California Killing (Edge series Book 7)

by George G. Gilman

  Edge curled back his lips in a cruel grin. "Sure. But one thing first."

  "What's that?"

  "Put your head in it."

  A crackle of laughter came from the rear of the crowd, safely out of Mayer's view.

  The fire of rage flared in Mayer's eyes. "Make him move it, boys," he roared.

  Duke and Randy pasted malevolent grins upon their handsome fares and started to fan the Colts. The two guns blazed, belching fire and smoke and sending bullets splintering into the floorboards around Edge's mud encrusted boots.

  Edge stood like a carved statue, unmoving to the extent that he did not even blink in reaction to the thunder of gunfire and the sting of wood splinters penetrating his pants legs.

  "Dance, damn you!" Mayer screamed, the first two words almost drowned out by the din. But the final pronoun split the silence that announced the two gunmen had emptied their weapons.

  "They weren't playing my tune;" Edge hissed. He reached an arm behind him, curled his fingers around the shotgun barrel and slid the gun forward, grasping it in the hip firing position.

  A ripple of amazement spread through the watchers as the two gunmen stared down at their empty Colts. Edge made a tutting sound with his tongue against the back of his teeth.

  "Men can't count ought to tote two side irons," he said.

  Suddenly Edge was transformed. A new expression entered his eyes, setting fire to them. And his teeth gleamed like those of an animal as his thin lips folded back. "Mayer, come over here."

  The tall man hesitated only a moment, then moved forward, his pace as funereal as his features. He halted three feet in front of the threatening gun muzzles.

  "Hat."

  Mayer bent at the knees to stoop down and pick up the hat. He held it out.

  "On the head." He had to put out both arms at full stretch to place the hat on Edge's head, leaning over the length of the gun barrels. The silent tension in the saloon felt solid enough to cut.

  "Before, you didn't know me," Edge said softly.

  Mayer licked his lips. "We were funning. They didn't hurt you none."

  "Weren't them riled me," Edge told him. "You said you'd give your right arm to see me stomp my hat?"

  He jerked up the gun and squeezed both triggers simultaneously. Both loads of buckshot smashed into Mayer's left shoulder. The man emitted a terrified scream as he was flung backwards and watched his severed arm spin away from him, spraying glistening droplets of blood from the meaty wound: dark red with the shiny white of fresh-broken bone gleaming through it.

  "Another time," Edge muttered. "You still got it to give."

  "Jesus, he did it." The shout came from one of the dancing girls as she toppled off the stage in a faint.

  Edge let the shotgun fall to the floor and clawed the Walker-Colt from its holster. He aimed it at the doorway. "Get him out of here," he ordered.

  A strange, high-pitched whining sound was trickling from Mayer's slackly open mouth as he sprawled full length on the floor, watching his blood thicken as it mixed with the sawdust. Duke and Randy, their faces pale, stooped over the injured man, preparing to lift him.

  "All of him," Edge snapped.

  Randy turned to pick up the dismembered arm, holding it gingerly by the coat sleeve. Duke hoisted the moaning Mayer in his arms.

  Edge waited until the two gunmen had gone out through the batswings leaving two trails of blood to mark their passage. Then he turned to the bar. Alone in the crowded saloon, Cooper and Edge showed no visible reaction to what had happened.

  "You get the room," Cooper said.

  Edge, the fire in his eyes fading, studied the man. "You don't look like I scared you into it."

  "Nope."

  "Why?"

  "Mayer runs the Metro Hotel. Him and the Warner brothers are in competition."

  "This a better place than the Metro?"

  "Yep."

  "You got yourself a guest."

  Cooper reached under the bar and brought up a key: "Room five. At the front."

  Edge accepted the key, holstered his gun and looked along the bar, beckoning Wood towards him with a crooked finger. The photographer's entire body began to quake.

  "It was the truth, Mr. Edge," Wood said in a reedy voice. "We aren't friends."

  "After all we been through, Justin?" Edge posed softly. Then his voice and his expression hardened. "Come on up to the room. I wanna take a look at the picture you got."

  Wood blinked and wiped sweat from his jaw. "Picture?"

