Edge: Vengeance Valley (Edge series Book 17)

by George G. Gilman

  That’s him, Harv!’ the blond Harding said breathlessly, jerking a black gloved hand towards Edge.

  ‘An’ the snot-nose is sittin’ at Mr. Ryan’s special table!’ the dark-eyed Carver exclaimed, his tone incredulous. He switched his gaze towards the fat woman. ‘What the hell, Lizzie?’

  The big breasts trembled. ‘I told him,’ she excused. ‘Ain’t one customer in here can say I didn’t tell him.’ She swallowed hard and glanced briefly at Edge. ‘But he ain’t the kind of feller I want to get into a hassle with.’

  The short, wide Harv stepped between Harding and Carver and draped a hand over his holstered Remington. His eyes, their green the color of the scum on a stagnant pool, remained locked on the impassive gaze of the half-breed. ‘On your feet, drifter!’ he snapped. ‘And wait at another table.’

  Edge lowered his cup slowly on to the saucer. ‘You’re confused after the ride in the sun, feller,’ he said easily. ‘I’m the customer. Greta’s the one who waits at table.’

  Harv was a fast draw specialist. He yanked the Remington from the holster, cocked and leveled it in a continuous smooth action. ‘No one gets funny with the foreman of the Big R spread!’ he snarled.

  The Remington was aimed between several tables at Edge. The people at those tables were poised to dive for safety, but none of them moved. Harding, Carver and the other travel-stained man cupped the butts of their six-guns but did not draw.

  The half-breed nodded and dug a hand into his shirt pocket for the makings. ‘Seems to me it’s a serious business living in this part of the country.’

  ‘Move, or I plug you!’ Harv ordered. His voice was as brittle as spring ice.

  Edge sprinkled tobacco in a paper, spread it and then licked the paper and rolled the cigarette. ‘Make it a good shot, feller,’ he invited. He hung the cigarette at the corner of his mouth and reached over his shoulder to strike a match on the wall. Then he lit the cigarette and his eyes were suddenly staring with increased power through the cloud of blue smoke. His voice was no louder, but its tone matched the stare. ‘Ryan likes the best of everything.’

  For a stretched second, Harv went on the boil and might have squeezed the trigger of the Remington. The tension building behind the half-breed’s casual exterior might have been strong enough to spring him clear of the bullet. But then the might have beens were immaterial. Harv was not aware he had been bluffing until Edge called him. Then he realized his predicament, the naming of his boss driving home the point.

  Edge gave the man time to think of something, removing the cigarette and sipping at his coffee. ‘Harv…’

  ‘Shuddup, George!’ the foreman snapped, and abruptly holstered his gun - slower, but just as smooth as the draw had been. Then a sneer altered the lines of his face. ‘Okay, drifter! You called it right. Mr. Ryan wants to talk to you and a dead man won’t give him no answers.’

  ‘You oughta plugged him someplace that wouldn’t kill him, Harv,’ George said with disappointment.

  ‘Shuddup!’ Harv growled, and pointed to a vacant table just inside the door. ‘Lizzie, fetch four mugs of Java here.’

  He sat down first, and the others followed with reluctance. The fat woman yelled the coffee order over her shoulder. The barber scuttled out of the Rio Grande. Greta delivered the coffees and gradually the other customers summoned enough courage to rise from their tables and run the gauntlet of the scowling Ryan men to pass through the door. They all paid their checks to Lizzie, who eyed them with envy for the way they could escape the tense atmosphere of the restaurant.

  Edge finished his coffee and cigarette at the same time and approached the counter behind which the fat woman sat. The men at the table near the door stiffened when the half-breed picked up the leaning Winchester. They were only a little less rigid after he had canted it casually to his shoulder, ‘Be two dollars,’ Lizzie said, a little hoarsely. Tasted as good as it smelled, ma’am,’ Edge told her as he handed over the money. ‘If I’m ever through this town again, I’ll—’

  ‘You ain’t through Greenville the first time yet, drifter!’ Harv cut in coldly.

  Chair legs scraped and footfalls thudded as Edge slowly turned away from the counter. The Big R foreman remained on his chair. Harding, Carver and George had aligned themselves across the doorway. Hands hovered close to guns, but didn’t touch them. The expressions on the faces of the standing men were grimly intent. Only Harv looked a little anxious and it was obviously a mood he did not experience often.

