Edge 58: The Desperadoes

The Home of Great Western Fiction! Like most banks, the Munro, Colorado branch of the Western States offered its customers a range of services. Like all banks, you had to pay for them. Right now the man called Edge was availing himself of one of the facilities to wire $150 on to a sporting house woman he owed up in Cheyenne. Only one thing was holding up the transaction: the other customers, who were holding up the bank. Four old-timers, they were overseeing the transfer of certain funds—the entire contents of the safe—to their saddlebags for onward transmission to their hideout in the woods. Not a service willingly offered by the bank, nor one for which these customers looked likely to pay, but when a withdrawal demand is backed up by four Colt .45s, most any bank teller will do as she is told. EDGE 58: THE DESPERADOES By George G. Gilman First published by New English Library in 1988 Copyright ©1988, 2023 by George G. Gilman First Electronic Edition: May 2023 Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book Published by arrangement with the author’s estate. Series Editor: Ben Bridges Text © Piccadilly Publishing Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books. For A.S. California, here we come - maybe! Illustration by Tony Masero Table of Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen About the Author Chapter One THE STRIKING LOOKING woman seated on the high-backed chair behind the counter that divided the room into two unequal sections was called Donna Terry. This was announced in white lettering on a triangular-shaped block of wood, stained dark brown, that sat on the counter top beside where she was writing in a ledger. Where she worked was at the Munro branch of the Western States Bank, which comprised two rooms in a small, one-story granite building on the north side of the community’s main street. Munro was a fine looking little town in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado’s south west corner, close to the New Mexico Territorial border. Donna Terry was a neatly attired, attractive woman who sparked a disconcerting sexual stir in Edge. When he rode into town, the half-breed gave it only casual attention: decided right off Munro was in most respects like a hundred other towns he had passed through during his years as a lone drifter. And since it was mid-afternoon and he had no need to halt this early to supply the demands of hunger or sleep for himself or his roan gelding, he expected to keep riding on through: unconcerned by the mistrustful looks cast toward him by the local citizens. Then, three-quarters of the way along the main thoroughfare, Lark Street, closer to the western than the eastern limits of town, he saw ahead on his right the familiar wooden sign—its white-painted message confined to the left half of a cut-out map of the US—of the Western States Bank. Which caused him to angle away from the center of the less than bustling street, rein in his horse at the rail out front of the bank. He had been aware of a lessening of the tension—never dangerously high—as he rode by the midway point on the length of the street, kept his mount moving at the same even pace. Was seen to be a stranger with apparently no intention of calling a halt in Munro: unless, disinterested in all other aspects of town, he elected to stop by the Centennial Saloon to lay the trail dust in his throat. Which would have been no cause for immediate concern. The majority of Munro’s citizens were doubtless decent, quiet-living, law-abiding people, judging by the appearance of their town. The kind who would not welcome the disreputable saddle tramp this stranger seemed to be. But if he did feel the need to stop over for a while, best he rest up in the Centennial. The saloon, with five horses standing contentedly at its hitching rail, was next to the bank, across a wagon-wide alley. So it was not until Edge swung down from his saddle, wound the gelding’s reins around the rail out front of the bank, that most of those who watched him realized which of the two neighboring buildings had caused the stranger to pause in Munro. And without doubt, Edge pondered fleetingly as he crossed the sidewalk and stepped through the open doorway of the bank, he became the subject of rasping exchanges: as the quiet-living, law-abiding people of Munro voiced anxieties about this travel-stained, foreign-looking, mean-eyed, hard-mouthed stranger who entered the local bank. A revolver butt jutting from the holster tied down to his right thigh. Thus did Edge judge the effect he created on the community at large. But because he was so accustomed to being regarded with disquiet by people on first impression, he paid little attention to the almost tangible pressure of watching eyes he left out in the chill, sun-bright fall air. And welcomed the pleasant stove heat of the bank’s interior: even more the warm smile of Donna Terry. It was a habitual expression of friendly welcome as she looked up from writing in the bulky ledger on the polished counter top, and she obviously expected to see the familiar figure of a regular customer she would know. When she saw a