But now he did use the razor to scrape the tough bristles from his lean face—after cleaning the dirt from his body with a fragment of soap a former guest had left in the tub.
Then, still abiding by Alton’s rules, he wedged a pillow between the back of his head and the wall. And he slept. It was the usual dreamless sleep of a man with a clear conscience. But, again normal for the lean, hard-bodied half-breed, a shallow sleep. Giving him rest without drifting him too deeply into the slough of unawareness. Body and mind were relaxed, but constantly on the verge of waking to instant total recall of the immediate past and familiarity with his surroundings. Had he rode into Seascape amid peace and tranquility and received a friendly greeting from all, he would have slept in the same manner. For it was the natural way with a man who had been brushed so often by death: and who had made so many enemies in order to survive.
So it was that he came awake when a floorboard creaked immediately outside the room door. He knew where he was and what had happened. The only change in the room since he went to sleep was in the level of light filtering through the drape curtains. It was not so bright and was tinting from yellow to red as the afternoon sun heralded the evening by sinking towards the horizon of the ocean. He made a conscious decision to choose the Winchester and pumped the action to feed a shell into the breech as he swung the rifle from the bed. Knuckles rapped on the door and he rested the rifle barrel across the vee of his naked knees.
“Not locked,” he called.
The door swung open and Herb Alton gulped as he looked at the rifle pointed towards him. “Hey, I might have been a woman,” he said shakily.
“In which case I might have been happier to see you,” the half-breed answered. With the door open, he could hear a murmuring of talk from the saloon, accompanied by the clink of glasses against a background of plaintive mouth-organ music. He eased the Winchester’s hammer back to the rest and tossed the rifle on to the bed.
Alton breathed more easily. “I just come to say there’s a guy’d like to see you. Someone from the carny. And also, I reckon you’ve had more than your forty cents worth.”
“You said the room was mine for as long as it took me to have the bath,” Edge reminded the bartender, and eased himself upright. “I had a lot of trail dirt to scrub off.”
There was nothing vulnerable about the tall, lean man. Even naked and toweling the running water from his body, he looked dangerously ready to unleash lightning violence. And now that his face was cleaned of dirt and stubble the degree of impassive coldness in his blue eyes was even more menacing. He remained close to the bed with the rifle lying obscenely across the patchwork quilt.
“That’s okay,” the bartender allowed, trying to make it sound like a favor. “The guy that wants to see you is the dude with the gold he charges folks to look at.”
Edge nodded. “Tell him I’ll be right out.” He grinned. “And close the door. The fat dame might walk past and get you closed down for having a naked man in one of your rooms.”
“Mrs. Blackhouse never comes into my saloon,” Alton answered. “She don’t approve of strong drink.”
“We’ve all got our prejudices,” the half-breed said. “Me, I’ve got this thing about not being watched when I’m naked. By a man, anyway, and we’ve already established what you are.”
“I’m goin’,” Alton stammered, and closed the door hurriedly.
Edge wasted no time in dressing, but not in consideration for the man who was waiting to see him. While the door had been open, cold air had wafted into the room, fresh with a salty tang which told it was being breezed on to shore from the ocean. Its coolness completed the process of refreshment the half-breed had derived from the bath and the sleep. But in contrast to earlier, the feel of the sweat-stiffened clothing against his body was welcome.
If not a new man, he at least felt a less weary one as he let himself out of the room, closing the door on the tub of dirt-scummed water. He almost became a dead one.
He heard the hiss of the knife through the murky air of the hallway before he sensed another presence. It came at him from outside, spinning in through the open doorway to the yard. His head swung around just enough for his narrowed eyes to catch a glimpse of Jo Jo Lamont. She was still showing a lot of cleavage between the powdered swells of her up-thrust breasts. But her legs were concealed now, beneath the long, full skirt of her low-cut green dress. She was standing square on to the open doorway, leaning forward slightly and with her right arm still stretched out in front of her after releasing the knife.
