“Uh?”
The eyes showed more pain, then a flare of anger. “You dumb cluck, what man’s gonna’ want a dance hall girl with no nose?”
The insult dug deep into Edge, but he made allowances for the woman’s condition. His face became pensive.
“I’ve shot a lot of people,” he said slowly, “but always with reason.”
“I’m giving you a reason,” she came back quickly. “There’s no gun in here or I’d try it myself. But I’m scared I might miss if you give me one. I want to be stone cold dead. One bullet. Finish.”
She closed her eyes and groaned as a more intense stab of pain caught her. When she opened them again Edge was no longer at the door of the stage. She heard his feet thunder on the ground as he jumped down. “Don’t leave me,” she called, showing her first sign of fear.
“That would be slow. You couldn’t live with that. Get it over. A quick bullet is all it will take.”
She heard him moving about outside, held her breath to pick up sounds of him remounting and riding off. It went quiet.
“Where you headed?” she heard him call.
“New job. Big money.”
“Where at?”
“South, near the border. Lots of rich bounty hunters. Town called Warlock.”
Silence again. Footfalls, the scrape of metal against leather. Silence.
CRACK.
The revolver shot was magnified within the close confines of the stage and still rang in Edge’s ears as he looked down coldly from the opposite side of the door from where he had been at first. The bullet had drilled a neat hole in the center of the woman’s forehead.
“It’s better when you don’t know it’s coming,” he said, jumped back down and walked across to push the revolver back into the dead raider’s holster.
He looked around, shading his eyes from the sun, searching for the pack horse, spotting it directly below a bunch of circling buzzards. He mounted and cantered over to it, transferred as many of the supplies as he could comfortably carry. Then he returned to the stage trail, to follow it to the town called Warlock.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE sign was newly painted, the fresh white lettering shining in the moonlight against the dark wooden plank supported by two poles at the side of the trail.
WELCOME TO PEACEVILLE
Population 314
Fastest growing town in the territory.
Edge was close to the American-Mexican border now, having circled two townships and a way station since he shot the woman heading for Warlock. Three days had passed and he was starting to feel the fatigue of the search, knew he would have to rest up before he despaired of ever finding that for which he was looking.
The name Peaceville had a restful ring to it: inappropriate to its position on the map, maybe. But it showed the citizens of the town had faith in the future. Edge made his decision and urged his horse forward, moving with no haste in front of the sign and into the town.
It was considerably bigger than Anson City, and didn’t roll up its sidewalks when the sun went down. It was built on two cross streets, intersecting at midway points and effectively dividing into an uptown and downtown sections. Entering from the north, Edge passed through Peaceville’s residential area of shacks and cabins and a few building large enough to be called houses. Some even had fenced off gardens, too parched to grown anything except cacti. There was a church, its lines suggesting it had begun life as a tiny mansion and been extended as the settlement grew around it. Across the street was a schoolhouse and this was also an odd mixture of Mexican influenced design with later, pioneer built additions.
The town was quiet here. Edge saw one couple strolling, taking in the night air. They glanced at the stranger with curiosity, but no suspicion. The man seemed on the point of greeting him, but turned away and hurried the woman along the street when he saw Edge’s bitter, weary expression. He saw other people, too, sitting in their homes by the lights of candles or kerosene lamps. One family was eating the evening meal, another grouped around a man who read from a large book, The Bible, Edge figured. In others women sewed as men dozed.
The town came alive on the other side of and on the western spur from the intersection. For here was the Rocky Mountain Saloon, and the Sanora Cantina; the New York Hotel and Harry’s Dry Goods Store; the Covered Wagon Dancehall and Frank’s Friendly Pool Hall; the Feed and Grain Livery Stable and Honey’s Restaurant. Here, too, was the office of the sheriff and that of Peaceville and Territory Star.
And people. A different breed of people from the other side of the intersection. Men mostly, of all ages, but a good amount of women, all young or doing their best to look that way. Edge could see them walking down the sidewalks or sitting and talking on chairs outside the places of entertainment. And inside there were more of them, all with something in common—seeming hell bent upon enjoying themselves. Pianos thumped out music, girls sang and danced, men drank whisky and beer and tequila. There was an air of festival about the place, added to by the streamers that draped most of the buildings, some stretching across the width of the street. But if it was a festival, Edge had arrived late to it, for the decorations were dirty and torn: had obviously been in place for a long time.
As on the other side of town, there was no suspicion directed towards Edge as he rode through. Precious little curiosity, either. Peaceville had apparently thrown open house, all welcome, no questions asked. Except for one man.
“Hey you?”
Edge had halted his horse in front of the wide sidewalk fronting the New York Hotel, was preparing to dismount. He turned in the direction from which the man had spoken, his voice cutting clear and resonant across the noise. He was on the other side of the street, sitting on the opposite sidewalk, in a large rocking chair, feet hoisted up on to a barrel. A lamp was hung above the doorway behind him and Edge could see him clearly: around sixty, lean faced with leathery skin; clear bright blue eyes that did not blink; drooping moustache the same gray peppered with black as his long hair. He wore a check-shirt, black pants, gun belt with two holsters tied down. He wore no hat. He did wear a tin star.
