The restaurateur, who was dressed in a faded and frayed dinner jacket, white shirt, and black bow tie, had not moved from the archway beside the stove across from the door. And seemed speechless until he blurted,
"The best chef outside of San Francisco does not cook the best meat in the Territory of Montana for a dog!"
Edge took out the makings and began to roll a cigarette. Said evenly as he tipped tobacco into the strip of paper: "No sweat, feller. My dog ain't that fussy. Heard from his previous owner that he'll eat raw meat that's a little old. Special kind of meat, that is."
"All right, all right, I'll go fix your order, mister!" the man said, suddenly wan faced as he whirled to go through the archway into the kitchen out back. From where he called; "Only I don't have no soup that can be ready before the steaks!"
"No sweat," Edge answered as he licked the paper.
"Patience is one of the virtues I do have." He struck a match on his holstered Colt to light the cigarette and added, "Guess the fine wines aren't chilled, either?"
"Not the white ones, no," the man in the kitchen admitted sourly as frying fat began to sizzle. "I got some first-class reds at room temperature, but I don't guess—"
"That's right," Edge put in. And just for a moment had a vivid recollection of the house at Stormville where Adam Steele had been indulging in what he considered the good things of life—including fine wines—before he, Edge, came to dinner and brought that interlude to an end. And he kept the quiet smile in place as he went on: "Only as a last resort if there's no beer or whisky, feller. Like most people around Lake-view, I figure?"
"It's an old sign," the man confirmed, needing to speak louder as he put meat in the skillet and the sizzling sound rose in volume. "Set up here after the gold grubbers left and the lumber men moved in. Figured to attract the carriage trade, but it never did work out. Them that make the biggest piles go home to their lakefront mansions to eat and them that do the work ain't got nothin' left to spend on decent eatin' after they handed over to their women and drunk away most of the rest down at Leo Evers's place. And them that ain't got women and brats, they spend big at the Treasure House, most of them. And even them that don't, all they want is what you're havin'. Epicure Restaurant, that's rich. Wasn't for a handful of people of taste that come in every now and then, I'd change the name to something like The Feedin' Trough."
"Lakeview started out as a mining town, feller?" Edge asked as he leaned back comfortably in the chair, enjoying the cigarette and relishing the warmth of the small restaurant.
"Wasn't big enough be called a town in those days, mister," the man in the kitchen replied eagerly, obviously pleased to have somebody to talk to. "Just the one general store in a regular buildin' and a few other enterprises in tents. Right on the lakeshore. Claims out in every direction and not one of them a rich one.
"Then a group of prospectors saw there was a better livin' to be made out of the timber that just had to be cut down—not grubbed out of the ground. And Lakeview ain't never looked back since. Me included, mister, far as makin' some bucks is concerned. Just riles me sometimes that the skills I learned in some of the best carriage-trade hotels in San Francisco ain't hardly ever called on to be used in this town."
There was a tall window on either side of the restaurant door, with net curtains hung from rails halfway down them: but more effectively screened by the mist of condensation. And this blocking off of any view of the street acted to intensify the sense of being detached from a troubled and cold world—allowed a respite in safe surroundings filled with pleasant sensations.
"Still, I guess I didn't ought to complain. Done better than a lot of folks that set up business here…”
The man in the kitchen went on talking about Lakeview's history and some of the more unfortunate who had peopled it. Voice raised to be heard above the sizzling of the frying steaks, the aroma of which mingled with and then masked the smell of burning tobacco.
Edge listened with mild interest, and did not fail to remain attentive, even during the period when the German shepherd distracted him. First as a condensation-blurred face at a window, the dog up on his hind legs, forepaws on the ledge, trying to see into the restaurant, head cocking to one side and then the other. Perhaps whining softly in distress that Edge was not in sight. But no sound from the animal heard because of the low and constant moaning of a wind that had sprung up moments earlier. For severed minutes the half-breed tried to ignore the dog, who sometimes had to drop down from the window to rest his hind legs. But then he gave in to the animal with a soft curse.