Edge dropped to his knees and powered to the side, falling away from girl and the spinning knife. He had been carrying the Winchester low on his left and it was trapped under his hip as he hit the floor. But the Colt was clear of the holster before the knife bit deep into the door jamb.
“Freeze, or burn in hell!” he rasped.
Jo Jo was still leaning forward, but had started to swing her body around for a lunge away from the doorway. An undoubted willingness to back up the threat with the deed was blatant in the half-breed’s voice. The girl became like a stone statue, held on the very brink of toppling from the canting, twisted posture.
A door rattled open at the far end of the hallway. Floorboards creaked under the great weight. “My, what’s this?” The easy, ready-to-laugh tone confirmed that the obese French had emerged from his room.
“None of your business,” Edge muttered, continuing to keep his eyes and the revolver on the girl as he eased up on to his haunches and then stood erect. A fast glance at the hilt of the knife showed it was a match for the one Turk had hurled at him. Its position in the door jamb showed it would have buried its point between his shoulder blades had he not powered down out of its path.
“Enough said,” the fat man responded and there was a hollow ring to his laughter. “Far be it from Clarence French to intervene when a man has been bowled off his feet by a young lady.”
The floorboards began to creak rhythmically as the fat man headed for the right angle turn which led to the saloon. The girl had straightened, but her feet remained firmly planted on the ground. Now that the heat and brightness had gone out of the day, the evening light flattered her shallow prettiness.
“You and Turk take it in turns tossing knives at each other?” Edge asked, the harshness extracted from his tone.
“We’ve spent a lot of time together,” she responded sullenly. “He taught me how to use the knives. The kind of jerkwater, no-business towns we get to, I’ve had plenty of practice.”
“You always pick targets without asking permission first?” He beckoned with the rifle for her to come in through the doorway.
“You can put away the gun,” she said, dragging her feet as she entered the hallway. “I only brought one knife. I knew I wouldn’t get a second chance if I missed first time.”
“Pretty smart for someone as dumb as you,” Edge told her, launching a back heel kick at the door. It burst open and banged back against the inner wall.
“The sawbones says Turk’ll never be able to throw a knife with his right hand again,” Jo Jo accused, fear overlaying her sullenness now, as Edge jerked the Winchester to signal her into the room. “Maybe never be able to pick one up if the nerves are cut like he thinks.”
“So you figured to make me bleed for him?” Edge asked as Jo Jo swung in front of him to enter the room. She did a pathetic little run, to get beyond his reach fast.
Trapped inside the room, she swung around and flared with anger. “For me, you vicious sonofabitch!” she snarled. “We were heading for San Francisco. One of the theatres down there was going to give Turk and me a long-term contract. We could really have made the big time.”
Her eyes glowed brighter. Not entirely with anger now. In anticipation of the dream that might have been. Edge had seen there was nowhere on the outside of the dress where she could carry a second knife. He holstered the Colt and jerked the blade out of the door jamb. Jo Jo caught her breath.
“What are you gonna
do?” she gasped as he advanced into the room.
He left the door open. Somebody was still playing the mouth organ but the buzz of conversation had trailed away. It was the same tune, sounding sadder than ever as the only disturbance against the silence.
“Kill you, maybe,” he said.
She jerked a hand to her vividly painted lips, muffling the, squeal of terror. Then she took a step backwards. Another cry was vented as she banged against the foot of the bed and tumbled down on to it. “Please!” she begged as Edge halted, towering over her. “It was crazy. I know it. But I just sat out at the camp getting madder and madder about what you done to Turk. Some of them said I oughta do something about it. They gave me some rye. I just . . .”
