Bloody Summer

by George G. Gilman

  Edge ignored her and prodded Truman with the muzzle of the Winchester. “Get up and get out,” he said softly.

  “My gun?” Truman croaked, nodding towards his Colt on the floor.

  Edge stooped and picked up the revolver; He slid it into his own empty holster. “Obliged,” he said. “Mighty generous the way you Dakotas lawmen donate your spare guns to the needy.”

  Truman eyed him with confusion through his pain. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he croaked.

  Edge jerked the Winchester towards the doors. “Another story, sheriff,” he said. “For another time, maybe.* (*See - Edge-Seven Out of Hell.) Right now you’d better go see the sawbones about that wound. This rifle belonged to a Sioux buck. No telling what he painted on the shells before he loaded up.”

  “You run into Indians on your way here?” Truman asked, suddenly forgetting his pain.

  A lot of other people in the saloon were abruptly more interested in Edge’s news than in the possibility of further violence.

  Edge nodded, and narrowed his eyes he saw John and Elizabeth Day enter the saloon and pull up short. “Coyotes should be having them for supper right about now,” he answered.

  He saw the woman shudder.

  “I better check my deputies,” Truman said, suddenly straightening and whirling towards the door.

  Edge glanced quickly around the room, paying particular heed to the men with the anxious eyes. “We only made ten Indians into the good kind,” he said as he headed for the foot of the stairway.

  A small, wiry man in an eastern suit stepped out into Edge’s path. “You saying there’s more Sioux stirred up out there in the Badlands?” he asked softly.

  The half-breed surveyed him through hooded eyes. “Scare you?”

  “Should it?” the man answered, as impassive as Edge.

  “Not if you stay in Summer,” Edge told him easily. “Sheriff’ll protect you.”

  “That barrel of lard!” the Pitt put in sourly as Edge waved his hand at the small man, who moved to the side.

  Edge started up the stairway. “Figured Truman for a guy able to stop all the bucks,” he said with a shrug.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “YOU want to see me, sir?” the tall, dignified man at the head of the stairway demanded.

  Haven was dressed in civilian garb of an immaculate white shirt with a black bootlace tie beneath an embroidered red vest worn above sharply creased striped pants and highly polished shoes. His head, crowned by a mane of iron grey hair, was held square and upright upon his shoulders by a metal collar around his neck upon which his clean-shaven jaw rested.

  Edge eyed the man with cool reflection as, below in the saloon the Pitt yelled at her entertainers and dealers to restart giving the customers what they wanted. “You look like you could be a Colonel,” he said.

  “Ex-Colonel,” Haven corrected and rapped a thumb knuckle on the rigid collar. “Invalided out of 5th United States Cavalry, sir.”

  He returned Edge’s open stare and the restriction of the collar allowed him to make only a slight nod of approval at what he saw.

  “You also look rich,” Edge said. “But I need to see proof you’re ten grand rich before I risk my neck looking for what you lost”

  “Come into my suite,” Haven rapped out, turning with what was almost a drill square gesture and leading the way along the carpeted corridor.

  Double doors at the end gave on to an elegantly furnished sitting room. The furniture, carpeting, wall covering, pictures and bric-a-brac had set Millie Pitt back a lot of money. Edge guessed that Haven was doing a great deal towards helping her get a return on her investment. And he also decided that the most expensive item in the room was a petite girl of about eighteen with long black hair and big blue eyes who was lounging seductively on a sofa as she concentrated upon her time-consuming task of peeling black grapes. She was dressed in an almost sheer nightgown that clung tantalizingly to the voluptuous curves of her highly developed young body.

  The girl ignored Edge as Haven crossed the room and sat down in an armchair set adjacent to the end of the sofa. In this position, the girl could insert prepared grapes into his mouth without any strain. And she was within easy reach of his smoothly manicured hands if the whim came over him.

  “It’s looking richer by the moment,” Edge said as he heeled the door closed behind him. “But you’re only showing me what money can buy.”

  Haven chewed appreciatively on a grape then spat out the seed on to the carpet before sipping from a glass of champagne. “You’ve created a good impression, young man,” he said in his throaty Boston-Irish accent. “I like your style.” He accepted another grape, offered with high-priced, professional adoration. “Yes indeed, Mr. Edge ... isn’t it?”

  “Truman’s got a loud mouth,”

  Haven nodded. “I heard and I saw,” he said. “That’s a very tough bunch of men my reward offer brought into this town.”

  Edge ambled over to a substantial looking Martha Washington chair and tested his weight on it. It didn’t even groan. He rested the Winchester across the arms. “All kinds of men like that sort of money,” he said.