Got up from the table and went to the door, which he cracked open to arc the butt of his cigarette on to the street. Saw the wind, which was from the east, snatch at it and drive it hard along the street. Then looked down and saw the dog sitting in front of the door, fur ruffled by the wind and eyes pleading to be allowed entrance, a soft whine adding to the entreaty.
Edge just mouthed a curse now, then put a forefinger to his lips and opened the door a little more. The man in the kitchen was saying:
"... was another man figured the lumber men would spend their money on inconsequentials and found out the hard way they ..." Then either heard the louder sounds or the weather when the door was opened or felt the draft of cold air reaching across the dining room and through the archway on the far side. And he called anxiously: "You're not leavin'? Won't be but a few minutes now!"
He showed his worried face at the arch, obviously leaning back from the stove, where his hands remained busy. Then he smiled his relief as he saw Edge seated again at the table.
"Just got rid of my cigarette, feller," the half-breed said, pressing hard with his right hand on the neck of the German shepherd to force him down on to his belly. Which the dog was reluctant to do while his nostrils twitched to the delicious aroma of frying meat. Then, to have something to say, Edge asked, "The Websters been in town since it got started as a lumber center, feller?"
The man went from sight at the archway, the query taking his mind off the odd, sideways-leaning position of Edge. Who now glowered down at the dog in an eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation that caused the animal to whimper and lower himself to his belly, ears back and eyes requesting forgiveness.
The ice went from the glinting blue slits of the man's eyes and he stroked the dog's head.
"Polly and Max, mister?" the man in the kitchen said eagerly. "They're a strange pair, aren't they? Neither of them quite normal. Max, as you no doubt judged for yourself, is a little short up top? Hopefully, you will not have been long enough at the hotel to have discovered just what it is makes his sister ..."
He was from Ireland, and the accent of the land of his birth became more pronounced in his voice as he warmed to his subject. Which was totally immaterial. But then so was the information the man was imparting about the Webster brother and sister. So why had he asked about them?
Because he had needed to cover his smuggling of the dog into the restaurant. He could just as well have asked about the wind and if it was the kind that brought rain or snow to this part of the country.
Shit, what did it matter about the weather? It didn't. Just as it didn't matter where the man came from. Or what he thought of the Websters.
But.why should he feel it necessary to smuggle the dog in out of the cold. Dammit, it was yet another example of him doing something in a way that was not his style at all.
The man with the strong Irish accent was explaining how Polly Webster had been engaged to be married to the son of a rich lumberman many years earlier. But he was killed by a falling tree and Polly was driven almost crazy with grief. Which she then overcame by going with any man who would take her. There were a great many who went with her before her brother discovered what was happening. Max possessed a sense of morality that was as strong as his body and he made it known in Lakeview that he would break every bone in the body of any man who went with his sister outside of wedlock.
"And never w
as a Lakeview man who took the risk of gettin' that badly beaten up," the man said as he came out from the archway, a plate in one hand and a bowl in the other, both heaped with steaming food. "And none wanted to get hitched to such a sour-tempered woman, that's for sure."
The dog could contain himself no longer as the mouth-watering aroma of cooked meat got stronger by the moment. He leaped to his feet and vented a sharp bark of impatience, would maybe have sprung toward the suddenly angry and frightened restaurateur had Edge not hooked a restraining hand under the rope collar.
"This is too much!" the man snapped, his accent now back to the false camp American that he had used when Edge first came into his restaurant. He banged the plate and the bowl down on the nearest table and folded his arms across his fleshy chest, the gesture one of determination while his multi-chinned face expressed a look that indicated he was ready to turn and run if the hungry dog was released. "I agree to cook first-class meat for your animal, mister! As a special favor to you. But I refuse to serve the food to the dog in my dinin' room. And unless you get the creature out of here, I will refuse to serve you. I allow men to bring dogs in here, the next thing you know, they'll be bringin' in their horses!"
