"Amo, I think—" Nino began to snarl.
"Put the gun away and join the feast, muchacho" Satanas invited amicably, and waved his cigar toward the dead man. "You have done well and now you are one of us. You see, I have made a place for you at our table."
Nino's thin, acne-scarred face lit with delight as he hurried to the far side of the table and started to haul Ricardo off the chair.
"A favor, gringo," Satanas said to Edge as the half-breed made to turn away. "In the town of Indian Hill there is a doctor. His name is Laurie."
"If you say so, feller."
Satanas massaged his forehead. And snarled, "I say so. You will bring me something from him for el dolor de cabeza. For the headache, uh?"
"I'll see what I can do feller."
"Amo, what am I to do with Ricardo?" Nino called as he dragged the corpse away from the table and cast a new gloom over the celebration feast just as the sounds of merry-making were beginning to be raised again.
"Bury him, estupido!" Satanas snapped. Then sighed and tapped his forehead as he muttered to Edge, "I have to think of everything for everybody. It is no wonder I always have the pain here, uh gringo?"
Since the half-breed was aware of the Mexican's excellent knowledge of English and had witnessed his abrupt changes from amiability to vicious brutality, he started away from the man and merely murmured, "Yeah, feller. I notice you're real sick in the head."
CHAPTER FOUR
EDGE had sweated a great deal while he was at the camp of Satanas, and, as he moved out of the range of the blazing fire, the cold night air of the Sierra Madres chilled the salty moisture on his flesh. Tension continued to ooze sweat beads from his pores while he was walking slowly across the canyon floor and then as he climbed the narrow pathway to the rim. For, although he could hear the bandit chief contributing as much as anyone to the swelling noise of the feast, he was aware of the possibility that the cunning and sometimes mercurial Satanas might suddenly have a whim to shoot him down, or perhaps kill him as the climax to a twisted plan that had been hatched at the outset.
But the half-breed reached the safety of the high ground without incident while the eating and drinking continued. And when he looked back down into the canyon, the scene in front of the adobe building was much as it had appeared when he watched from the mesquite clump. Off to one side, the skinny Nino was working hard and fast to dig a grave for Ricardo. And there was an empty chair to the right of Satanas for Grace Worthington was still unconscious. Apart from this, it was as if time had stood still and Edge had never been seen and captured by the boy.
Not in his mind though, for the capture and his helplessness during the following stretched minutes stayed fresh and stark in Edge's mind as he returned to his horse and started the long ride back across the border. And even when time and distance dulled the remembered images, his self-anger remained as cold and solid as ever in the pit of his stomach.
He had allowed his guard to slip and a mere kid had got the drop on him, in circumstances where his life or death depended upon a man who acted on impulse. And for what? Because of an impulse of his own—to capitalize on some trouble that was not his own or even of his own making.
But he was out of it now. Had been given a chance which he did not deserve. A chance to ride away from the self-styled Devil and his bunch of killers. And whatever conscience he had left would not be troubled by thoughts of the conniving Grace Worthington and the fate he left her to face up to.
His pride would not allow such a course of action, though. Only once before had he set out to do something and been forced to admit defeat—to surrender to his destiny. In everything else he had to do, he succeeded. Not always totally, but never did he fail entirely.
So, as he rode slowly along the floor of La Hondonada and clear of the northern end he heeled the gelding to a faster pace, determined to ease the self-anger that felt like an icy ball in his belly. His mind resolutely set upon being paid for the trouble he had taken—in money and in something less tangible than hard cash.
"Get up there, feller," he rasped to the horse as he demanded a gallop. "I figure I have to beat the Devil."
Bright moonlight showed him the way ahead, back to the meeting of the trails where old bloodstains on the dusty ground showed the places where two men had died. Then he made a turn, to ride along the west trail in the direction Benteen had pointed out as the way to the town of Indian Hill.