  "The one of Hood holding up the stage." Edge spat and scored again.

  "But I…"

  Edge reached him in two strides, caught hold of his necktie and jerked hard. The little man was rocketed forward arid his words were choked back into his throat. "Just do like you're told, Justin," Edge said frostily.

  He started across the saloon with long strides and Wood had to break into a run to keep from being throttled. The still shocked customers parted to allow them a corridor through to the foot of the stairway. They started up the steps and the pianist began to jangle the keys again. The bartender sloshed his bowl of dirty water across the patches of blood in the sawdust The dancers stomped out a few tentative steps.

  "Place/your bets, ladies and gents!" a croupier called.

  "I'll back the stranger anytime," a player said as he stared reflectively up at the balcony and saw a door close.

  Chapter Seven

  ROOM five was furnished with a single bed, a dresser with a tilted mirror and a ladder-back chair. There was a small crucifix on one wall and a framed painting of Jesus Christ parting the Red Sea on another. The cheerless Justin Wood sat huddled in the chair, still pained from the force with which Edge had slammed him into it, and trembled as he looked from one religious image to the other in search of solace.

  The lamp on the dresser was dark and a meager level of light filtered into the room through the unwashed lace curtain tacked over the window. Edge stood at the window, looking out over the Paramount's porch into the street. Across it he could see the law office, no longer the object of picketing; a vacant building with a faded sign showing it had once been a dress store; the Holly Playhouse advertising a production of Our American Cousin; a Chinese restaurant and a cantina. Beyond this was a commercial section of stores, business offices and a blacksmith's and livery before the signs of curtailed construction showed where the boom had burst.

  There were few people on the street and the only sound to teach the room was that of the piano and the buzz of conversation from the saloon below. Edge nodded his satisfaction and crossed to the bed. He examined the sheets and pillow, grimaced, and stretched out on top of the counterpane. He did not look at the frightened photographer.

  "Can you do that, Mr. Edge?" Wood asked when the silence had finally become too much for him to bear.

  "Do what, Justin?"

  "Shoot a man's arm off and get away with it?"

  "I can't see any posse riding this way," Edge answered softly. "Gives me a little hope. Encourages me to think I could slice a little runt of a picture-maker into bite-size pieces and salt 'em for winter eating."

  Wood swallowed hard. "Please, Mr. Edge," he pleaded." I'm not in any mood for humor. I'd like to leave."

  "You got nowhere to go," Edge pointed out, staring up at the smoke-patterned ceiling.

  "I have," the photographer answered quickly. "The empty building across the street next door to the theater. I bought it through the mail. It's going to be my gallery and studio. I can sleep over there."

  Edge sighed. "You're trying to start an argument again, Justin. You want me to cut out your tongue to prove I wasn't being humorous?"

  Wood's thin features became twisted and moisture welled up into his soft eyes. His voice was a whine. "Why, Mr. Edge? Why'd you want me to stay here?"

  Edge sniffed. "I like you, Justin." He tilted up his head suddenly to stare through the half-darkness into Wood's face. His lips curled back into a grin. "Don't get excited, though. I ain't quee
r for you. I just don't want to see no trigger-happy sidekick of Sam Hood blast the life out of you."

  Wood emitted a croak of fright and a renewed bout of trembling gripped him. "Hood! I didn't do anything to him. Why would Hood want to…”

  "Shut up, Justin," Edge told him softly. "Whole saloonful of people figure you got a picture of Hood holding up the stage. When he gets to hear about that picture, he's going to want you real bad."

  "But I haven't…"

  "Shut up, Justin."

  Wood heard the hint of impatience that had crept into Edge's tone, but his fear of the bald-headed gang leader was greater than the nervousness Edge aroused in him. "I use collodion wet plate," he whined. "It takes thirty minutes to set up for a shot and I have to fix it right away. In the light we had I wouldn't have been able to get anything, anyway." He stood up suddenly, his fear spilling over into rage as he glared hatefully down at the man who rested easily on the bed. "You had no right to say what you did. I'm going to tell…"

  His voice faltered and his muscles seemed to liquefy so that he dropped back hard on to the chair. Edge had been listening with mounting irritation to the high-pitched voice. Now he flashed a hand to the back of his neck and swung it wide as he threw his feet to the floor. As he came upright and reached Wood in two strides, the highly-polished blade of the cut-throat razor seemed to grow from the ends of his fingers. His features were a carved mask of cruelty as he towered over the cringing photographer. Each word he spat at the quaking man seemed to nail Wood farther back into the chair.

