The fat Stu began to tremble as his flesh-crowded eyes shifted from the dead Max to the aimed gun in Edge’s hand and then up to look at the merciless face of the half-breed. He swallowed hard and sweat beads began to stand out from his every pore. He began to bring up his arms, to show his hands with the palms forward and fingers splayed in a sign of surrender.
‘What . . . what . . . what did we do?’ he pleaded as tears began to run down his bulbous cheeks, mingling with the sweat. ‘You ain’t the law, are you?’
‘Only to myself, feller,’ the half-breed answered evenly. And leaned across the table to add softly: ‘Just that you three had a run in with a lady I know. But the way it turned out, it wasn’t her that was cut up by what you did.’
Realization showed through the tears in Stu’s eyes. Then Edge exploded a bullet into the fat man’s heart and the eyes became glazed by death. He was rigid for a moment on the chair, then flopped forward, face crashing into the tabletop and arms flopping loosely to his sides.
The batwings banged inwards and Vince Attinger came to an abrupt halt on the threshold of the saloon, cocked Remington clutched in his right hand - swinging to search for a target.
‘Remember what I told you about aiming a gun at me twice, kid,’ Edge muttered as he wiped the blade of the razor clean of blood on the brim of Stu’s hat. Replaced it in the neck pouch.
‘Why, mister?’ Vince asked huskily as he slid his revolver back in the holster.
‘Your money,’ the half-breed answered and began to eject the spent shell cases from his Colt and slot fresh rounds into the chambers. That’s it all over the floor.
‘You didn’t have to slaughter them that way, you murderin’ sonofabitch!’ Pat Regan accused shrilly.
Edge turned just his head to glance at where the saloonkeeper and the girl were standing in front and behind the bar counter: both their faces deeply marked by the lines of horror which the explosion of wanton violence had etched.
‘Personal business between them and me, feller,’ he said as he holstered the Colt. ‘And dead men tell no tales.’
‘Milly!’ the Attinger youngster blurted. And started toward her. ‘Milly, are you all right?’
The whore nodded, apparently unable to speak in the state of shock that gripped her.
‘She’s fine,’ Edge said as he stepped up to the batwings and pushed through them on to the decaying stoop of Regan’s Place. And growled: ‘A piece of tail they only got to talk about.’
Chapter Eight
THE train crew watched Edge come out of Regan’s Place. The engineer and fireman from the footplate of the locomotive and the brakeman from the platform of the caboose. While the depot manager stared at the half-breed from where he stood beside a lever that operated the switchgear between sidetracks. All of them were obviously burned up with curiosity about the shooting in the saloon: but none was encouraged to ask questions by the demeanor of the tall, lean man who stepped down off the stoop and moved slowly along the street.
A few drops of rain fell from the grey, threatening sky and left large, short-lived stains on the dusty surface of the street.
The depot manager yelled something in an impatient tone and the volume and range of sounds from the locomotive abruptly rose and was extended. It moved away from the line of freight cars then, after the switchgear lever had been thrown, it reversed on to a sidetrack.
A few more raindrops spattered to earth. More forcefully than before: as if the clouds wanted to test by degree the response there would be to the impending downpour.
Walking slowly along the street, Edge was briefly aware that he was being watched from all over the tent town. But then it was abruptly the leaden sky that attracted the attention of the miners. And more rain fell, to beat into their upturned faces.
Edge halted outside the tent in which Crystal Dickens was resting and looked back along the wet darkened street. To watch as the caboose was moved by means of the sidetrack from one end of the line of freight cars to the other. Then, with the depot manager hurrying from one set of switchgear to another, the locomotive changed ends again. Next, when the entire train was back on a single track, the locomotive, cars and caboose were rolled noisily together and the couplings were connected. A valve was opened to blast out a departure whistle and the train pulled away from the depot to begin its return shuttle to Colorado Junction.
