"No, Mr. Edge," Rodney Holly said, grinning through his beard. "You didn't drink too much last night. They're real." As the four miniature men climbed on to chairs and began a good-natured bantering of the Chinese boy, Dexter led Holly to Edge's table. "First rule for an actor. Never act with children. Steal every scene. Dwarfs are much easier to handle. I'm Rodney Holly. Elmer told me you're Edge."
Holly's beard was dark brown, but his flowing, shoulder-length hair was almost white. He was taller than he had looked from the hotel window last night and close up there was an impressiveness about him. Not of strength: rather of unaggressive arrogance. Edge didn't get up as he shook the man's proffered hand. Holly covered his resentment.
"Mind if we join you?"
"You can even pick up the tab if you like," Edge responded as he watched the actor and the rancher sit down.
The Chinese appeared and both men confined their orders to coffee.
"You need an advance on the reward money, Edge?" Dexter asked, slipping a hand under his jacket.
"Mayer money?"
Dexter shook his head. "Out of the bank. Mayer simply put up the collateral."
"Two big ones should do it." Dexter took out a shiny new billfold and slid two one hundred dollar bills from it. Edge stuffed the money carelessly into his shirt pocket.
"Mayer could pull the rug out from under if he hears you're still acting cozy with me the half-breed said, beginning to roll a cigarette.
"I heard what you did to his boys," Dexter said nonchalantly as the waiter brought the coffees. "He blames them for letting you get the drop. He wants Hood caught and hung, Edge. He'd like to fix the bastard himself because that would increase his stock in this town. But if somebody else does it, he'd still be happy."
Edge fired the cigarette and spoke through a cloud of grey smoke. "What makes him so anxious to get rid of the Hood gang?"
Holly smiled expansively. "Money, Mr. Edge. You probably saw the sign when you came in. This has the makings of a boom town. It ought to have a star-studded future. And Mayer's got a big investment in it. He owns the hotel, four stores down-the street, a ranch out in one of the canyons and he's holding the mortgages on a lot of other properties. He even owns ninety per cent of the Playhouse right now. To get a return on his investments he needs people to come into the area. Easiest way for people to get here is through the San Fernando Valley. But at the moment it's Hood's valley. And people can't cross it without paying the price."
"No free way across the valley, uh?" Edge muttered.
"You know it," Holly answered. "And it's ruining Mayer. He built this town - made it what it is. And he wants it called Mayertown. He thinks the citizens will vote for that if he can get rid of Hood."
Edge dropped his half-smoked cigarette into the dregs of his coffee and stood up.
"You need any help, Mr. Edge, I'm at your service," Holly said. "No people, no audiences. I'm as anxious as anybody to see Hood swing."
"From a greenwood tree?"
Holly showed his expansive smile again. "We did a play of the story. It bombed."
Edge nodded. "American audiences," he said softly. "They see bows and arrows, it's gotta mean Indians."
He moved to the door and, with a final glance at the dwarfs, stepped outside. His foot sank deep into a patch of mud and he looked up into the grinning face of the Chinese boy. The youngster held an empty pail in his hand.
"Pardon, sir. The little people tell me what you did to Mr. Mayer's men. And to Mr. Mayer. If you not famous now, I sure one day you will be."
Edge sighed. "Obliged for the confidence, China."
He moved off across the street, leaving a moist footprint with every stride, but the sun's heat dried it almost immediately. He noted, without changing his expression, that the window of his room was open. It had been closed when he left.
In the Paramount Saloon, the croupiers were waiting idly at their tables. But Cooper was kept busy at the bar. As Edge entered, he drew the nervous attention of every customer and when his destination became obvious, a wide space opened up for him at the bar. All conversation stopped. Cooper moved to stand in front of him across the bar top.
"I owe you," Edge said, taking one of the century notes from his pocket and holding it out Cooper took it and transferred it to his own pocket.· "Yep," he said, and used a cloth to wipe away the marker on the bar top.
"Plus for the beers and room."
"Change another big one?"
"Nope."
"Mark it?"