Edge sighed. “Me?”
“Yeah,”
Edge slid off his horse, took his time hitching her to the rail. Then he crossed the street, hands loosely at his sides, not inviting trouble but ready if it came. He stopped before he reached the sidewalk, so that his face was on a level with the sheriff’s despite the fact that the other man was sitting down.
“You’re new around here?” he asked.
Edge nodded. “First time.”
The sheriff sniffed: a wet sound. “Any money you make. I take ten per cent.”
“Yeah?” Edge said evenly, his gaze not flickering.
“The town can’t afford a sheriff,” the lawman told him. “But if it didn’t have one it would be a real wild place. We got some decent citizens here who wouldn’t like that.”
“So they got to content themselves with a crooked lawman,” Edge tossed out.
The sheriff had been insulted before had had learned to ride with it. The sniff again. “Takes a lot to rile me, son,” he returned. “I know I ain’t crooked and you calling me names don’t alter that. We get a lot of wanted men trying to sneak through this part of the country to get across the border. I could get a few of them, but not enough. So I let you bounty hunters operate from here.”
Being mistaken for a bounty hunter took no skin of Edge’s nose. “Bounty hunting ain’t against the law,” he said, flatly.
“But it ain’t nice, neither,” the sheriff answered with a sniff. “And Peaceville’s a nice town. You guys pay ten per cent for the privilege of dirtying it up some.”
“Don’t you have any trouble with that?”
“A mite, sometimes.” The lawman’s eyes seemed to turn to chips of ice. “From strangers. But I limit the numbers, see. Too many hunters going after too few fugitives ain’t good for business. Most of you guys get to see that sooner or later. Since the war ended I�
��ve shot three that didn’t take to the idea. You guys got five more. Get it?”
Edge shrugged. “Got it. Now can I go get a hotel room for the night?”
“Sure son,” the sheriff said and now he looked disappointed. “Just the one night? We got room for one more bounty hunter. You look like the kind of man who’d make a lot of money at the game.”
“Less ten per cent,” Edge pointed out.
The longest, wettest sniff yet. “Why son, in my office I got posters on wanted men offering close on fifteen thousand dollars. My cut’s chicken feed.”
Edge turned with a cold grin. “When the gravy runs out, chickenfeed can keep a man alive,” he said. “I’m in the wrong town anyway, Sheriff.”
“Ain’t a better one in the territory, “came the reply. “Where you headed?”
“Warlock,” Edge said, and began to walk away.
But he came up short as the sheriff started to chortle.
“What’s so funny about Warlock?” he demanded.
It took the man a few moments to control his laughter. “You ain’t got far to go, son,” he told Edge. “No siree. Not far. Only Warlock don’t exist anymore.”
Edge turned to face the sheriff, resting his hand on the butt of the Remington. He face was a mask of bitter determination. It was a pose and an expression that wiped every trace of good humor from the lawman’s features.
“You’re sitting and I’m standing,” Edge told him, his voice low but dangerous. “I’ve got the drop on you and I don’t like jokes about Warlock. Just what the hell do you mean, sheriff? Or do I plug you and go and find someone who ain’t a comedian.”
“Mite touchy, ain’t you son?” the Sheriff answered. “Can’t you see the streamers? Didn’t you see the newly painted sign outside town? We had to rename the weekly newspaper on account of the Civil War ending, like Citizen’s Committee voted to change things. Warlock don’t exist no more ‘cause we re-named it Peaceville.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EDGE didn’t ask the sheriff any more questions. One, because the man was not well disposed towards him after being on the receiving end of a threat; and two, because Edge did not want the lawman to know his reason for coming to town. The sheriff made the great part of his living from bounty hunters and thus would take exception to a stranger whose intention was to kill five such men.
Edge went back across the street with more weariness than he had shown when the sheriff had called him. He looked briefly, but with great care, into the face of every man he saw, but not one looked even vaguely like Frank Forrest, or his four partners in murder.
The hotel lobby was sparsely furnished and deserted except for a drunk who snored peacefully on a wooden bench and a hawkish looking man of middle years who leaned against the business side of the desk, leafing through a newspaper. He wore a white shirt against which gold ornaments glowed with the dull sheen of real metal–links, armbands, tie pin, belt buckle and watch-chain. His smile was much brighter in his insincere warmth as he looked at Edge, who carried his saddlebags, bedroll and repeater in through the doorway.
“Welcome sir,” the man said in a high falsetto. “The New York Hotel is the best resting place in town.” He reached beneath the counter top and pulled out a bulky register, slapped it down. “For how long will we have the pleasure of your company?”
“Long as it takes,” Edge said, dumping his gear on the floor.
The man was temporarily perturbed by the flatness of the response, the complete lack of emotion in Edge’s voice or expression
“Ah ... yes ...Yes, very well, sir. Name?”
“Edge.”
The hotel man seemed relieved. At least he had got one answer he wanted. He wrote in the register.
“Christian names? Given names?”
“Just Edge.”
“Just Edge?”
“Right.”
“Dollar and a half a night. No meals.”
Edge nodded.