It was not much of a town. Similar to countless other settlements which Edge had passed through all over the southwestern territories. A main street perhaps a half-mile in length with two shorter side streets twisting off to the north for a few hundred feet before they became open trails flanked by small farmsteads.
A marker proclaimed the name of the town and claimed it had five hundred citizens. Maybe the figure had once been correct but as Edge slowed his horse to ride between the darkened facades of timber, adobe and brick buildings, he saw that many of them were empty and in various stages of dereliction. Houses and business premises both, abandoned to the ravages of the elements. Paint was peeled and blistered, timbers were warped, masonry was crumbled and windows were smashed. While, here and there, fires had raged and just the blackened shells of roofless walls remained.
In the places that were still occupied, and kept in a reasonable state of repair, the remaining citizenry of Indian Hill were asleep in back of darkened windows and locked doors, making the most of what was left of the night before a new day dawned. And Edge did not wake anyone as he halted his gelding in front of the Arizona Star Saloon, slid from the saddle, hitched the reins to the rail and sat down on the stoop step.
He rolled and lit a cigarette, then smoked it without taking it from his lips, hat pulled low over his forehead, shoulders hunched under his coat and hands thrust into the pockets. Feeling his flesh become as cold as the anger inside him. Then, after the cigarette was smoked, he occasionally took his hands from his pockets to cup them around his mouth and blow into the palms. He sat for over an hour like this, back resting against a stoop upright, before the light of the false dawn streaked the eastern sky and somewhere out to the north some cocks began to crow.
It was a bad way to spend the time, but it was a match for the mood of the half-breed. And it served a purpose for, when he saw the first person he had come across since leaving the camp of the Mexican bandits, he was able to greet him with an even-toned, "Morning to you."
"It's mornin' sure enough, mister," the man answered dully. "But you did right not to say it was good. Not this mornin' ain't."
"It could've been worse," Edge countered, getting to his feet and flexing his stiffened limbs.
"Matter of opinion," the thin, stoop-shouldered, sixty-or-so-years-old man growled as he drew level with Edge and halted, peered short-sightedly at the half-breed. "Ain't lookin' to earn a few bucks, are you?"
"No, feller. A lot of them."
The man, who was dressed in dungarees and an old army forage cap shook his head. "Grave diggin' don't pay high. I got two to get ready by ten."
"Need to get to the Worthington spread. Which way is that?"
The grave-digger pursed his lips and vented a low whistle. "Bad place to go today, mister. It's on account of that Grace Worthington I got the graves to dig. Stage from Tucson got held up and some Mexicans too—"
"You got work to do and I have an appointment to make, feller." Edge cut in as he unhitched the gelding's reins from the rail. "I just asked the one question."
The grave-digger sucked some saliva up from his throat and sent it in a stream to the hard-packed dirt of the street. "Reckon you'll fit in well out at the Bar-W, mister. Never have heard a friendly word from anyone who works that spread."
Edge swung up into the saddle and gazed coldly down at the man, who scowled as he supplied,
"Head out on the west trail. You'll come to a stand of timber and a creek. Spur goes off to the right to take you around the hill. You'll know when you're on Ka
ne Worthington property."
The half-breed touched the brim of his hat and said, "Obliged."
"You're welcome, mister. Which you won't be at the Bar-W."
"You sound like you've been eating grapes before they got ripe, feller."
"Maybe I done that, mister," the man growled as he turned to continue toward the church and its small, walled graveyard at the eastern end of the street. "But I ain't ever had to lower myself to eat crow on account of Worthington money."
"Better the bellyache than the indigestion, I guess," Edge agreed softly as he heeled the gelding in the opposite direction.
The grayness of dawn had driven the blackness of night from the sky now and in its somber light the town of Indian Hill presented a sorrier facade than when the half-breed had first seen it. Once it had been a thriving community—or, at least, had had the potential. For a wide variety of businesses had been established. Three banks, a dozen stores stocking both essentials and luxuries, a newspaper, two saloons and a cantina, a stage depot, a theatre, a courthouse and two office buildings with space for many shingles on the boards out front. All these on the main thoroughfare, while the side streets were lined by a mixture of hotels and private and boarding houses.