He could smell the liquor on her breath. It was stronger than the scent of fear-pumped sweat that rose from her cheaply perfumed flesh. Her big breasts rose and fell rapidly. Her features were contorted, manifesting her thought processes as her mind sought frantically for a way out. Her eyes were fastened upon the knife held loosely in Edge’s right hand. Then the idea hit her. She tore her gaze away and fixed it on his face. In the fading light her expression was an ugly parody of panting passion.
“I’ll do anything!” she offered breathlessly. “Anything you want, only please don’t cut me.”
“Close your eyes,” the half-breed ordered softly.
Jo Jo did so, snapping down the blackened lids and screwing them tight. Her hands lay at her sides and she bunched them into frightened fists. Edge threw the knife underarm. It made a solid thud as the point sank into the wooden bed head. The girl shuddered, then held her breath. But she kept her eyes screwed shut. Her body was ramrod stiff.
“There’s something you should know,” she whispered as Edge stooped down at the side of the bed, leaning the Winchester against the wall.
“My Pa told me everything about what you have in mind,” he said.
Despite everything, Jo Jo could still blush. “I’m a virgin,” she rasped, her color deepening, and spreading to suffuse her flesh from the line of the blonde hair at the top of her forehead to creep to the full extent of the rises of her breasts Where the neckline of the dress cradled them.
“That’ll be nice for somebody,” Edge said as he straightened up again. The filled tub of water was heavy, but he lifted it with ease. Then he thrust it out in front of him, held it for a moment above the taut-bodied, prostrate girl: and tipped it.
The scummy, filthy water cascaded over her from head to waist, sending her hair into disarray and pasting the dress fabric to her body. She shrieked and sprang into a sitting position, fisting the water from her eyes as Edge let the bathtub clatter to the floor. Heavy, running footfalls sounded in the hallway. The music had stopped.
“You beast!” Jo Jo screamed at him as he picked up the Winchester from where it leaned against the wall. She tore her gaze away from him to stare down at the sodden gown. The water had done something to the stiffening which held the bodice to the curves of her breasts. She managed to clutch the fabric to her just before it folded away to expose her. “This is the only decent dress I’ve got!” she sobbed. “You’ve ruined it.”
“I’ve only got one life,” he hissed. “You and your partner weren’t trying to improve it by carving holes in my back. Either of you give me so much as a sharp glance from now on, you’re dead.”
“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Alton yelled, at the forefront of the group crowded into the doorway.
Jo Jo became aware of the watching men. Behind Alton, she recognized the dark-skinned tiger trainer, the dude-dressed Case, three of the spielers from the other sideshows and one of the guards from the big gold exhibit.
“I don’t allow men to have girls in my rooms!” Alton accused harshly.
Edge canted the Winchester across his shoulder and curled back his lips to show a cold grin. “She wasn’t had, feller,” he said. “She figured to get me to do a little breaking and entering—but I poured cold water on the idea.”
The girl vented another shriek and, still holding the sagging fabric against her breasts, she lunged up from the bed and raced towards the doorway. The group of men parted to give her an exit and she curved between them without slackening her pace. She made for the rear door from the hallway.
“Like you saw,” the half-breed muttered. “She gives every impression of still being chaste.”
CHAPTER THREE
“HAVE a drink, Mr.—”
“Edge,” the half-breed supplied as he dropped into a chair across the table from Case. “Speak your piece.”
The dude shrugged acceptance of Edge’s manner and filled a shot glass from a three-quarters full bottle of whiskey. Both the glass and whiskey bottle had been on the table when Case led the half-breed to it. Case had been about to signal Alton to fetch another glass, but now he let his arm fall.
The dark-skinned animal trainer began to play his mouth organ again. The three spielers and the guard re-started a game of five-card stud. The obese Clarence French, still sweating despite the cool evening air flowing in over and under the closed batswings, was beating time to the music with two fingers of each hand on the table top. He had been the only patron of the saloon not to investigate the disturbance down the hallway.
“You’re looking for work, I hear?” Case asked.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, feller,” the half-breed answered. “But sometimes the rumors are right.”
