Edge: Ten Grand

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THE man lay in a prone position across the water-smoothed rocks of a dried-up creek bed. He was dressed in a black shirt and black pants, sullied by sweat and the fine dust of southern Arizona Territory. His grey hat, dented at the crown, was a few inches from his outstretched right arm. His gunbelt held a full complement of charged cartridges, but the holster, tied to the thigh with a thong, and the knife sheath at the back were empty. A slight bulge at the back of his neck where the shirt was stretched tight across his shoulders was a tell-tale of another weapon container which has attackers had not discovered.

He was a tall man, deceptively lean at first glance, for he carried a lot of weight which was evenly distributed a great deal of it accounted for by well-developed muscles that made his clothes taut at the upper arms and thighs. Even as he was, unconscious and breathing raggedly, there was about this man an aura of the threat represented by his physical strength.

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