"Easy, feller," Edge said to the dog and let go of the collar as he rose from the chair. Mentally breathed a sigh of relief when the animal did not launch into a spring at the table where the steaming food had been set down. Instead, he remained close at heel as the half-breed went toward the table and the man, arms still folded but chins trembling, backed off. "We all need standards or I guess we get to be worse than animals, feller," the tall man said evenly to the shorter one as he sat down at the new table and carefully removed the bowl of meat from its cloth-covered top to the floor—and nodded to the dog that he could eat. "And I go along with the one you have about not allowing animals in your restaurant."
"So why are you—" the man started as Edge pulled his plate in front of him and picked up the ready-laid knife and fork.
"But you've caught me on a strange kind of day, feller. I even keep surprising myself, so I guess there's no way anyone else can understand."
The dog was halfway through wolfing down the bowl of best steak. But interrupted his ravenous feeding to briefly raise his head and rest it against the half-breed's thigh.
Edge told the dog: "I bought you lunch, feller. So eat it. We'll talk about this whole crazy business later."
The dog returned his attention to the bowl of food.
The restaurateur backed all the way to the side of the arch, where he shook his head and eyed his customer with a brand of nervous disdain as he accused, "Crazy is right, mister!"
Edge had started to eat the meal now and showed no sign of being mad at the man for the taunt. Which bolstered his courage so that he felt able to growl with heavy sarcasm:
"Always thought it was your horse your kind was supposed to fall in love with!"
The half-breed glanced down at the German shepherd, who had finished the meat and was looking up as he licked his lips in appreciation of the food while his eyes showed gratitude for it
"No sweat, feller," Edge said to the dog and grinned as he added: "It's something like the old story. My horse don't understand me."
Chapter Eleven
The dog lay in quiet contentment under the table while the half-breed finished the meal. And the man beside the archway was sullenly silent until pride in his trade as a chef got the better of his prejudice.
And he murmured, "I have to admit your dog is better behaved than some of the two-legged customers I get in here, mister."
Edge simply nodded in acknowledgment, while he chewed a mouthful of the tenderest and tastiest steak he had eaten for a very long time.
"And it's a real pleasure for me to see somebody eatin' with so much enjoyment—not just to fill an emptiness in their stomach, if you know what I mean?"
Edge nodded again, swallowed some more meat, and answered: "There's food and food, feller. And hunger and hunger. You're a real fine cook and I had the right kind of appetite to appreciate this food."
Which opened the way for the man by the arch to start in to talk once more. He looked enthusiastically ready to begin when hooves were heard clopping on the street again. The horses were being ridden from the western side of town, and were held to a walk. The man came away from the rear wall to go toward the front of his restaurant.
"Maybe the strangers you talked to earlier, mister. Needin' something good and solid to soak up the rotgut Leo Evers has been sellin' them."
He had to pass close by the table where Edge sat and came to a halt as he did so, worried by a growl from the dog underneath.
"Friend, feller," the half-breed said soothingly.
And the man blew some cool air up over his face as he continued on to the door. Opened it an inch or so, but then fought to close it again, needing to use force to beat the power of the heightened wind that sought to tear it from his grasp. This as the brightness faded from the daylight, the cloud bank having spread fast to blanket the sky and mask the sinking sun of late afternoon.
The restaurateur used a sleeve of his black dinner jacket to clear a patch of condensation from the glass panel of the door. And pressed his face close to the panel as Sheriff Herman's voice was raised to sound above the moan of the wind between buildings and the slow clop of many hooves on the street.
"Just you listen to what I got to say, you people!"
The riders kept their horses coming along the street in the same steady cadence as before. Until a pistol shot sounded from the midtown area, and then the mounts were reined in, directly outside the restaurant as the man with his face to the cleared space on the window gasped: "Oh, my goodness."