  The half-breed sighed. ‘I have this thing about being on the wrong end of a gun, feller,’ he told Harv evenly. ‘Now you aimed your Remington at me without knowing about it. Every man ought to be allowed one mistake.’ He nodded towards the standing men. ‘Any of those fellers draw, be like you made two mistakes. On account of you’re the foreman and they’re just hands. So best they shoot to kill and let Ryan whistle for answers. Best for you, feller. Unless you’d rather be dead than mess up the chore Ryan gave you.’

  Anxiety became full-fledged fear for a moment, before Harv could tighten his mouth line and stop his lower lip trembling. Across the width of the sunlit restaurant, the foreman spotted the quality which the clerk at the hotel had seen at close quarters. But Harv had good reason to be afraid. He was not only facing a killer. He was in a situation where the possibility of sudden death was hovering in the hot air.

  ‘Look!’ he suddenly roared, electing to use blustering anger as a shield for his true feelings. ‘Why the hassle, drifter? Mr. Ryan wants to talk to you, is all. I happen to know what about. He’s got a job in mind for you. And he ain’t no skinflint when it comes to paying his hands.’ He moderated his tone and his discomfiture increased. ‘He’ll be comin’ into town later today. When he got word you was plannin’ to leave, he sent us in to keep you here.’ Harv shrugged and spread his hands, palms open and fingers splayed. ‘Me and the boys will be happy to spend the time anywhere. Here, in your hotel room…’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Or maybe in the barroom of the Lone Star. Hot day like it is, that’s a pretty good place to spend...’

  Edge moved away from the counter, weaving between the tables to reach the door. ‘What kind of job?’ he cut in.

  ‘Kind one of us could do!’ Carver growled. He made as if to spit, but stopped himself.

  ‘Shuddup!’ Harv commanded, and returned his attention to Edge. Easy money job, Edge. Couple of land surveyors are down here from San Francisco. Gonna make a map of the Big R spread. They need a guard and Mr. Ryan reckons you’re the man to ride along with the big city soft types.’

  The half-breed halted six feet in front of the trio of men barring his exit.

  ‘Course, I don’t know what Mr. Ryan plans to pay you!’ Harv hurried on. ‘But it won’t be no chicken feed, I can tell you that.’

  ‘Tell these fellers something,’ Edge invited.

  ‘What?’

  ‘To move out of my way.’

  ‘Snot-nose!’ Carver snarled.

  ‘High-handed bastard!’ Harding added.

  George shot an excited glance at the Big R foreman. ‘Say the word, Harv!’ he urged.

  ‘Okay!’ Harv yelled. ‘I … no!’

  Angry, then terrified. The trio in the doorway went for their six-guns between the speaking of the first word and the last. None of them was as fast as Harv had shown himself to be. The fat Lizzie had time to scream and fall backwards off her stool to gain the cover of the counter. And the half-breed was able to get his ticket out of the Rio Grande Restaurant He whirled in front of the drawing guns, the rifle still canted to his right shoulder. Then he folded forward fast from the waist, left hand streaking to the back of his neck. Coffee cups scattered from under his chest and belly and were smashed on the floor. Harv’s anger had gone and the terror had replaced it. The short and wide foreman tried to push back his chair and rise from the table. His chair hit the wall beside the doorway as the three men swung to bring their drawn guns on to target. Harv started to power upright, both hands hooked over the lip
of the table. Edge flicked his right wrist as his left hand streaked away from the back of his neck.

  The Winchester swung forward and its barrel suddenly formed a bar across the crook of Harv’s neck on his left side. The gleaming blade of the razor was a less weighty pressure against the other side of the man’s pumping throat. The two men were in an eyeball to eyeball confrontation, the hawkish nose of Edge and the snub nose of the foreman almost touching. The half-breed’s back, stretched across the disarrayed table, was totally exposed to the leveled Colts of the three men crowding the doorway. Harv!’ George yelled. ‘We can take him!’