The Arizona Star Saloon, a grocery and hardware store, the stage depot, a bank and a small section of one of the office buildings were still in business. And a few of the house chimneys gave off smoke as Edge rode out of town. Fires had also been lit in the stoves of three of the dozen homesteads spread across the hill slope that rose to the north of the town. Weed-choked fields and fallen fences evidence that the rest of the place had been abandoned.
The smoke from the stacks rose lethargically into the brightening sky, as if infected by the obvious depression of the dying community from whence it came.
When the sun rose, shafting over the ridges behind him, the slow-riding Edge did not look back to see if the warmth and bright light caused Indian Hill to create a more inviting impression. He merely relished the effect it had on him—easing away the coldness of night that had seemed to penetrate his clothing and flesh to reach deep into his bones.
By the time he reached the fork in the trail and steered the horse along the spur which followed the course of a muddy creek, he was warm enough to take off his topcoat and drape it over his bedroll.
The spur and the creek—the latter widening and deepening by the yard—took a meandering course around the base of the rocky high ground for which, presumably, the town on the south side was named. Then both straightened out on the fringe of a wood of mixed timber, where the trail ran under a rustic arch constructed of pine trunks. Along the top bar of the arch the name WORTHINGTON was emblazoned in letters three feet high formed with untreated tree branches. To one side of the arch was a board warning in white painted lettering: Private property. No admittance except by prior appointment. By order of Kane Worthington.
The gelding had carried the half-breed no more than a few feet on to the forbidden spread when a man growled, "Can't you read, stranger?"
The man who spoke, and another one, stepped from the trees to the left of the trail. Both were in their late twenties or early thirties. Tall, broadly built, hard-faced and cold-eyed men with sunburnished skin. Dressed like cowpunchers, they had never worked cattle in their unsullied check shirts and denim pants; their spurs were polished and their white Stetsons had no sweat stains. The Frontier Colts in their holsters and the Winchester rifles they held across the front of their bodies were a match for their crisply turned-out appearance. Each wore a shiny tin star on the left shirt-pocket.
Edge reined in the gelding and eyed the men bleakly over twenty feet, he out in the sunlight and they shaded by the timber.
"The town law is a whole lot smarter than the town," he said.
"We work for Mr. Worthington, not Chuck Meyers," the one with a dimpled chin growled.
"We ain't here to give out information, Warren!" the deputy with a stiff right leg said in an even harsher tone. "I asked you a question, stranger!"
"I read as well as I count, feller."
The lame man nodded curtly. "That's good. So you know what the sign says. And you'll know when I get to five. By which time you'll have backed off the Bar-W property or you'll be hurtin'. One . . . two ..."
"Somebody else is counting right now, feller," Edge put in evenly. "On me. Getting to talk with Kane Worthington. A woman who ought never to have been named Grace."
"Talk from the other side of the property line, stranger! Three . . ."
"Hey, Larry, I think we oughta listen to this guy," Warren said anxiously.
"Try to kill me, feller," the half-breed added, and continued to appear relaxed in the saddle while beneath the surface he readied himself to meet the threat. "If all you do is make me hurt, you've got two seconds to live."
"I don't take that kinda talk from any—" Larry barked.
"Wylie!" a woman shrieked.
If the man with the lame right leg heard her, he paid no attention. For his mind was set upon punishing the even-voiced, casual-looking intruder who had threatened him and was closed to any outside influence.
He turned his body from the waist rather than swung the rifle—thumb-cocking the hammer away from a breech into which a shell had already been levered.
Edge moved just his right arm, to streak his hand from the saddlehorn to the butt of the Colt jutting from his holster. And he drew, cocked, leveled and fired the revolver in a series of smooth actions which merged into a single continuous move. His eyes blinked just the once, at the crack of the bullet leaving the muzzle.