The German shepherd growled his dislike of the atmosphere and its sound effects and Edge calmed him.
The Lakeview lawman did not close with the stalled riders, so had to continue to shout above the wind noise.
"One Galton brother beatin' up on another is family trouble and none of mine. But if I get any kinda complaint about folks not in that family causin' a ruckus that's against the law, I'll take steps!"
There was a pause of stretched seconds, as if the listeners were waiting for the speaker to complete something left unfinished. Until a man among the listeners yelled, "That all, sheriff?"
A briefer pause, then Herman countered with an angry tone: "Yeah, except to tell you I think you're all outta your minds! I got more chance of makin' president of the United States than anybody has of strikin' it rich on Barney Galton's claim!"
The man at the door growled, "Ain't that a fact, Eddie Herman," and turned away from his vantage point.
This just as the wind veered again and gusted, to wrench open the door, which he had not securely latched a few moments ago. The sound of the door crashing against the inside wall and the blast of icy air dispelling the stove heat of the restaurant caused Edge to look across the room just as he rattled his fork down on the empty plate.
And he was in time to see a line-abreast-group six men start their horses forward.
One was the yellow-bearded, dark-eyed Lee Galton, who now had a puffed and discolored right cheek and a white dressing above his left eye. Another was the pipe-smoking old man who had been outside a house on a cross street when Edge first rode into town. A third was the kid with the sack who had spoken to him shortly afterwards. There was another old-timer and a second teenage kid. And there was Max Webster.
All of them, hunched deep into the protection of warm coats and with the chin straps of their hats cinched tight, looked at the front of the restaurant when the door crashed open. But only the big man with the brain of a dullard did a double take at Edge seated at the table, and directed a warning look at the half breed that he emphasized by folding a fist in the palm of the other hand. And perhaps cracked his knuckles. But the wind would have masked the sound. A second later the door had been fought closed. Then the riders demanded a faster pace from their
mounts and in a very short time all sounds of the group's departure were lost under the moan of the wind.
"Get rich quick," the restaurateur mumbled as he returned to his accustomed place beside the arch—making sure he circled wide of the table with the over protective dog lurking quietly beneath. "You see them out there, mister? The young, the old, and the stupid? Led by a stranger who does not know any better. Ever since the first of them lakefront mansions was built, everybody's wanted to have one."
He shook his head sadly and shrugged his shoulders. "Even me, one time. Figured to make a pile out of this place and build me a fine house down there on the lake. But I soon gave up that ambition and settled for the best I could get. Like most of us did.
"That Polly Webster, though, she ain't never given up dreamin'. Maybe because she almost made it—would have been livin' in a mansion by the lake now if her beau hadn't been crushed by that tree. So it was her put Max up to ridin' out with that Galton, I'm bettin'. When even he has the sense to know there ain't no pay dirt worth the diggin'—"
"How much I owe for the food, feller?" Edge cut in as he pushed back his chair and stood up, lighting the cigarette he had rolled while the man gave his unasked-for opinions of the six-man expedition to the claim across the lake.
The German shepherd was out from under the table and standing beside the half-breed's left leg almost before the man was fully erect.
"Two dollars," came the reply, with a disappointed expression, like the man was sorry to lose his lone customer and audience.
"Worth double, feller." Edge said and brought out his bankroll to peel off the m money.
"Only want what I ask for mister."
"All you're getting," Edge told him, dropped the two bills beside his empty plate, and went toward the place where his hat and coat hung beside the door. "Giving an opinion is all."
He had them both on, the coat buttoned, and was fixing the chin strap of the hat when shadowy forms moved on the other side of the nearest misted window, booted feet rang on the hollow sidewalk, and the door was pushed open. And a man rasped an obscenity when the gusting wind wrenched the door from his hand.
EDGE: The Killing Claim Page 9