linmann’s cheek. “You talk to me, rat. Not Brady. I’m handling this.”
The man’s eyes implored a hearing. “Stella, I never said anything to Hammond.”
She raised her hand again and he flinched, but there was no blow. Instead her filthy fingers hooked over the collar his shirt and jerked down, ripping the whole front of the garment from him. His chest was matted with dark hair.
“You’re going to confess, Linmann, and then we’re going to hang you,” she hissed, moving over to the fire and withdrawing the iron, the reverse S brand glowing red hot.
Edge wondered if the S stood for Stella.
“Tell it,” she said, standing before her prisoner, her feet apart, right hand raised, inching the glowing brand towards his flesh.
“Dear God, why don’t you believe me,” he moaned, his wide eyes fastened on the iron as if hypnotized by it.
His prayer was punctuated by a high pitched scream as the brand was pressed home, flames flickering momentarily in the matted hair before the red hot iron hissed up steam, vaporizing the moisture of the flesh.
“Tell it,” Stella demanded once more, pulling back the iron and stabbing it forward again, directly onto his right nipple.
Linmann’s agonized scream faded into a gurgle as the blessed relief of unconsciousness swamped him.
“Damn,” Stella exploded, stamping her foot in a rage. “Somebody get a bucket of water.”
“I’ll get it,” Pete exclaimed gratefully, leaping to his feet and running around to the front of the shack as the woman returned the iron to the fire.
“Don’t turn your stomach none, Mr. Edge?” Brady asked conversationally as they waited for the lull in the entertainment to finish.
Edge bit a hangnail from his little finger and spat it out with distaste.
“He ain’t no friend of mine.”
Brady commenced to roll a cigarette in brown paper. He shrugged.
“Figured he’d have told it before Stella branded him,” he said.
“She’d have gone ahead anyway.”
He nodded. “Guess she would have. Gets her fun from hurting people. Especially men.”
He lit the cigarette and eyed Edge speculatively.
“Figured it.”
Pete came on the run with the water, slopping it over the edge of the bucket in his haste.
“Can I do it?” he implored.
Stella nodded and he sloshed the water into Linmann’s face, the shock of it having the desired effect. He jerked his head up and shook water from his eyes as he looked about, disorientated for a moment, so that time passed before the terror returned to his expression.
“He ain’t going to confess under no hot iron, Stella,” one of the gang called out. “He’s just going to keep throwing faints like some Eastern lady in a hot New York dancehall.”
Stella glared hatred at the speaker, but she realized the truth of his assertion. The iron she had withdrawn from the fire she now tossed back in and when she turned there was a cruel smile on her ugly face.
“Hey a rat ain’t no man, is that right?” she demanded.
The men nodded their agreement.
“It ain’t wrong,” Brady said, looking at her with a quizzical expression.
Silence settled over the group as they watched the woman approach Linmann, completely ignorant of her intention, deeply interested in the outcome. They saw the smile on her face but only Brady recognized it for what it was. Not until she stopped in front of the prisoner and started to unbuckle her belt did Edge realize Stella was stimulating her impression of feminine sexual invitation.
A great cheer went up from the gang as Stella unfastened the belt, hooked her fingers on each side of Linmann’s pant waistband and jerked downwards, so that all the buttons popped and the man’s genitals were exposed. Then silence settled upon the watchers as Stella began to murmur softly, her face nuzzling Linmann’s cheek.
“You’ve never had me, have you, Linmann,” she whispered as the gang strained their ears to pick up the words. “Nobody has except Brady. But you can. If you confess. Look I’ll show you.”
Several of the men, including Linmann, emitted low gasps of amazement as the woman stepped back and ripped open her dress from neck to waist, allowing the top half to fall from her shoulders. Her body was grimed with dirt, the neck and small conical breasts a mess of teeth marks from countless congresses with Brady. And her manlike voice aroused no stirring in Edge’s loins. But the members of the gang were less fastidious and watched the women with unconcealed lust in their eyes as their mouths worked silently.
“Tell it,” Stella commanded softly, stepping forward, sinking to her knees and moving her body from side to side, her breasts caressing Linmann’s body. “That’s it, my darling,” she encouraged.
Pain and lust can be part of the same sensation and despite his agony and his fear, his discomfort and his distrust, Linmann was reacting, albeit involuntarily, to the overtures of the woman. Looking on, feeling not a part of what was happening, Edge knew that the sweat standing out on Linmann’s twisted face was not all from the heat of the day which was trapped in the bowl of the gully and turning it into an oven.
“That’s it,” Stella murmured once more, then suddenly sprang to her feet, her hand going inside her skirt to emerge a moment later clutching a knife which she brought down in a savage sweep. The glinting blade sliced through Linmann’s flesh as if it were rotten rope.
“Christ,” Pete uttered, turned away from the sight and sound of the screaming man and vomited his jailhouse breakfast.
“String him up,” Stella yelled in fury above the screams of agony as she shrugged her dress back onto her shoulders, raised her skirt to thrust her knife back into the sheath strapped to her thigh. “Move. You and you.”
She pointed at two of the gang members closest to the gallows and they sprung out of their shock to do her bidding, slicing through the ropes of the man whose body lay still with the blood still jutting from his groin. They heaved him up on to the bales and put the noose around his neck, moving gingerly, careful not to brush against him.
When they backed away Stella moved forward and looked up at the man, who was now held upright by the rope at his neck, which was threatening to choke him before he could be hung.
“You want to confess and clear your soul?” she asked.
Stella realized that the spark of life had almost left Linmann’s tortured body so she kicked the bales clear. His body jerked down. His legs kicked convulsively once. His neck snapped with a dry sound. He was dead.
“I don’t think he did it,” Edge said to Brady.
The fat man shrugged. “Neither do I.”
“Why’d you let her do it?”
He grinned evilly. “The man who ratted on us ain’t likely to do it again. Not after seeing that.”
“Yeah,” Edge agreed with the logic. “I like to buy Linmann’s horse.”