The men from the Howling Coyote were not among the congregation paying last respects to the town’s blacksmith. But they had left the saloon and now they filed out of the Cattlemen’s Association building to gaze silently at Love, Edge and the limp corpse of Crowley slumped over the gelding.
Mostly there was sadness in the men’s eyes. Here and there anger. Some enmity. Dean Warford looked afraid.
‘Glad you men did what I told you and quit drinking,’ Love said as he held up a hand to signal Edge to halt. Then gripped the corpse under the armpits and hauled it clear of the saddle, carried it in both arms to the rear of the hearse and eased it inside with as much dignity as he was able to muster.
Edge started forward with the horse again, sensing the ill-feeling in some of the eyes that raked after him. Which was drawn away immediately when the rancher revealed,
‘I reached Hal in time to kill him before Edge could.’
There were some small sounds of shock against the background of mournfully singing voices. Then,
‘So that’s it, sir!’ one of the cowpunchers said flatly. ‘We’re pullin’ outta town.’
‘You’re what?’
There are already nine hard men here, sir. Itchin’ to hit back after five of their kind been killed. We held a meetin’. And we agreed we weren’t gonna risk our skins if Hal wasn’t with us. Hell, Mr. Love, he was the only one of us who’d ever been up against pro guns before!’
‘If you leave Irving, you don’t work for me anymore!’ Love warned grimly.
‘We took into account you’d feel that way, sir.’
Edge had come to a stop at the mouth of the alley between the hotel and the saloon, where the mounts of the Howling Coyote hands were still hitched. And was dividing his implacable attention between the exchange taking place out front of the building housing the Cattlemen’s Association and the line of silent men which had formed across White Creek Road where it met Lone Star Street. Youngish, hard-eyed men in somber-hued attire who carried sixguns in holsters tied down to their thighs. Some smoking, others faintly smiling, a couple licking their lips in eager anticipation, one chewing a wad of tobacco. Nine in all.
‘And Dean?’ Love asked.
‘The bastards are tossin’ me to the wolves!’ the youngster yelled in a half-snarl, half-moan.
And his voice sounded exceptionally loud in the stillness that enveloped the town as the hymn-singing came to an abrupt end.
‘So be it then,’ Love said wearily, and just, as had happened after he shot Crowley, the rancher looked very old. ‘You men ought to know that if you’d tried to take the boy with you, it would have been over my dead body.’ he nodded along the street. ‘Not on account of those fast-guns Estelle Donnelly hired.’ Now he looked toward the chapel, where the door had opened and the mourners were emerging. ‘For them. Who wouldn’t be burying another of their own if the boy hadn’t lost his head.’
The preacher was first out of the chapel. Then Wilde, Huber, Sam Pepper and a fourth pallbearer with the casket on their shoulders. Next a black-veiled widow supported by two other women. Then a double line of men, women and children. All of whom ignored the scene on the street until Stan Barlow broke from the group to go to his hearse for something. And saw the corpse of Crowley sprawled inside. And yelled,
‘Dear God, another dead man!’
Then other voices were raised and the majority of the mourners broke from the solemn procession which had turned to go along the side of the chapel to reach the cemetery out back. This as the Howling Coyote hands with the exception of Warford moved to their horses, unhitched them and mounted, the hired gunmen sauntered out of sight along Lone Star Street, Edge led the gelding down the alley toward the stable and the westbound stage rolled into distant view.
By the time the half-breed had tended to his horse the hoofbeats of the cowpunchers’ mounts had faded from earshot and all voices save one were silent. It was Joseph Love who was speaking, explaining in grim tones how it had been necessary to kill Crowley so that Warford could be fairly tried without threat of further bloodshed.
There was coffee in a pot on the stove in the kitchen and Edge poured himself a cup and carried it through into the saloon. Where Crystal Dickens and Mrs. Mortimer sat at a table, the younger woman drinking coffee and the older one with her usual Bourbon and water on the side.
‘You started early today, ma’am,’ Edge said, remaining behind the bar counter.