  "The tongue will be good, Justin. That way you won't tell anyone anything."

  Wood opened his mouth to plead, but all that emerged was a dry gasp. Edge's arm moved as a blur and when it stopped, Wood snapped his mouth wider. The cold steel of the blade rested lightly along the length of his tongue. The whites of his eyes gleamed as he stared up at Edge in naked terror.

  "Hey, Edge!" The shout from the street startled Wood and as his head jerked to the side, the razor bit. Not deep, but slicing through tissue so that when Edge withdrew the weapon, blood, coated the honed steel. More trickled from the corner of Wood's mouth. He moaned. Edge spun on his heels and drew the Walker-Colt with his free hand, covering the door.

  "He's out on the street," 'Wood whispered.

  "That's where the mouth is," Edge hissed. He raised his voice. "You better knock before you enter."

  Wood started again as knuckles rapped on the, door panel.

  "It's me. Elmer Dexter."

  "Open it and come in backwards," Edge instructed.

  "What the hell!" Dexter exploded angrily.

  "Do it!" Edge snapped, side-stepping to the window. He flattened himself against the wall and peered down into the street. A man was standing on the opposite sidewalk, in front of the Holly Playhouse. He was well dressed, bearded and looked about forty. Edge had never seen him before. He looked back at the door as it was pushed open. The tall figure of Dexter was silhouetted against the light from the saloon. The rancher saw the gun and the razor and turned around. His stiff leg caused him increased difficulty as he backed into the room.

  "Get his gun, Justin," Edge instructed. "Stay clear of the line of fire. Then close the door."

  Wood hurried to comply with the order. Edge slid the razor into his neck pouch. Wood held the gun as if it was hot and shot a helpless glance at Edge, who nodded towards the bed. Wood tossed the ornate Navy Colt into the depression made by Edge's body.

  "You got any more sidekicks rooting for you in the bleachers, Dexter?"

  The rancher continued to stare angrily at the closed door. "That's Rod Holly," he said stonily. "I heard what you did to Mayer. I knew you'd be nervous. I wanted to make sure you'd be awake - wouldn't start shooting when you heard somebody at the door."

  Edge told him to, turn around and when Dexter complied, the two tall men eyed each other levelly across the darkened room.

  "I look nervous?" Edge holstered his gun.

  "I've seen worse," Dexter allowed, not moving forward, looking at the pale-faced Wood, noting the trail of fast-drying blood on the man's chin.

  "Ignore him," Edge said. "Don't feel up to talking. Scared of making a cutting remark." Edge fingered the rear of his neck and Wood licked his lips. "You've done all right for yourself, Dexter. Came to town without a cent and already you've got a gun and a guy who does what you tell him."

  "You've got something working for you and I've got something going for me," Dexter answered, aware of Wood's fear of Edge and choosing to ignore it.

  Edge grinned at Wood. "That's where you miss out, Justin. You ain't got nothing."

  The photographer pumped his head up and down in anxious agreement. "You're right, Mr. Edge."

  "It's a habit I got." He looked back at Dexter. "I'd still like to know how you got so powerful."

  The rancher shrugged, "Everyone knows I'm here to do business with Mayer. Mayer's the big wheel in this town. So I've got a good credit rating."

  "Reckon he'll stand you a burial when he finds out you've been up here and has you blasted?" Edge asked evenly.

  Dexter relaxed to the extent of leaning his back against the door. "I got - rich and stayed - alive by picking the right men. I think you're the right man."

  "For what?"

  "I lost fifty thousand dollars on the way down here. I'm prepared to get only forty thousand back. Man who gets it for me can keep the difference."

  Edge concealed his interest. "I reckon you know I'm not going to let Hood and his boys keep my two and a half grand, Dexter," he said evenly.