“I can offer you a job.”
“To kill somebody?”
Case was not taken aback by the response. “Not specifically, no. Although it could possibly prove necessary—in undertaking the work.”
“Pay?”
“A hundred dollars a week.”
Edge did not hesitate. He nodded. “Chance of a five dollar advance?”
Case smiled. He had a very pleasant face when he smiled. The expression added animation without color. Edge had noticed that out on the midway when Case was collecting money at the entrance to his exhibit. “You need it for something special, Edge?” His billfold was slender, but most of the bills inside were fifties and hundreds. He found a five spot and passed it across the table.
“Appreciate it,” the half-breed said, and raised his voice. “Alton, fetch me a beer.”
The two men regarded each other in an easy silence while the bartender drew the drink and fetched it to the table. Case didn’t smile anymore, but he seemed pleased with what he saw—satisfied that, close up, the impression he had received of Edge in the afternoon was an accurate one. The half-breed saw that Case was older than he had seemed at first glance. Perhaps forty-five. And not so soft. His build was small and he had the pallor of a man unused to the outdoor life. His hands, spotlessly clean and well manicured, had never done a day’s hard work of the manual kind. But there was a certain inbred toughness about the set of his regular features. The mouth line suggested it gave orders with authority and the dark eyes seemed capable of offering a solid challenge to anybody who disobeyed the orders. And there was a wiry strength in his build which promised a physical back-up.
Alton accepted the five dollar bill with a smile after he had set down the beer. “Rooms are two dollars a night if you’re interested.”
“Edge will be staying out at the camp if he agrees to work for me, Alton,” Case said.
“I’ve taken your money,” Edge said flatly after taking a swallow at the beer. “So I’m working for you.”
“Without knowing what the job is?” Case was still not surprised.
“I know what it’s not.”
The bartender shook his head, giving up for all time efforts to understand the tall stranger. Then he went to get the change, taking a roundabout course so that he could light the saloon’s lamps against the advancing night. As if the kerosene glow acted as a beacon for the thirsty and the lonely, new patrons began to push in through the batswings. They were a mixture of local citizens and people from the carny.
“Alton didn’t put up his drink pric
es,” Edge said to fill the time while the bartender made change for the five.
Case smiled and the half-breed got the impression that the dude always felt happiest when money was the topic of conversation. “He’ll have to live in the town after we’ve left. But he likes to make a few dollars. So he bows to the wishes of the Blackhouse woman on the one hand and takes our money with the other.” Then he grimaced. “I haven’t been in this business long, Edge. But I’ve run up against more than enough people like Mrs. Blackhouse. The kind that think beds are only for kneeling down and praying beside and a good time is walking home from church on Sunday. Why, we were in a town in Wyoming where they had a sheriff named Shorty Dodge . . .”
Alton returned to the table and dropped the four ninety-five hurriedly into Edge’s outstretched hand. Then he scuttled back to attend to the sudden influx of custom. Case changed the subject immediately.
“I’m offering you a hundred a week to guard my gold until the end of the week.”
“Short job.”
“But the pay’s good.”
Edge sipped his beer. “Can’t argue with that. Guess Grainger and his buddies didn’t do any complaining, either.”
Case grimaced. “Those men are on two dollars a day.”
A couple of the local citizens, who seemed to have had more than enough liquor before coming to the saloon, were urging the harmonica player to get something more cheerful out of his instrument.
“Keep talking, feller,” Edge invited.
“The job will involve watching the guards as much as taking care of the big gold,” Case responded, licking his lips. His normal level of speech was not high, but now it became a whisper as he shot a glance at the men playing poker. “I don’t trust Grainger and the others. I haven’t seen or heard anything I can pin down, but there’s something about their attitude. You saw them this afternoon. You can see Dana Breeze over there playing poker now. What do you think of them?”
EDGE: The Big Gold (Edge series Book 15) Page 3