The rain fell harder, pressing the steam and smoke from the locomotive to the ground, which shook beneath Edge’s feet as the train rattled past him, gathering speed with every yard. The slipstream tugged at his hat and he had to grip the brim to keep it from flying off. The caboose rolled by him and within moments was lost beyond the curtain of rain. A gust of wind whipped out of the north, carrying the stink of the locomotive, flapping tent canvas and threatening to snag the hat from Edge’s head again.
He turned, stooped and entered the tent, fastening the entrance flap behind him.
Crystal Dickens said: ‘I heard shooting, didn’t I?’
Edge took off his hat and ran a shirt sleeve over his wet face as he sat down on the rocker.
The woman lifted her head off the pillow to look at his expression and was suddenly filled with dread.
‘Yeah, lady, you heard shooting.’
She swallowed hard and tried to rid her sun-punished and ointment-smeared face of the look of fear. Failed and dropped her head back on the pillow. Then took the additional precaution of turning her face to the side of the tent.
‘Did you kill anyone I know?’ she asked huskily.
‘Their names were Max, Stu and Johnnie.’
She became rigid under the blankets as the spatter of raindrops on canvas was briefly masked by the whine of the wind.
‘Figure it was Stu who was for shooting you,’ he went on after the sound of the wind diminished.
The big one. Very fat.’
Edge made no response. He leaned forward to dry his hands on a blanket, then took out the makings and began to roll a cigarette. By the time it was finished and he had lit it, the woman had composed herself sufficiently to risk looking at him again.
‘They deserved to die, Edge,’ she said and there was hardly a quiver in her voice. ‘After what they did to me. If I had been there, I think I might have been able to kill them myself.’
‘When there’s killing to be done, best not to think about it, lady,’ Edge answered. ‘Just do it.’ He looked down at his wet shirt and pants. ‘Way things are right now, you get to live and I could catch my death of cold.’
Just for a moment she was ready to deny knowing what he was talking about. But then she became as impassive as he was and her voice was as lacking in emotion when she said: ‘They told you about stealing the money, Edge.’
‘They had your horse and a saddlebag full of bills, lady. Those two things added up to you being a liar.’
‘And you stood out in the rain thinking about whether or not to kill me for that?’
He said nothing.
I’m sorry,’ she murmured against the sounds of the windblown teeming rain. And left another pause which he did not fill. Then put more force into her words. ‘But think of my position. I had a lot of money that I thought belonged to you and I brought it right out into the wilderness to find you. And suddenly I didn’t have anything. Except you. And while I was out at that old man’s place I got to knowing you didn’t want me. It was just like I told you it was. I just lied about not taking the money. I’m not a thief by nature, Edge.’
She turned her head on the pillow to gaze at him again, displaying the intensity of her emotions on her scarred and greasy face. ‘I proved that when I brought the money from New York to Irving, didn’t I? But I figured I deserved something out of all that happened. So I took what I could find and I started for home. And all the way across the desert and into the hills I kept thinking of things to justify what I was doing. That crazy old man had done what he wanted with a lot of the money. His son wasn’t going to live. And his grandson was young and t
ough enough to get by. While I was looking for you, I saw a lot of women who were forced to do every kind of rotten thing to keep from starving out in country like this.’
She raised a hand and began to chew on the fleshy part of a forefinger: using this act to keep from crying.
Edge finished his cigarette and dropped it to the ground, where it hissed out in a pool of water which had run off his boots. I’m due for a finder’s fee from the Attinger kid, lady,’ he told her. ‘You should be well enough to travel when the train comes back to town. I’ll buy you a ticket.’
She looked at him again, watching him get to his feet, and was still close to fresh tears while her eyes revealed the struggle for understanding that was taking place in her mind.
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘I’m the reason you had to kill three men and—’
‘Four, lady.’
‘Four?’ she repeated and fear gripped her again.
‘Feller who happened to be drunk while I was mad with you. I needed to wake him up and he didn’t like the way I did it.’
‘Oh, my dear God,’ she rasped.
