Seven Out of Hell (6 page)

“Life is full of little surprises,” the Chinese replied.

Edge shifted his gaze and saw that the man diagonally across from him and the one seated beside him were drawing their hands apart and taking out sawn-off shotguns of their own from the capacious sleeves of their robes.

“My God, a gun!” a woman at the centre of the swaying car screamed.

“Everyone keep calm, no one get hurt,” a Chinese announced in loud tones. He was at the front of the car and rose, turning to look down the aisle and the passengers on either side. His face was as devoid of expression as those of his colleagues. “We take money and valuables. Not wish take life.”

Alvin and Beth looked fearfully at each other. The boy clutched the woman’s hand in his and it was difficult to tell whether he was offering comfort or seeking it He shot a glance over his shoulder, finding the gaze of Edge and receiving no consolation from the hooded eyes.

“You will please allow my men to relieve you of your arms,” the leader of the Chinese demanded flatly. He pitched his voice just loud enough to be heard above the clatter of the train as the locomotive hauled its burden through the mountains on the California-Nevada Stateline.

The shotgun maintained an unwavering aim at Edge’s stomach and the tall half-breed offered no resistance as the man beside him slid the revolver from his holster and picked up the Winchester from where it rested. Throughout the car, most of the men complied in a similar manner as the carefully positioned Chinese menaced them with shotguns. But one man, sitting two seats ahead of Edge on the other side of the aisle, snarled a protest. He wore a business suit and no gunbelt. But a bulge beneath his jacket revealed the presence of a small pistol in a shoulder holster. He was fast on the draw, but not fast enough.

“Mao!” a Chinese voice called.

The leader still had his hands clasped together across his middle, concealed by the drape of the robe’s sleeves. But now he snapped them apart and he held a pair of short bladed knives decorated with brass and tortoise-shell. One of them
zinged
away from him with a mere flick of a wrist. The blade flashed in the sunlight and sank into the throat of the man who was not fast enough. He made a gurgling sound and his ornate Parkhouse pepperbox clattered to the floor. He toppled sideways on to the gun, his severed jugular vein spraying an arc of blood.

“Not wish to, but will,” Mao announced easily, his voice cutting through the gasps of shocked women.

A bandit reached down and jerked the knife from the throat of the dead man. It came free with an obscene sucking sound. He grinned as he wiped the blade against the dress of a middle-aged woman who was petrified by terror.

“
White dress not suit you,” he
said, “Red color make it pretty.”

“Mr. Shin will now pass among you,” Mao announced calmly. “You put money and valuables in sack. Very angry if more trouble. Any man attempts make it, he dies. So does woman - any woman I choose.”

As he spoke, Mao’s almond-shaped eyes moved often to linger upon Beth, finding particular interest in the swelling flesh of her breasts revealed by the low neckline of her gown. Alvin was aware of this and a mixture of anger and fear caused his hand to tremble upon that of the woman. But she remained calm, exuding a kind of feminine arrogance as she was forced to submit to the Chinese’s probing gaze.

The bandits had been well drilled for the hold-up. Their actions were calm and unhurried as they rose and padded in equal numbers to each end of the car, the aim of the shotguns steady despite the additional burden of the confiscated weapons. Then one of them rested his gun and took out a burlap sack from beneath his robe. He started from the front of the car and moved down the aisle, holding the sack open in front of each passenger. Money, watches, jewellery and a varied selection of gold and silver articles dropped into the sack. While this was in progress, one Chinese at each end of the car opened a window and tossed out the passengers’ guns.

Edge had seven and a half thousand dollars split into small bundles and tucked inside his shirt. As he unbuttoned the shirt and reached inside, bringing out the bundles one at a time, Shin’s eyes grew wider and wider.

“You very rich man,” the Chinese said as Edge held out his hands, palms upwards to indicate there was no more.

“Easy come, easy go,” the half-breed said softly.

“You no have to work for money?”

“Killing people ain’t work,” Edge replied.*
(*See: Edge: Blood on Silver and Edge: California Killing.)

“That what Mr. Mao think.” Shin said with a hint of pride.

“A man of deep thought,” Edge said.

When Shin had completed his task, one gun-toting Chinese was left at each end of the car while the remainder moved to the cars ahead and behind. The passengers remained silent, many having to struggle within themselves to keep from looking at the slumped form of the dead man.

Edge looked idly out of the window as the locomotive slowed and strained to haul the cars up a steep gradient which was one of the steps across the Sierras. The sun was still bright, but the mountain air had grown chill and in the far distance, across a vista of verdant pine forests and jagged, barren rock crests, snow could be seen frosting the highest peaks.

At the front of the car, Alvin and Beth continued to hold hands. The woman’s sensual features were devoid of expression, reflecting a mind prepared to accept and deal with each problem as it arose. Her ill-matched partner was pale faced and tense of posture as he struggled against an involuntary impulse to explode his frustration. And he was able to contain his emotions by forcing his mind to accept the hold-up as poetic justice. He had stolen two thousand dollars from his father to finance the elopement with Beth. Now it had been stolen from him. He could but hope that her love for him was strong enough to stand the test of poverty.

The train reached the top of the grade and picked up speed again as it thrust into a steep-sided ravine, parallel with the course of a swiftly running stream. The two gunshots echoed along the ravine, crystal clear against the clatter of the train, which immediately began to slow with a screeching of brakes.