‘Be in court at midday, son,’ she answered. ‘Reckon the judge won’t allow any hard liquor in there.’
Crystal expressed her irritation with the exchange and rose to go to the batwings so that she could better hear what Love was telling the townspeople. And reached the saloon doorway just as the two El Paso meat-canners and their wives hurried by.
‘Running scared they are,’ the old lady said scornfully. ‘No sense of adventure. Aim to be aboard the stage and long gone before anything happens around here.’
‘Maybe you should do the same thing, ma’am,’ Edge answered.
She took a swallow of her drink. ‘Nonsense, young man. I am an innocent bystander. Denied excitement all my life. And I am not involved in the trouble here.’
‘When bullets start to fly, they don’t have any minds of their own,’ the half-breed drawled. ‘And if you take a stray one in the belly you won’t get very excited about it.’
The stage rattled over the bridge and rolled along White Creek Road, made the turn onto Lone Star Street. And there was no more talk from Joseph Love. He had said what he had to say and the crowd which had listened to him began to disperse.
The blonde in the sexually alluring pants and shirt turned from the batwings, a smile on her lips. ‘It seems as though Mrs. Mortimer and all of us are safe. There will be no trouble in Irving. And there need never have been any had Mr. Love made his intentions clear from the start.’
‘Reckon I’ll stay anyway,’ the old lady said, and finished her drink. Got to her feet and added, I’ll see you young folks in court.’
She swept out of the saloon.
‘I didn’t get a chance to go down to the land office,’ Crystal said as she picked up the dirty glasses and coffee cup along with the usual dollar Mrs. Mortimer had left on the table. ‘Money or not, the papers are still in your name so you’re still the owner.’
‘Bad investment,’ Edge responded with a pointed glance around the customerless saloon.
‘Joseph Love ordered his men to stop drinking. And those men from San Antonio didn’t set foot in the place.’
‘Only fools and cowards drink when they know they’ve got a gunfight on their hands.’
‘So maybe business will pick up now.’
Edge was rolling a cigarette and he said nothing.
Crystal set the dirty things down on the bartop. Hard and angrily. ‘At risk of inflating your opinion of yourself still more, I want you to know I was worried about you.’
‘Obliged.’
‘When Mr. Love came in here and we realized you’d gone!’ she snapped. ‘And he said he thought he knew where and went out of town, too. Then I saw two men bringing in a dead one, I thought…’
The batwings flapped under the assault of a light gust of wind. And a flurry of dust blew in under them. The same draught of warm air extinguished the match with which Edge had lit the cigarette.
On a stream of smoke he said, ‘So let’s close the place and do some screwing, lady.’
‘What?’
‘Your worry doesn’t do anything for me. Your body can.’
Stan Barlow drove his hearse past the saloon and the flatbed followed, Jake Huber holding the team’s reins.
‘How can any man get as hard as you?’ the woman flung at him.
‘Guess it must be physical attraction,’ he answered.
‘I’ve got to be out of my mind she said huskily as she pushed away from the bar counter. To give the slightest damn about a man who thinks of me as nothing more than something to empty his lust into.’<
br />
She whirled and strode to the doorway, where she turned to hurl at him, ‘Let me tell you something, Mr. High and Mighty Edge! The only way you’ll ever have me again is by force!’
The doors flapped behind her and before they could come to rest were buffeted again by another gust of north wind.
‘What can I do for you, Moses?’ Edge asked, sensing a presence behind him and glancing over his shoulder.
Three dollars, mister,’ the Negro said, reaching out to place the bills on the bartop. ‘Mr. Barlow, he paid me in advance for the two more graves I have to dig. Ain’t so certain now that there’ll be any more of that kinda work for me.’
‘Obliged.’ He put the money in a hip pocket.
‘You don’t mind me sayin’ so, mister,’ Moses growled. ‘You didn’t oughta be so mean to that lady. I just couldn’t help hearin’ what was said between you. Same as I been hearin’ other talk this mornin’. On account of most white folks treat a black man like me like I wasn’t around.’
‘I know you’re here and I’m listening feller,’ Edge told him.
