“Hell,” Edge muttered to the horse. “Now a stage hold-up.
But he made no move to go to the aid of the pursued stage, holding his steady trot towards the south, glancing from time to time to his left, seeing on each occasion that the hold-up men were gaining on their quarry. Then the crackle of gunfire got louder and Edge sighed deeply as he saw the stage veer towards him, maybe following the trail, maybe seeking aid from him. As it drew closer, Edge could make out the driver, crouched low on the box-seat, slapping the reins to urge more speed from his horses: and besides him the guard, twisted in his seat, elbow bent on the roof to support his rifle. He was firing rapidly with a repeater, exhausted the magazine and turned to reload. As he did so the gun flew from his hands and he went sideways, tipping off the stage to thud to the ground. The driver seemed unaware of what had happened for several moments, the pulled on his breaks and yanked on the reins. The wheels locked with a show of sparks and smoke: the lead horse stumbled and the stage slewed round, rocking precariously, then tipped over onto its side with incredible slowness. The driver was pitched out of his seat as the shafts broke and the horses bolted clear, still fastened together by their harnesses.
Edge watched with complete detachment as the driver got shakily to his feet, going for a sidearm just when the three hold-up men rode in through the settling dust. Two fired at the driver and he dropped like a sack of potatoes as the third raider rode up to the overturned stage and fired a shot inside. A scream, high pitched enough to have come from a woman, pierced the air. The men, all masked, worked quickly, two leaping to the ground while the third held the horses. The pair who had dismounted climbed onto the side of the crippled stage and one pulled open the door and went inside, handed out a wooden box. The other took and threw it to the ground. They both climbed down and one drew a revolver and shot off the lock. As they bent down to scoop up the moneybags, the man who was still astride his horse glanced around and saw Edge watching. He snapped off a quick warning to the others and they sprang erect. A command was barked and the mounted man drew his rifle and fired. Cursing, Edge, ducked, felt a sudden jerk on his saddle horn and looked behind him, saw the pack-horse on its side, going through its death throes as the bullet settled in its brain.
Snarling, Edge whipped the knife from his back sheath and slashed through the rope. The knife was returned to its resting place and then Henry un-booted almost as part of one fluid movement as he wheeled the horse and started to gallop towards the men.
The dismounted raiders hurriedly scooped up the moneybags and leapt onto their horses as Edge thundered towards them, firing as he came. The pair with the money went like the wind, one of them trailing a shower of gold coins as a bullet from the Henry ripped through a moneybag. But the third man’s horse was slow to turn and even at a gallop Edge was able to take a careful aim and place his shot. The bullet drilled him neatly through the heart and he fell cleanly from the saddle, dead long before he hit the hard floor of the desert.
Edge brought his horse to a standstill as the raiders mount took flight.
“Like somebody once told me, it’s mean cuss that would shoot a man’s horse,” Edge said to the dead man, spun around as he heard a sound from the stage.
But the Henry’s muzzle found nothing to shoot at and Edge strained forward he heard the sound again, recognizing it as a low whimper, maybe of pain, maybe something else.
“Anybody inside there?” Edge called recollecting the scream when one of the holdup men had fired into the stage.
“Go away,” he heard a hoarse whisper. A woman. “Don’t look at me.”
Edge approached the stage, hauled himself up onto it.
“I ain’t one of them that held you up.” He said. “I’m here to help.”
“You can’t help me.”
He was on top now, looking in through the door the raiders had left open. The woman was hunched up in the corner, between the seat and the side of the stage, which was now on the floor. She was young, with pretty blonde hair and was well dressed. Edge could not tell much more about her, as she stared at her reflection in the mirror affixed to the inside of the lid of her vanity case, whimpering painfully. She might have been pretty–once, before the high caliber bullet had ripped through her cheek and exited through her nose, blowing half of it away, leaving what remained a soggy red mess of shapeless pulp.
“I told you not to look,” she tried to scream at Edge, but her voice could not rise above a whisper.
“I’ve seen worse sights,” he answered.
She slapped the case shut and raised both hands to mask her injury. Above her clasped fingers her eyes were big and beautiful.
“You said you were here to help,” the beautiful eyes questioned him.
“I ain’t got no time to be no nurse-maid,” he said flatly.
“I don’t want ...”
“Nor to tote any sick woman to the nearest sawbones,” he interrupted.
“How long would it take you to put a bullet in my brain, mister!” she asked without emotion.
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” she said, managing to inject annoyance into her tone.
He guessed she was still in shock. The initial searing pain of the wound would have gone and she had the relief of a period of numbness before the real agony set in.
“You ain’t gonna’ die from that,” Edge told her.
“I know,” she answered. “That’s why I want you to kill me.”
Edge shook his head, more a bewildered than a negative gesture. “I don’t follow.”
“I’m a dance hall girl, mister,” she told him and now her eyes showed a moment of stabbing pain and her body jerked. “Christ, it’s starting to hurt. It’s the only way I know how to make a living. It’s the only way I want. Not anymore, though.”
“Uh?”
The eyes showed more pain, then a flare of anger. “You dumb cluck, what man’s gonna’ want a dance hall girl with no nose?”
The insult dug deep into Edge, but he made allowances for the woman’s condition. His face became pensive.
“I’ve shot a lot of people,” he said slowly, “but always with reason.”
“I’m giving you a reason,” she came back quickly. “There’s no gun in here or I’d try it myself. But I’m scared I might miss if you give me one. I want to be stone cold dead. One bullet. Finish.”
She closed her eyes and groaned as a more intense stab of pain caught her. When she opened them again Edge was no longer at the door of the stage. She heard his feet thunder on the ground as he jumped down. “Don’t leave me,” she called, showing her first sign of fear.
“That would be slow. You couldn’t live with that. Get it over. A quick bullet is all it will take.”
She heard him moving about outside, held her breath to pick up sounds of him remounting and riding off. It went quiet.
“Where you headed?” she heard him call.
“New job. Big money.”
“Where at?”
“South, near the border. Lots of rich bounty hunters. Town called Warlock.”
Silence again. Footfalls, the scrape of metal against leather. Silence.
CRACK.
The revolver shot was magnified within the close confines of the stage and still rang in Edge’s ears as he looked down coldly from the opposite side of the door from where he had been at first. The bullet had drilled a neat hole in the center of the woman’s forehead.