“Sound like train men make trouble for Mr. Mao,” the Chinese at the rear of the car said.

“Should have listened to your head man’s warning,” Edge responded with a sigh.

The Chinese allowed a smile to alter the impassiveness of his smooth features. “Sometimes Mr. Mao forget to speak American. Talk to people in Mandarin.”

“Orange Chinese for Christ’s sake,” Edge muttered.

“How disgustingly inhuman!” the woman with the bloodstained dress exclaimed shrilly.

The Chinese shook his head. “Mr. Mao thank all people of world should speak his language.”

“Very unpolitic” Edge muttered.

Chapter Four

T
HEY
rode hard through the hours of darkness, and whenever Captain Hedges called a halt he was thinking more of conserving the strength of the horses rather than rest for the men. Safely attired in their Confederate uniforms they kept to the main trails and turnpikes, heading north by the stars glimmering intermittently through the storm clouds. Those civilians who happened to see the group of seven riders cantering through the night seldom spared them a second glance. There was a war on and the sight of soldiery in a hurry was a common one.

Thus, Hedges and his men did not deviate to avoid the hamlets, villages and small towns which straddled their route. And as the hour grew late there was even less risk of being challenged for the men were riding through a farming belt and the people who lived there retired early in preparation for a new day.

When the eastern horizon began to pale with the first streaks of grayness marking the false dawn they were riding along a narrow turnpike which ran as straight as an arrow across open countryside towards a vast expanse of pine wood.

Hedges, his own pallor wan beneath the dark brown of its natural pigmentation, turned in the saddle to survey the faces of the men strung out behind him. He saw fatigue and hunger etched in their every line, strong enough to almost cancel out the set of cruelty and lurking hatred which war and imprisonment had sculptured against their flesh. The pace he had set through the night had drained them of the meager energy they had stored from the sleep at the farm and pitifully small amount of food they had stolen from the dead Rebel’s saddlebags.

Forrest, riding immediately behind the captain, sensed the stare from the hooded eyes and dragged his chin up off his chest.

“You want something, Captain?” he rasped.

It had been the first time in many miles since anybody had spoken and the other troopers dragged their attention to the head of the column.

“Yeah,” Hedges answered. “Soon as we get in the trees up ahead, we’ll rest.”

“Thank God for that,” Rhett muttered.

“You’re a great guy for camp, ain’t you, Bob?” Bell answered and managed a hollow guffaw.

They continued on down the turnpike in silence and when it plunged into the trees Hedges kept to the road for over a hundred years before he angled away, trampling the thickly growing undergrowth until the ground opened out into a grassy dell. As the men followed his example by sliding from their saddles, Seward and Douglas began to unsaddle their horses.

“Forget it,” Hedges snapped, unhooking his canteen and drawing the razor from its neck pouch. “We ain’t staying.”

“Aw, Captain,” Seward whined.

Forrest looked at Hedges with questioning aggression. “We ain’t goin’ to make the Union lines in one hop, Captain,” he said softly.

“We ain’t going to make them at all if we ride through the south looking like hobos,” Hedges answered as he unscrewed the stopper from the canteen and splashed water on his face. “Highest rank we can muster is sergeant. We run into a Johnnie Reb officer he ain’t so likely to ask question if we look like soldiers.”

He squatted down with his back against a tree trunk and began to rasp the finely honed blade of the razor through the thick growing black bristles. Without soap to lubricate the skin, each stroke of the razor sounded like a renting of stout cloth and some of the men winced.

Forrest took the razor hurriedly when Hedges had finished and was using more water to wash dried sweat and grime from his face.

“You seem mighty anxious to inflict that torture on yourself,” Seward said.

As Forrest began to slice through his own bristles, he grinned at the grimacing youngster. “We only got the one blade, Billy,” he pointed out. “And we ain’t got no strop.”

Rhett swallowed hard. “I think I’ll grow a beard,” he muttered.

“You’ll shave!” Hedges said with low venom, as he dusted off his uniform with the flat of his hand. “Or you’ll get shaved - and I won’t stop short at the hair on your face.”

“He ain’t got none anyplace else, Captain,” Douglas put in.

“How’d you
get
to find that out, Hal?” Bell taunted. “Guess the fairies must have told him,” Scott returned. “Cut out the yakking!” Forrest snarled. He tossed the razor to Seward. “And do like the Captain says. Or there won’t be one of you with even an eyelash left.”

The men fell silent, waiting their turn to use the razor and afterwards doing what they could to clean themselves and their uniforms.

“What’s the plan, Captain?” Forrest asked at length.

Hedges clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth and watched the disgruntled troopers as they performed their ablutions. “Atlanta’s up ahead,” he replied without looking at the mean-faced sergeant. “I figure the turnpike goes straight into the city. That ain’t for us. Place will be crawling with Rebels and we don’t want any awkward questions to answer. So we gotta look for a town with food and beds. One without any other uniforms in it. After we’ve rested we’ll swing around the city and keep heading north ‘till we hear shooting.”

Forrest pondered this, then nodded. “Guess I can’t think of nothing better than that,” he allowed.

Hedges met and held his flinty gaze. “I figured that,” the Captain replied and turned to examine the men.

The comparative cleanness of their faces served to emphasize the emaciating effects of deprivation and malnutrition and he knew it would take time rather than water and a blade to rid their eyes of the haunted look. Perhaps, he considered, the men would never shed it until death blotted out their memories. He spat into the grass.