‘Well, mister, I’m here to warn you. From what I’ve heard, you and the lady are the only friends each of you got around here. On account of the both of you are being blamed for all the bad things that’s been happenin’ lately. The killin’s and them gunmen comin’ to town and Mr. Love firin’ all his hands and like that.’
The half-breed pursed his lips and vented a low sigh as he dropped the partially smoked cigarette into the cooled dregs of his coffee. ‘Yeah, Moses,’ he said evenly. ‘It sure does look like it won’t only be the Warford kid who’ll have a trying time today.’
‘Well, you take care, mister. I can’t pay you another four bits if the grave I’m diggin’ to earn it is yours.’
He went back through the doorway, into the kitchen and out of the rear door of the building. Just as a crowd of people came around the corner onto White Creek Road and hurried past the newly polished windows and wind-flapping batwings.
Edge saw the sheriff and Sam Pepper flanking a sour-faced old man with a small white pointed beard. Joseph Love, still looking ten years older than he was, alongside the frightened Dean Warford. The obese Estelle Donnelly who had the veil down over her face again. Huber, Barlow, the ink-stained clerk who the half-breed had roughed up the day before and a group of other men who he recognized by sight from passing them on Lone Star Street.
Then Crystal Dickens stepped up onto the saloon stoop, anxiety having displaced the anger on her face.
‘Come on,’ she said dully. ‘It’s time to go to court.’
‘Sure, lady,’ he drawled as he came out from behind the bar. ‘That I can do. I just don’t seem to be able to pay it.’
Chapter Twelve
THERE was a musty smell in the Irving courthouse which bore out what Joseph Love had said about the place being underused. And there were not enough sweating people in there for their body smells to mask the staleness of the atmosphere.
It was purpose-built, the actual courtroom divided into two areas by a wooden railing which stretched from one wall to another three-quarters of the way down its length. The larger section was for those who came to see justice being done and was furnished with twin rows of benches with an aisle down the centre.
The elderly Mrs. Mortimer sat alone on the front bench to the right. While on the bench across the aisle were Estelle Donnelly, Crystal Dickens and Edge, directed there by the grim-faced Wilde. The rest of the public section was empty: seemed somehow ominously so in the sunlight which shafted into the courtroom through the three large south-facing windows, its glare reduced by wind-raised dust.
There was a gate in the railing between the benches and beyond this was the area where justice was supposed to be done.
Against the rear wall was the impressive justice bench with a high-backed chair behind it, under two flags pinned to the wall, one the American Stars and Stripes and one showing the Lone Star of the state. The white-bearded judge from San Antonio sat here, watching impatiently as the jury of townspeople and farmers took their places on chairs behind another railing which angled across the corner to his left. Love and Warford sat behind a table which was set parallel to the side-wall on the right of the judge. And Sheriff Wilde stood beside a chair between the judge and jurymen which served as the witness stand.
On the highly polished desk before the judge was a Bible and a gavel: and when the jury had settled themselves, the bearded man used the latter to rap the desk top in a formal call for a silence that was already solid. And nodded to Wilde, who cleared his throat before announcing,
‘All right Court of the town of Irving Texas is now in session Judge Warren J. Purvis presidin’ over trial of Dean Warford accused of willfully murderin’ Rusty Donnelly in the Red Dog Saloon Irving Texas two nights ago how do you plead boy?’
The sheriff had to suck in a deep breath after blurting out so many words without pause.
‘Tell the court, Dean,’ Love cued.
Warford swallowed hard. I had to shoot Rusty to keep him from blowin’ off my head with his shotgun, Mr. Wilde.’
‘Talk to the judge and call him your honor,’ the lawman snapped. ‘He pleads not guilty, your honor.’
Estelle Donnelly made small grunting sounds behind her veil.
‘Judge Purvis,’ Love said as he got to his feet. “The boy’s asked me to defend him.’
‘You’re no lawyer, Mr. Love,’ Purvis pointed out in a voice that was surprisingly strong and deep for such a small-of-stature man who was close to seventy.