"Yep."
"Obliged." Edge started to turn away from the bar.
"Hey, smart ass!"
Edge completed the turn and fastened his eyes upon a stocky, fresh-faced youngster who had come halfway down the stairs and then halted. He was dressed in brand new Levis and shirt and a high-crowned hat, all black. Freshly polished high-heeled boots added two inches to his stature. He wore a gunbelt with two holsters, both tied down, snugly fitted with a matched pair of pearl-handled Manhattan Navy Models. His round face was set in stem lines and his pale blue eyes were steady as he looked down and across at Edge, ignoring everyone else who had turned to look at him.
"Don't kill him," Cooper warned softly, leaning over the bar to' place his mouth close to the half-breed's ear.
Edge kept his voice pitched on a conversational level, which was audible to all in the quietness of the saloon.
"Who's the kid?"
"I ain't a kid!" the gunfighter on the stairs yelled angrily. "And I figure to prove it."
"Ain't either," Cooper confirmed in a whisper. "Name's Murphy. Must be forty at least. Went to war and came back claiming he got more commendations than anyone else in the Union army. Nobody believes him - him looking like he's fresh out of knee-pants. He wants a rep."
Edge sighed, took out the makings of a cigarette he didn't want and began to roll a cylinder as he started towards the foot of the stairway.
"You been acting might tough since you got to town," Murphy said, watching Edge like a hungry bird of prey. "We got enough with Hood making trouble out in the valley. We don't figure to put up with no smart ass gunslingers shooting up the town."
Edge acted as if he could neither hear nor see the man on the stairs, taking a great deal longer than usual to roll the cigarette, ensuring that his hands stayed far from his gun.
"You gonna draw, mister?" Murphy hooked both thumbs over the front of his gunbelt.
Now, as Edge began to mount the steps, he inched them along so that his hands hovered over the gun butts.
"Leave it, Murph," a man in the saloon called. "Don't mess with him."
There was a twelve tread distance between Edge and Murphy and it was narrowing. Murphy held his position, beginning to sweat, as Edge looked at him at last and ran his tongue along the length of cigarette paper. He smoothed the cigarette into a perfect cylinder and hung it from the comer of his mouth. He pushed his hat on to the back of his head.
"Same army as you," Edge said easily. "Had to kill a few of them but they were yellow." He sighed. "Ain't a lot of difference between being yellow and being stupid."
Up close, Murphy still looked deceptively young. But he was not so composed any more, as he met Edge's slitted eyes and saw the animalistic expression of the folded back lips. The war hero oozed more sweat and the clearness of his eyes began to cloud. His lower lip trembled.
"Don't kill him, Edge," Cooper called flatly. "Folks like him."
Murphy snapped his head around angrily to glare down into the anxious faces below. "Shut your goddamn mouth!" he snarled.
Edge moved. He leapt out of his easy lazy stance, diving forward with incredible speed and pushing his hands under Murphy's arms. He lashed to the sides, sending the man's hands high in the air, away from the fancy guns. Then Edge dropped his head, forcing himself between the man's legs, instantly straightening. Murphy's cry was a high-pitched mixture of alarm and pain as he was lifted bodily, from the stairway and then pitched sideways, off Edge's shoulders and over th
e banister rail.
A dealer leapt back from his baize covered poker table as Murphy crashed on to it. It gave way under his weight, the legs splintering. Murphy's cry was curtailed and he lay still amid the wreckage of the table. He breathed raggedly through his slackly open mouth, his body bent double.
Edge looked down impassively into the startled face of the dealer. "He's folded," he announced. "Couldn't get the draw to back his bluff."
Then Edge turned and continued up the stairs, pushing his hat forward. Below, the dealer and a croupier went to the aid of the unconscious Murphy as the barflies returned to their drinking, generating a buzz of excited conversation.
A man stood in a doorway two down from room five: a slight figure with soft skin and nondescript features. He was dressed in Eastern garb, all black except for his white starched shirt. He eyed Edge with melancholy curiosity and after a moment's thought, the half-breed recognized him as the injured man who had been under the wagon.