Birds took to frightened flight from among the trees as Edge, eyes merely slits of glinting blue, ignored the crumpling corpse of Larry Wylie and gazed at Warren.
"You didn't have to kill him," the surviving deputy groaned, shifting his horrified gaze from the body to the impassive face of the half-breed.
"Try never to break my word, feller. I told him I'd do it. So I did."
"Put your gun away this instant!" the woman snapped as she emerged from the timber on the creek side of the trail.
She was breathless from running and beads of sweat stood out on her exertion-reddened, plain face. About thirty-five, she was close to six feet tall and extremely thin, the under-played curves of her hips and breasts contoured a severely styled, high-necked, long-sleeved and narrow skirted black gown. Just the red tint of her close-cropped hair and the subtle shade of green of her eyes hinted of a blood relationship with Grace Worthington.
"This gunslinger just shot and killed Larry, Miss May," Warren complained to Grace's older and plainer sister.
"Doubtless Mr. Wylie asked for what he got," the woman countered, patting at her damp face with a handkerchief. "He spent his entire life riling people. State your business here, sir."
Edge uncocked the Colt and slid it into his holster. Then touched the brim of his hat as he answered, "Need to see your father, lady."
"Need, sir? Or want?"
"He says it's to do with Miss Grace, ma'am," Warren offered. From where he was down on his haunches beside the corpse, having checked that the bullet in Wylie's chest had in fact killed the man.
May, recovered from her hasty advance on the scene of the killing, was abruptly disconcerted again. "Then why on earth was he not admitted immediately?" she demanded.
"Mr. Worthington's orders, ma'am," Warren replied, sure that his defense was valid. "He said to allow no one through just like always."
"The damn fool," May countered, speaking aloud her thoughts. But not perturbed when she realized she had voiced her feelings. To Edge she said, "I'll bring my horse, sir. We'll ride together."
As she made to turn into the trees, Warren blurted, "What'll I do about Larry, Miss May?"
"It's the living who concern me!" the woman snorted. Then sighed in exasperation as she saw a look of helplessness grip the no-long-hardset face of the deputy. And there was something akin to pity in her voice and expression when she ad
ded, "Of course, Warren, you are still alive. I'll tell them what's happened and have someone sent down."
Then she went from sight into the deep shade among the timber.
"God, mister, I don't think I've ever seen a faster draw than that," Warren said with a shake of his head as the half-breed heeled his horse forward.
"You saw it?" Edge responded with mock surprise.
"I'll say I did."
Edge made a clucking sound with his tongue against the back of his teeth. "Then I guess I must be slowing down, feller."
"Miss May said to wait," Warren called as the half-breed rode slowly by him.
"Some women are worth waiting for, feller. She looks the kind who's used to chasing after a man."
CHAPTER FIVE
MAY Worthington rode side-saddle in her narrow skirted dress and she did it expertly, catching up with the half-breed at a gallop as he halted his gelding on the north fringe of the timber.
"I told you to wait for me, sir!" she snapped angrily as she brought her big black stallion to a stop beside the gelding. Her fists remained tightly clenched to the reins and a quirt while she glared at the impassive profile of the unshaven Edge.
"What it sounded like to me, ma'am," he replied, lighting the cigarette he had rolled while riding through the trees. "If you'd asked, maybe I would've."
He sensed her glaring anger rise still further, then subside, as he gazed out along the broad, shallow valley that stretched away toward the north-east. The gentle slopes to either side were rocky and barren of anything except for cactus, stunted pine trees and brown brush. But down on the floor there was a strip of verdant country some three miles wide by at least ten long which was watered by the creek. Lush, rolling meadows featured with extensive stands of timber: here and there a rock outcrop. At regular intervals, irrigation ditches had been dug to carry water from the creek to the bottoms of the grades which enclosed the valley.
EDGE: Death Deal (Edge series Book 35) Page 4