‘I know that. But I know what’s fair and what isn’t and I want to ask for a delay.’
‘You mean an adjournment, Joe,’ Wilde corrected.
‘On what grounds?’ Purvis demanded, showing signs of impatience again.
‘That Mrs. Donnelly’s here along with two other witnesses who are going to say Dean murdered Rusty. But the three men who were going to speak up for Dean have left town.’
‘Motion denied!’ Purvis snapped. ‘It’s the responsibility of the respective counsels to ensure the attendance of their witnesses.’
The fat woman sighed behind her veil this time as Love and Wilde exchanged grim looks and the jurymen’s anxiety deepened.
‘They cooked that up between them,’ Crystal Dickens whispered, leaning close so that her lips were just a fraction of an inch from the half-breed’s ear.
‘This whole thing seems to be a set-up,’ he growled.
‘I’d like to ask for an adjournment on different grounds, your honor,’ Wilde said.
‘State them,’ Purvis demanded.
‘That the circumstances ain’t right for a fair trial. There are gunmen in this town. Hired to come here and influence the way in which the jury—’
‘Motion denied!’ Purvis cut in.
‘Those fellers sure are going through the motions,’ Edge muttered.
Purvis glared at him and banged his gavel. ‘Silence in court!’ he shifted his gaze to Wilde, then treated Love to a look of equal severity. ‘I was asked by this town to come here to conduct a murder trial. And I came and that’s what I intend to do. Even though the only other time I was here it was a charade and I was forced to sit in judgment over a grave miscarriage of justice.
‘As the representative of law and order in this town, Sheriff Wilde, it is your duty to ensure that no duress is brought to bear on the people involved in the trial. I have already informed you, Mr. Love, that you are at fault in not having the defense witnesses present. Now you either hold this trial here and now within the laid-down law of the state of Texas or I will put this court into permanent recess. And put in a report to Austin that the town of Irving has placed itself outside the jurisdiction of the state’s legal system.’
He banged the gavel again. And glared briefly at every person in the courtroom, including Mrs. Mortimer. Then, ‘Right, Sheriff. The jury has been elected in the usual manner?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Wilde answered dully. ‘T
he names were drawn by lot.’
‘You have any objections to any of the jurymen, Mr. Love? And I warn you I will not entertain objections which smack merely of delaying tactics.’
They’re fine,’ Love growled.
Warford clenched his right hand into a fist and chewed on the fleshy part of his forefinger.
Outside, the norther gusted harder, rattling windows and doors, billowing more dust higher to subdue the sunlight with the effectiveness of encroaching storm clouds.
‘Call your first witness, Sheriff,’ Purvis snapped.
‘Take the stand, Mr. Edge,’ Wilde said grimly.
The half-breed rose from the bench and received an encouraging smile from the old lady as he pushed through the gate in the railing. Crystal Dickens watched him anxiously, the judge eyed him with distaste, and, with the exception of Mrs. Donnelly whose face was hidden by the veil, he saw animosity in every other pair of eyes that followed him to the chair.
‘Stay standin’, take the book in your right hand and repeat the oath after me,’ Wilde growled, thrusting the Bible at Edge.
Then, as the half-breed accepted the book, the double entrance doors of the court burst open and banged violently against the inner walls. Wind-borne dust billowed in and masked the vista of river, bridge, trail and rolling hill-country that would otherwise have been spread beyond the threshold.
A shot exploded.
Edge snarled, ‘Know one of my own, feller. Sonofabitch!’
Chapter Thirteen
BLOOD splashed across Crystal Dickens’ left cheek and she screamed. But the sound was of anguish rather than agony. For it was the woman seated next to her who had been hit, the blood spraying out through the fine mesh of her mourning veil. From a wound made by the bullet that entered her neck below the right ear, its impact sending her obese body sprawling to the left.
Eyes which had raked from the abruptly opened doors to the two women now swung back again. And recognized the lanky form and sandy hair of Joel Pepper as the boy with the Winchester still at his shoulder shrieked,
EDGE: Town On Trial Page 11