  For perhaps two seconds the only sounds in the restaurant were the fast breathing of Lizzie in hiding and the drip of coffee from the corner of a tablecloth onto the floor. A trickle of saliva oozed from the mouth of Harv and coursed down his chin. His green eyes - suddenly wide - now looked as wet as stagnant pools.

  Edge’s voice was as cold as his ice-blue eyes. ‘No one to talk to and no foreman. Be a lousy day for a feller who likes the best of everything.’ His thin lips folded back to show the merest hint of a mirthless smile. ‘But that won’t be our problem, Harv.’

  ‘He’s already given us the word!’ Carver snarled, turning slightly to give himself an even clearer shot at Edge.

  ‘No!’ Harv croaked, his eyes screwing in their sockets, down and to the right. Vision confirmed what the twitching nerves at the side of his throat had told him. He was within a split-second of being slashed open from ear to ear. His words ran into each other, and more saliva was spilled. ‘I didn’t mean that, you trigger-happy lunkheads. I said okay for the drifter to leave. I was gonna say move outta his way.’

  There was another short interlude of near silence.

  ‘Gee, Harv, what now?’ George exclaimed.

  ‘Better pick your words real careful this time,’ Edge encouraged softly.

  The foreman, still frozen into his half standing, half seated posture, swallowed hard. The in and out movement of his flesh caused the razor to dig into the skin. A single droplet of blood squeezed from the cut and mingled with the sweat beads coursing down his neck and under his shirt collar.

  ‘You tell ’em what you want!’ Harv croaked.

  ‘Ain’t much with words,’ the half-breed replied. ‘Man of action, I guess. How about some from them.’

  ‘What?’ Harv said.

  ‘Toss their guns over to the far side of the room. Then they go down the street to the hotel livery and get my horse. Black and white stallion. Ought to look well-fed and groomed for the price I got charged.’

  The foreman managed to tear his gaze away from Edge’s level, unblinking stare. The dull green eyes swiveled to the far left of the sockets this time, to focus on the Big R hands, ‘Do like the drifter wants!’ he rasped.

  ‘But Harv…?’ George groaned. He swung his head to look imploringly at Harding and Carver. ‘We can take him before...’

  Anger almost surfaced through the expression of fear. It came across stronger in the foreman’s voice. ‘Do it, you crazy bastard! All of you. It ain’t a shave this guy’s fixin’ to give me!’

  ‘Just a close one at the moment,’ Edge put in softly.

  ‘Mr. Ryan won’t like seein’ Rhoda in black!’ Harv yelled, his voice pitching higher.

  The brief silence this time was total. The coffee which had been spilled was now dry. Fat Lizzie was holding her wheezy breath. Edge did not take his eyes away from the sweat-sheened face of Harv. The muscles in his left hand became tauter, preparing to drag the blade of the razor deep and long across the leathery skin of Harv’s throat. But there were no crashing shots and no feeling of lead tearing into the firm flesh of his back. Just an outward rush of air from the lungs of the three hands. Then the thumping of their six-guns as the weapons hit the floor in a far corner of the restaurant.

  The foreman’s breath was slower as it was expelled. Hot and foul smelling against the half-breed’s face. The green eyes swiveled to meet the blue ones again. ‘I’m Mr. Ryan’s brother-in-law,’ he said to explain the ‘lady in black’ comment that had clinched the back down.

  ‘And seems like the drifter’s king of the friggin’ law around here,’ Harding snarled.

  ‘My kingdom - and his life - for a horse,’ Edge answered.

  ‘Go get his damn nag!’ Harv ordered.

  Having surrendered, the trio of hands realized the futility of further delay. As they whirled and tramped out of the restaurant, Lizzie climbed back onto her stool.

  ‘Mr. Ryan ain’t gonna like this at all,’ the fat woman said.

  What the hell are you people lookin’ at?’ Carver yelled out on the street. ‘Get back to your friggin’ own business.’

  ‘Ease out the Remington slow, feller,’ Edge instructed. ‘Drop it on the floor, then stand up.’

  ‘What you gonna do?’ Harv asked, and his tongue darted out to keep more saliva from spilling. He had lost a lot of body water through his mouth and pores.

  ‘You first.’