“In advance.” Apologetic. Relieved again as the stranger reached into his saddlebags on the floor and brought out six dollars.”
“I’ll get some back if it don’t take that long.”
The man’s hand, heavily ringed with gold bands, closed over the bills with a greedy strength.
“Of course, sir. Back or front?”
“Front. I like to look at the street.”
“Number three, sir. Nice position. Right over the entrance on the second floor. Balcony outside to sit on when the sun isn’t too hot.”
“Sounds like a piece of heaven,” Edge said and the man snapped a glance at him, to see if he was expected to laugh. But Edge continued to show the face of a man who hated the world.
“And we can provide company for guests at a light extra charge, sir.” He leered knowingly, trying for a different reaction from the new guest. “Only a dollar. You pay the girl what she requires, of course. If you have a preference, we can offer Mexican girls from the cantina, or good clean American ladies from the saloon.”
The man suddenly gasped as he found himself yanked halfway across the counter as Edge’s hand shot out, his fist bunching around the stingy throat. The edge of the counter dug painfully into the front of his thighs and the hand at his throat was cutting off his air supply. But the pain took second place to terror as he stared on a level into the flaming slits of his attacker’s eyes, saw the lips draw back over teeth that were almost canine in their snarling threat.
“You saying Mexican girls ain’t good or clean or ladies?” Edge demanded.
The man tried to speak, but the grip on his throat held the words in him. He shook his head frantically as his face went bright red, took on the undertones of blue. Edge grunted and tossed him back as if the man was a long piece of cloth. He crashed into the wall behind the desk, retching dryly as he fought for breath.
“I don’t buy my women,” Edge said and now grinned with the merest hint of humor at the crinkled corners of his mouth. “And if I hear you make any more remarks about Mexicans—male or female—I’ll melt down all that fancy gold you’re wearing and pour it down your throat.”
“Yes sir,” the man said, fearfully, believing wholeheartedly that Edge meant what he said. He reached for the register to put it away; sprung back in fright at Edge slammed his hand down on the book.
“Who else is staying at the hotel?”
“Who ... who else?” His voice was trembling now.
Edge sighed, spun the register around and flipped it open, ran a finger down the list of names. There was none that he recognized. He crooked a finger at the cowering clerk, who stepped forward with great reluctance.
“Him,” Edge said, pointing to the name at the top of the column. “Harris. Describe him.”
The clerk did so, faltering at first, but regaining his composure as Edge indicated other names and demanded descriptions. There were ten men staying at the hotel, none of them sounded like Edge’s quarry. Edge revealed no reaction to this, picked up his gear and went up the stairs to his room. They key was in the lock. Inside was a double bed with freshly washed but still dirty sheets; a dressed with a cracked mirror, a hip tub and a bureau scarred with many knife initials and dates. From the window which he opened Edge could see directly across the street to where the sheriff continued his detached vigil, the darkened facade of the newspaper office and dry good store, and got an oblique view of the interior of the Rocky Mountain Saloon where a line of girls kicked naked legs along the counter top to the drunken delight of a crowded audience. The noise of the street was diminished as it rose, but would still not be conducive to peaceful sleep.
The balcony to which the clerk had referred was merely the plank roofing of the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Edge had to climb out of the window to get on to it and to lean over the unprotected side to get an upside down view of the street buildings on his side of the street. There was another floor of the hotel above and Edge discovered a loose shingle to the right of the window and over it. He went back into room three, too
k the money from his saddlebags and counted off ten dollars in ones which he put into his pants’ pocket. He was able to lean out of the window and reach up and put the rest behind the loose board and thumped it back into place with his clenched fist. He stashed the Henry under the bed, shut the window and left the room, locked the door behind him and pocketing the key.
Down in the lobby the drunk continued to enjoy his stentorious sleep. The clerk looked up from his study of the paper at the sound of his footfalls on the stairway, went hastily back to concentrated reading when he recognized Edge.
“Where’s the best place to eat?” Edge demanded.
The clerk swallowed hard. “Honey’s, Mr. Edge. Good food, friendly service. Cheaper in the saloon but the food’s hash and grease.”
“Obliged,” Edge said and went outside.
He saw the sheriff watching him with distrustful interest, but ignored him and set off slowly down the street towards the restaurant, again glancing into the face of each man he came across. The kid jumped him as he crossed the mouth of an alleyway between two buildings. He had been coming from the opposite direction, strolling casually, hands in his pockets, lips pursed into a soundless whistle: fresh faced and innocent looking, not worth a second glance in terms of what Edge was searching for. But as the kid came level with Edge, he transformed into a fast ball of action. His young features took on a cruel twist, his hands came out of his pockets and he went sideways with tremendous force.
Edge was in mid-stride, unprepared for the attack and as the boy crashed into him, stumbled into the inky mouth of the alley, unbalanced. And outstretched leg caught him on the shinbone and Edge went over, reaching for his gun only to find his hand trapped between his fallen body and the hard ground. His free hand snaked across to the small of his back but a pair of eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness saw the movement and a foot stamped the forearm, sending searing pain up to the shoulder and down to the fingertips.
Edge: The Loner (Edge series Book 1) Page 9