Edge stayed in the shade for as long as he could see the tracks made by the Mexicans’ horses. But they were on the far side of the canyon, the Mexicans having taken advantage of the shadow of the eastern wall thrown out by morning sunlight. And soon he was forced out into the harsh glare again in order to keep on the trail of his quarry.
His horse died beneath him while still on all fours, the sound she made as she collapsed, throwing him clear, merely the whoosh of air venting from crushed lungs. The rifle crack that had sent a bullet piercing into her brain echoed between the canyon walls with such stark clarity that the sound stung Edge’s ears. He lay absolutely still where he had fallen, shielded on one side by the bulk of the dead horse, exposed on the other where there was just an expanse of open terrain scattered with small rocks.
It was from this side that the two men approached and Edge did not have to move in his bogus unconsciousness to watch them, for he had landed on his belly, head art the side and facing that way. He watched them with eyes cracked open the merest extent, seeing them through the dark curtain of his lashes. The sharp-shooter had been good or lucky. It had been a long-range, downwards shot from two hundred yards away, a hundred feet above the canyon floor. He saw them appear from each side of a huge boulder, stand for a moment looking down at him, then start forward. Even winded as he was, his head still ringing with the sound of the shot and the thud of his body on to the hard ground, Edge knew he could gun them both down in less than two seconds—if the Henry repeater was in his hands. But the rifle was still in its boot on the dead horse and Edge had no way of reaching it without revealing his awareness. He had to assume that the sharp-shooter was good, not merely lucky and if that was so he would be able to loose off any number of accurate shots before Edge had even rolled over to look for the Henry. So Edge merely moved his right hand—on the blind side from the men—and discovered the only weapon within reach was a jagged, fist-sized piece of rock. His fingers closed over it.
“Must of knocked himself out in the fall, Luke,” one of the men said excitedly.
“Damn rifle pulls to the right,” his partner replied with low anger. “Way the Government is so close-handed, sometimes the horse is worth more than the outlaw.”
“He’s facing this way, Luke,” the other said, refusing to have his enthusiasm quelled by Luke’s chagrin. “Recognize him? Wonder how much he’s worth?”
Luke was tall and thin to the point of emaciation. He had hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes; a chin that came to a point. He was dressed all in black, from high-crowned hat to boots, and walked with a casual looseness. His partner was shorter, fat by comparison, with a round, moonlike face decorated with a moustache longer on one side than the other. He was all in black, too. Both carried rifles, wore revolvers in holsters on the right hip, tied at the thigh. Edge didn’t recognize them as any of the many bounty hunters who worked out of Peaceville.
“Whoever it is, Chuck,” Luke said, raising his rifle, “makes no difference whether he’s dead or alive. Dead is easier for us.”
“Hey, no,” Chuck said with concern, reaching out a hand to slap down the rifle barrel. “We don’t even know if he’s an outlaw. I told you not to shoot till he was close enough to take a look at.”
Luke sneered. “Only two kind of lone riders in this part of the territory,” he said. “Outlaws and bounty hunters. If he’s one he’s worth money, and it’s easier money if he’s dead. If he’s the other he ain’t no use to us living and dead he can’t cause no trouble.”
Their voices got easier to hear as they got closer and Edge liked what they were saying less and less with every step they took.
“Hey,” Chuck exclaimed with glee when the pair were no more than five yards away, feet kicking up dust that threatened to erupt a sneeze from Edge. “The guy’s got one of them Henry repeating rifles. Confederates used to say the Union army could load on Sundays and keep firing all week with them.”
The man let his own, single shot weapon fall to the ground and rushed forward, sprang over the prone figure of Edge as if he presented no more danger than a solid rock. With Chuck out of his range of vision, Edge concentrated on Luke, who was the more dangerous of the two. He heard the Henry being slid from its boot, the breech mechanism worked.
“Terrific,” Chuck said, like a kid who got what he wanted for Christmas.
“Yeah,” Luke replied dully, but his eyes shone with an interest that belied his tone. Edge saw he carried an old and battered Spencer. He licked his lips as if he could taste the joy his partner was experiencing. He glanced down once at Edge, then stepped over him. “Don’t recognize him,” he said shortly. “Let me see that gun.”
“It’s mine,” Chuck said with petulance, then yelled in surprise.