"I'm John Stricklyn," he said. "I understand you helped bring me in yesterday - and my wife's body."
Edge nodded, his expression wooden as he examined the man's clothes for the tell-tale bulge of a concealed weapon. He was wary of Stricklyn's reaction to the manner of his wife's death.
"I needed your water and your wagon," he said. "I still need your gun."
A flicker of hurt showed in Stricklyn's bland grey eyes. "You're welcome. Magda's being buried today."
Edge suspected he was being invited to express sympathy, but he didn't even try to form the words. For he knew they would be meaningless and empty in their tone. For to Edge, death - particularly violent death - had become a constant accessory of his life: virtually a necessity if he were to survive. And because of this, it aroused no emotion within him. The long years of Civil War had shown him killing in all its vile forms* (* See Edge: Killers Breed, Edge; The Blue, The Grey And the Red * See Edge: The Loner) and the bloody end of his younger brother had drained him of the last vestiges of pity.
"Has to be done quick out here," he answered. "Due to the heat" He pushed open the door of his room and stepped inside. Then he kicked the door closed with his heel as he looked down the muzzle of a Winchester 66 aimed at him by the vigilante named Eddy.
"One of Hood's merry men?"
"I got a message for you, Edge." Outside on the balcony, John Stricklyn pressed his ear against the door panel of room five.
Chapter Ten
EDDY was about twenty-five with a slender frame which hinted at a compact toughness. He had a crooked mouth and sucked-in cheeks. His unruly mop of straw-colored hair moved slightly in the warm breeze which sighed in through the open window. He looked tense, but not nervous as he sat on the bed cradling the Winchester with easy readiness.
"You knew I was here?"
Edge leaned his back against the door and spoke around his unlit cigarette. "Windows are like eyes, feller. Man knows if his are open or shut. I'm listening."
"Sam wants to deal," Eddy said. "He don't reckon to get caught. But if he does, he don't want no incriminating picture showing up in court."
"I figured it that way. Where and when?"
"Out at the old R.K.O. Ranch," Eddy answered. "Eleven o'clock. One man'll bring your money. You bring the picture."
Edge nodded. "Tell Hood okay."
Eddy shook his head. "No need. Sam figured you'd go for it."
"How'd I know there'll only be just the one man?"
"Hood needs the picture real bad. He knows you're smart. He won't pull anything. "
Edge pondered the point as he rasped the back of his hand along his jawline.
"Anybody work the R.KO spread?"
Eddy got to his feet and shook his head. "No. Guy named Hughes made a lot of money outta it, then moved on. Nobody knows where he went. Ain't bin back."
"Okay, beat it," Edge ordered.
The aim of the Winchester held Edge hard against the door as Eddy backed around the bed and over to the window. As he swung his legs over the sill and stepped out on to the hotel porch, the rifle continued to hold a bead on Edge's chest. The half-breed showed his passive agreement to the departure by taking out a match and striking it on the doorframe. He fired the cigarette.
But as soon as Eddy had gone from sight, Edge slid into fluid motion, cocking his head to listen for the sounds of the man hauling himself up on to the flat roof of the Paramount. Then he reached the chair in two strides, listened again, and set it down just off center of the room. He stepped up on to it, drawing the Walker-Colt and pressing the muzzle against the ceiling. The boards creaked under Eddy's weight and Edge moved the revolver muzzle to the left. A heel scraped against wood and Edge squeezed the trigger. Eddy was moving on all fours to keep below the roofline. The .44 bullet smashed out through the wood at a deflected angle and ploughed into his throat. He died without making a sound as the shell burst open his jugular vein to undam a deluge of blood. A swarm of purple-bodied flies zoomed in to feed before the sun congealed their meal.
John Stricklyn moved quickly away from the door and headed along the balcony towards his own room. Edge replaced the chair in its accustomed position, holstered his gun and grimaced at the drips of blood bubbling through the bullet hole and splashing on to the floor. Then he went out of the room. There were more customers in the saloon now: more pairs of anxious eyes on him as he moved down the stairway and across to where Cooper stood behind the bar. He noted that the wrecked table had been replaced.