‘No sweat,’ Edge told her. ‘Dead people are no trouble. It’s the living that bother me. Some of them. I’ll check when the train’s scheduled to come back to Ventura.’
He stooped and went out into the rain, ignoring the woman who called his name.
The wind had died now, as if it had fought a vicious battle with the downpour and lost. So that the rain lanced directly down, creating, destroying and then creating again myriad pockmarks in the muddy surface of the street.
Edge was not alone as he trudged southwards, between the tents and toward the only frame buildings in Ventura. Miners, with chins on their chests and shoulders hunched, were heading in the same direction. The half-breed moved at a slow pace and as pairs and groups hurried past him, he caught brief snatches of sour voiced conversations.
‘. . . just like this time last year . . .’
‘. . . friggin’ weather . . .’
‘…wash us all out, Goddamnit…’
‘Bet that crazy old coot down south…’
‘…least he’ll be dry aboard that tub of his.’
The half-breed heard the disjointed exchanges and registered what was being said: but he gave the disgruntled miners’ talk no consideration. For his mind was concerned with Crystal Dickens - how she had been, the way she was now and what she would be in the future. And how much blame for the woman’s state of mind and physical condition rested upon him.
The more he thought about it, his responsibility loomed larger. And his mood darkened to match the afternoon-into-evening atmosphere which surrounded him.
Then he was outside the railroad depot and he stepped up on to the boarding and pushed open a door beside a lamplit window.
The bald headed and rotund Crane, minus his uniform jacket and cap, looked up startled from where he sat at a table. And sprayed fragments of bread and cheese when he blurted: ‘Please, mister, I don’t want no trouble! If I said anythin’ that riled you I’m sure sorry.’
Edge closed the door on the rain and sighed. ‘Need to know when the train is due back here, feller.’
‘Another week, mister,’ the depot manager said after gulping down the food left in his mouth. ‘Weekly service is all that’s necessary now most of the lode been worked out.’
‘Can I buy a ticket here for New York City?’
‘New York City?’
By frontier standards the room, which was part of the man’s living quarters, was comfortably furnished with several mismatched items. The table and chair, two easy chairs, a bookcase, a writing bureau, a fireplace on which some logs flamed, pieces of carpet on the floor, a scattering of ornaments and two brass based oil lamps. The man kept the place clean and he was warm and had been enjoying a simple but plentiful supper before the stranger intruded.
‘You must have heard of it, feller,’ Edge said, conscious of making this intrusion into the neat and tidy home of an innocent man. Aware of the fear his very presence aroused in Crane. Feeling an impulse to set the man’s mind at rest, but not knowing how. Then not caring.
Crane nodded. ‘Sure, sure I know about New York City. But I can’t issue you a ticket to get there. Just here to Colorado Junction, mister. Dollar and a half. Then you have to transfer to the Denver passenger train. Different railroad, so different tickets.’
‘Obliged,’ Edge said and made to turn. Speeded the move and dropped a hand to drape his Colt when the door burst open.
But it was only Vince Attinger who had hit the door hard at the end of a sprint across the street. Making fast time to try to keep from getting too wet. But soaked through to the skin anyway because of the fierceness of the deluge that was teeming down on this part of Utah.
The youngster closed the door and vented a whistle through his teeth as he shook his head to scatter water from his hair.
‘Couple of men said they saw you come in here,’ he explained, then took note of Crane and his surroundings. And was abruptly as disconcerted as the depot manager. ‘Gee, I’m sorry, sir,’ he told the railroadman, his hands toying nervously with the saddlebags he carried. ‘I figured this was a waitin’ room or something.’
‘We don’t need one of them on a freight line,’ Crane answered with a scowl, not so apprehensive now that the young, clean-cut and apologetic Attinger was present. Then he shrugged. ‘But if you gentlemen have private business to discuss, my office is two doors down to the left. You’re welcome to use it.’