  The foreman followed the order. When his gun had clunked to the floor, the pressure of the Winchester barrel was relieved. The half-breed straightened at the same rate as his prisoner. The honed blade of the razor never left its resting place against the congealed blood of the tiny cut. Not even when Edge put the Winchester on the table and moved around to tower head and shoulders above Harv.

  ‘This is crazy!’ the foreman said, his arms held rigidly at his sides as the backs of his knees pressed against his chair. ‘To talk about a job is all Mr. Ryan wanted.’

  Edge hooked a foot around the Remington and scaled the gun across the floor. ‘Should have asked polite, feller. And I’d have give you my answer polite. I don’t want a job.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have sat at Mr. Ryan’s table,’ Harv countered, some of his fear ebbing.

  ‘Wanted to see me,’ Edge answered. ‘Seemed like a good place to meet up around lunch time. Now I know what he wanted to see me about, I ain’t interested.’

  The foreman’s confidence was mounting by the moment. The blade was still against his flesh but there was no longer tension in the hot air of the restaurant. Then you better ride fast and long, drifter. For twenty miles in any direction from Greenville, it’s Big R land. Folks who don’t live on the spread or folks that don’t do what Mr. Ryan wants . . . well, they ain’t nothin’ but trespassers. And Mr. Ryan don’t take kindly to trespassers.’

  ‘Obliged for the warning, feller,’ the half-breed said as he heard the sound of a horse being led slowly along the street. ‘Kind of repays that one I gave you about guns being pointed at me.’

  There was no change in Edge’s impassive expression and no alteration in his level tones. But suddenly tension flooded back into the atmosphere. Harv was abruptly as rigid as a rock. Lizzie caught her breath.

  ‘The boys mistook my meaning!’ the foreman croaked, his voice bursting from his throat and blowing wide his compressed lips.

  ‘One mistake is all, feller,’ Edge replied. ‘I told you that.’

  His left hand moved in a blur of speed. Harv tried to move backwards. The chair blocked him and he sat down hard, a cry of alarm venting from his gaping mouth. Edge’s left hand, fisted around the razor, rose from the foreman’s neck to his temple. It went down to maintain its threat as Harv was forced to sit. Then it whipped down lower to deliver on the threat.

  The point of the razor sank into the thin covering of flesh beside the green eye until it hit bone. Then the slash across the cheek took the honed steel deeper into more meaty flesh with no solid support beneath it. The tip of the metal penetrated into the inside of the mouth for half an inch. Then the half-breed started the withdrawal, jerking the crimson stained blade clear just before it would have torn through the corner of Harv’s mouth.

  As Edge stepped back, scooping up the Winchester, the blood started to show. It was like a vividly colored curtain as it oozed from the slashed flesh and crept down over the lower half of the injured man’s cheek. He didn�
��t scream. The sound that emerged from his mouth as he slumped in the chair was a loud moan. The blood that bubbled over his lower lip was flecked with the white of saliva.

  ‘My God, mister!’ Lizzie gasped, gathering her weighty breasts in her arms and hugging herself as she stared in horror at the terrible wound. ‘What kind of a man are you to do somethin’ like that?’

  Edge halted in the doorway and eyed her without emotion as he put on his hat. ‘I can be any sort, ma’am, depending on how I’m treated.’ He wiped the razor on the already stained tablecloth and slid it back into the neck sheath.

  ‘But he was okay just now,’ Lizzie insisted. ‘Gave you a warnin’ he didn’t have to.’

  ‘So I treated him okay,’ the half-breed said with the trace of a smile. ‘Polite even. Didn’t cut him dead.’

  As Edge went out through the door into the sunlight, Harv started to moan again, as he raised a hand to his cheek and stared at the crimson wetness on his palm. But the sounds he made were soft, as if he lacked the strength to put power behind them.

  Out on the street, the black and white stallion was hitched to the rail immediately in front of the restaurant. Harding, Carver and George stood off to the side a little way. A little mad and a little embarrassed. They somehow looked partially undressed without guns in their holsters. There was nobody else on the street but, as Edge swung into the saddle, booted the Winchester, and leaned forward to untie the reins, he sensed many eyes keeping secret watch on him.

  ‘What happens now?’ George snarled while the other two merely stared with bitter hatred at the mounted half-breed.