"Hole in my roof," he told the bartender. "Get it fixed, will you?"
"Yep," Cooper said, and Edge spun and headed for the batwings.
Across the street the four dwarfs were sitting on the sidewalk in front of the Playhouse. Two of them were smoking cigars, adding to the incongruity of their stature. Edge clucked his tongue against the back of his teeth and went down the alley between the hotel and the Goldwyn Drapery Store next door. Eddy's' roan mare was tethered to the foot of the stairway that canted up the rear of the hotel. She did not object when Edge ran a hand along her neck, and watched him passively as he took the steps two at a time, disappeared for a few moments and then came down with Eddy's Winchester resting across his shoulder. He unhitched the reins and mounted the horse, then checked both the load and the action of the rifle before sliding it into the boot. There was a full magazine and the gun pumped smoothly.
He urged the horse gently down the alley and out on to the street, pulling her to a halt outside the Playhouse. The dwarfs looked up at him expectantly.
"Any of you fellers know where I can find the R.K.O. spread?" he asked.
One of the little men; older than the others, jerked a thumb in the direction Edge was facing. "Take the trail north for a couple of miles, into the hills. Spur goes off to the west. Ranch is a mile further on."
"Obliged," Edge said, heeling his mount forward.
"Small thing," his informant answered.
"We got lots of those," another said.
All four exploded in raucous laughter.
Up in his room, Stricklyn allowed his window curtain to fall back into place and then hurried out. At the doorway of the hotel he held back to peer along the street, ensuring that Edge was not looking back. Then the mourning-clad figure emerged, and strode purposefully towards the stepped entrance of the Metro.
Edge did not demand a fast pace from his mount in the heat of mid-morning and the roan respected the gentle skill of her rider, responding willingly to each of his commands. Once on the spur, the ground began to rise up into the hills and the glare of the sun was relieved periodically by the shade of rock faces. In these areas of shadow, Edge urged greater speed.
The boundary of the R.K.O. property was marked by a rotting fence, leaning and broken in many places and Edge had to ride another mile through disused and dried up pastureland before he saw the ranch buildings nestling in a shallow valley.
Ever since the buildings of The Town With No Name had slipped from sight behind him, Edge had ridden in a attitude of dece
ptive ease. For although he appeared to maintain a posture of relaxation in the saddle, his eyes and ears were constantly alert for a sight or sound alien to the natural wasteland through which he rode: and the long-fingered, dirt-grimed hands which held the mare on a loose rein were ever-reading to claw out the Winchester.
But not until he caught sight of the ranch buildings - a house, three barns and a stable at the side of a corral - did he spring into action. As he reached a point where the trail swung into the low-sided valley, he jerked the roan to a sudden halt, kicked free of the stirrups and slid the rifle from the boot as he dropped to the ground.
The horse sensed the man's suspicion and protested this first ungentle treatment with a snort. Then she willingly allowed Edge to ground hobble her in a deep patch of shade beneath a rocky overhang. He moved cautiously back to the turn in the spur trail and went into a crouch to peer at the buildings, his hooded eyes taking in every detail.
It was obviously many years since they had been repainted or repaired and there hung over their decrepitness an aura of desolation. But the sound of a woman singing in a reedy voice gave the lie to this impression and as Edge watched, he saw her emerge from the doorway which no longer had a door fixed to it. She was an old woman with grey hair held in a bun, her thin body stooped at the shoulders. She moved in a shuffling gait, carrying a basket of washing towards where a length of rope stretched between two of the barns.
As she began to peg the tattered and un-white clothing to the rope; Edge shifted his attention back to the house, seeking a flicker of movement in the squares of blackness which were the glassless windows. But there was nothing to be seen inside the single-storey building. He was equally careful in his fruitless long-range examination of the barns with their caved-in roofs and leaning doors. The only sign of life was the old crone, who continued to intone her mournful song as she put out the wash.
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