Attinger delved a hand into one of the saddlebags and brought out a bulging paper sack. ‘Just want to give Mr. Edge this,’ he told the railroadman. Then, in a lower tone to the half-breed as the sack changed hands. ‘Ten per cent fair? That’s fourteen hundred.’
‘No complaint, kid.’
‘And I’ll take care of seein’ the dead get buried.’
‘Go along with that, too.’
Attinger nodded. Then began to fiddle with the saddlebags again.
‘Something else on your mind?’ the half-breed asked.
The youngster stared down at his muddy boots, then abruptly raised his head to meet the level gaze of Edge. ‘Those three men had the money. You reckon that means Gramps is dead?’
‘I don’t know if he’s dead or alive,’ Edge replied truthfully.
Attinger was not satisfied with this but the cold im-passiveness of the tall, lean half-breed offered no encouragement to pursue the point. And after a moment or so the boy showed a weary grin and raised the saddlebags a few inches. ‘I appreciate what you did to get this back, mister.’
Then he pulled open the door and went out into the downpour. And just before he closed it behind him, the single note sound of the hissing rain was interrupted by the shrill blast of a locomotive whistle. From some distance to the north.
Crane, who had been trying to conceal his interest in the talk behind a mask of irritation, was abruptly anxious.
‘Did I hear what I think I did, mister?’ he asked.
‘Sure wasn’t a coyote, feller.’
Crane left his supper and hurriedly donned his uniform jacket and cap which had been on one of the easy chairs. ‘Must mean they ran into some kind of trouble,’ he muttered as he brushed past Edge, jerked open the door and went out, leaving it open.
‘Know the feeling,’ the half-breed growled and moved to stand on the threshold as the whistle shrilled again.
For a full minute there was nothing to see or hear except the visibility restricting rain and the noise of its falling. Then the clatter of the approaching train sounded. Crane appeared from a doorway and moved to the side of the track, holding aloft and swinging a lamp. A pinprick of light showed in the north and grew larger as it came nearer. Men from the saloon emerged from the rain which acted like a curtain hung along the middle of the street. Questions were yelled to Crane and he ignored them as he moved the warning lamp more vigorously. Then the noise of the train covered all other sounds. The caboose with a lamp hung f
rom the roof of its platform rolled into shadowy sight. A bell rang and brakes squealed. Freight cars clanked together and a great gush of steam hissed from the locomotive. The train halted, jerked and then halted again. The hiss of escaping steam diminished and for long moments it sounded like the relieved sigh of a living thing.
Charlie the brakeman appeared on the platform of the caboose as men gathered around, demanding an explanation for the return of the train.
‘Bishop Cuttin’ is like a river, Mr. Crane!’ Charlie yelled. ‘Water rushin’ down the grade like none of us ever seen it before! Maybe we could’ve made it, but we decided against tryin’! No way of knowin’ what the water done to the track! That much water runnin’ that fast! It could’ve washed away the whole bed from one end of the cuttin’ to the other!’
That’s right, Mr. Crane!’ the young fireman confirmed as he and the engineer joined the group. ‘Best to wait until the storm’s over so we can check on what the water’s done to the track!’
‘You done the right thing to come back,’ the depot manager told the crew as he turned down the lamp wick to douse the light. ‘Come on inside and dry out. Get some hot coffee down you.’
Edge stepped off the threshold, out into the rain, as Crane led the train crew toward the doorway. Four looks which were a mixture of scorn and nervousness were directed at the taciturn half-breed, then the door was firmly closed.
The paper sack holding the money began to disintegrate under the assault of the teeming rain and Edge unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it inside as he started along the side of the stalled train. Then, with shoulders hunched and head down, he stepped off the boarding, across the track ahead of the now quietly hissing locomotive and started through the sucking mud of the street. Was halfway to the tent where he had left the woman when he halted and listened. Concentrated the gaze of his narrowed eyes toward the sounds which had captured his attention and in a few moments saw a horse and rider loom out of the curtain of rain.
EDGE: Vengeance at Ventura Page 8