  The rancher nodded. "When we were held-up, I took you for a coward. Now I know you're not. You're hard and you're smart. I picked up the story you put around - about Wood here taking a picture of Hood. You think Hood's got a man in The Town With No Name feeding him information."

  "And you know there's no picture," Edge 'said, glancing out of the window, noting that Holly had gone.

  "I know it, but Hood doesn't. But he did know there were rich pickings on the stage. 1 talked to the sheriff awhile back. He happens to think the same way. Everytime Hood hits, he scores. Either money or women. There has to be a contact man here. A man who knew I was bringing in fifty thousand to buy cattle from Mayer."

  Edge sighed. "Okay, Dexter. You've convinced me. You think I'm the sharpest thing to hit the West since Jim Bowie stopped using his knife to clean his fingernails. Make your pitch."

  "Sure you're sharp," Dexter agreed. "But don't try to be too sharp. While you're getting back what they took from you, you might just figure to make a profit on the deal. I'm willing to let you make it honestly. Ten thousand - reward money."

  "Obliged," Edge muttered, the single word heavy with sarcasm.

  Dexter refused to be angered, and continued in the same even tone as before. "But don't try to take the whole fifty thousand, Edge. If you do, I'll spend the rest of my life and every cent I've got if need be - to have you hunted down."

  The discordant music from below subdued by distance, was an incongruous accompaniment to the high tension within the room, which mounted with each word Dexter spoke. As the heavy seconds dragged by, Wood expected an instant blur of movement and the crack of a gunshot. But it was only Edge's lips that moved, and these, almost imperceptibly.

  "I gave Mayer one warning," he whispered. "You get the same, Dexter. Threaten me again and the rest of your life won't be worth your last cent."

  Dexter was momentarily shocked into muteness. He had been aware that the man standing across the room from him was the hardest and the meanest he had ever met. But as he listened to his words, each one seeming to be chipped from rock, and looked into the slits of the hooded eyes, so ice cold they appeared to freeze the very air in the room, Dexter sensed a previously unimagined power within the half-breed. It was as if death itself had pointed a warning finger.

  The rancher's tone had lost its authority as he asked: "Is it a deal? For ten thousand?"

  "Was that Judd's price tag?" Edge asked, a
nd Wood breathed an audible sigh of relief as he heard the lighter tone.

  Dexter dropped his gaze to the floor. "Judd had a wife and six children. Seven come next month. He needed his job and it was riding on the stage with the money."

  "Seven children," Wood whispered. "Oh, my. That poor man."

  "Shut up, Justin," Edge snapped and Wood clamped his lips tight. "I'll think about your proposition, Dexter. You’ll be around town?"

  "I've got a suite at the Metro," the rancher replied.

  Edge nodded. "Okay. Next time, don't call me. I'll call you. Now beat it."

  Dexter had regained his composure and pieced together his shattered dignity. He was angered by the tone of the dismissal, but after a glance at the stony expression of Edge, he decided against retaliation. "May I take my gun?"

  "Give him the iron, Justin," Edge instructed.

  Again the photographer handled the gun gingerly, as he picked it up from the bed and handed it to Dexter. The rancher slid it into his holster, spun clumsily on his stiff leg and let himself out of the room. Wood gazed longingly at the closing door. Edge ignored him as he picked up the chair and placed it against the wall, midway between the door and the window. He motioned with his head for Wood to sit down, and the photographer did so, clutching his valise tightly to his lap.

  "I'm gonna sleep before I eat, Justin," Edge told him, crossing to resume his position on the bed, taking off his hat and resting it across his face so that he spoke into its greasy crown. "You hear anybody trying to get in here, you yell like you were scared to death."

  Wood glanced anxiously from the door to the window and nodded. "I will be scared to death, Mr. Edge," he said.

  "I'm counting on it," Edge told him. Silence settled within the room, except for the quick, nervous breathing of Wood and the regular, relaxed sound of Edge seeking sleep. After several minutes had slipped by, some of the tenseness wept out of Wood and his thoughts were able to range beyond pity for himself. He sighed.