  “Correct,” Haven answered. “And a lot of them are prepared to go to extremes to get it. One such extreme would be to cut out the competition. That was an excellent tactic of yours - picking a fight with the sheriff. The way you won it showed every man in the saloon you aren’t the kind of man to tangle with. An example is worth a thousand words of boasting.”

  Edge dropped his cigarette on to the carpet and ground it out under his heel. The girl glared hatefully at him.

  “Treat my guests as you would me, Cyn,” Haven said sharply and the words forced a smile to the girl’s pretty face which she directed towards Edge. “Cynthia gets paid for looking after the room as well as me,” Haven explained.

  “Who’s paying the boys downstairs?” Edge asked. “They’re living it up like every one of them’s already collected the reward.”

  “The money’s still in the County Bank across the street,” Haven said with a note of irritation in his voice. “You may have noticed the two Pinkerton men on guard in there. If you insist upon seeing the actual banknotes, I’ll be happy to accompany you across and give authority for the safe to be opened.”

  Edge pondered this a moment, then shook his head. “I’ve met the Pitt and I’ve heard about the prices being charged in this town. You wouldn’t be living here like a Roman emperor unless you could back your mouth with your money,”

  Haven didn’t like the choice of phrase, but betrayed it only with a tightening of his mouth line. “Neither would I make a promise I could not keep to that band of cutthroats downstairs,” he said, and chewed on another grape.

  “They don’t seem over anxious to collect what you’re offering,” Edge pointed out.

  Haven shrugged and the movement seemed to cause him some pain. “Most of them have a stake of sorts when they arrive and they are the sort who find it difficult to hold on to money. Millie Pitt is adept at helping them overcome their difficulties. And when they have sampled as many pleasures of The Gates of Heaven as their money allows, they go out looking for what they came for.” He seemed about to shrug again, but recalled the discomfort and let it go at a sigh. “They come and they go. Most of them are no-hopers. But every now and then, a man such as you stops by. It’s what gives me continued faith that my property will be returned to me ultimately.”

  Edge ran his fingers along the smooth barrel of the Winchester. “You got faith in anybody else except me?” he asked.

  “Cheroot, Cyn,” Haven said and the girl deftly plunged a hand into the neckline of her nightgown and withdrew what he wanted. He sniffed the cigar with great pleasure and then allowed the girl to light it. “One man, very like you,” he said on a cloud of smoke. “Businesslike, but not so extreme in his methods. Named Silas Hyman. Stayed in Summer only long enough to ask some questions then rode out for the canyon where my train was ambushed. I feel he might get a line t
o the Balls.”

  Edge clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “About my age, inch or so shorter? Black hair and a mole on his chin?”

  Haven was surprised. “You know the man?” he asked, crinkling the wrinkled skin around his dark eyes.

  “We’ve met,” Edge answered. “He didn’t get anywhere near the Balls. But he lost his own.”

  The surprise became shock. “The Sioux you were talking about downstairs?” He shook his head. “I figured that for a story to scare the competition into staying close to town.”

  Edge spat on the carpet and watched the girl conceal her displeasure behind a wafer-thin smile. “If it was a story, Silas Hyman sure got cut up by nothing,” he said. “What am I looking for, Colonel?”

  For the first time since Edge had met him, the half-breed saw the depth of Haven’s feeling for his loss. A hate-filled rage rose to very near the surface of the man, who held it in check by the shortest of rein. “Whatever is left of the contents of three wagonloads of personal effects,” he said with a catch in his voice. The girl reached out with another grape and he knocked her hand away with a vicious swipe. It hurt her but she bit back a cry of pain as she cowered on the sofa. “Furniture imported from every corner of the world. Paintings by the Old Masters. Bone china. Crystal. Silverware. Clocks. Books.”

  “Value?” Edge asked coldly, his tone in contrast to Haven’s quivering voice.

  “Probably priceless,” the Colonel replied immediately. “But the reward money is based upon ten per cent of the total purchase price of the goods. Needless to say, I do not expect to recover the wine, brandy and cigars which were also on the tram.”

  Edge nodded. “Maybe some of the other junk as well.”

  “Junk!” Haven roared, then brought himself under control as he drew against his cheroot and glared at Edge. The half-breed was a cut above the other drifters which his reward offer had attracted. But only in terms of sly intelligence and the professional killer’s instinct for self-preservation. One had only to look at him - unshaven, unwashed and unkempt - to see the stamp of the uncaring philistine on the man. He could not be expected to appreciate the finer things of life. “There is no sliding scale for the reward,” he went on tightly. “The full amount will be paid to the man who brings me what is left of my treasures - together with Thomas and Edward Ball and whichever of their gang of ruffians remain with them.” He leaned down stiffly to grind out his cheroot in the carpet pile. “Dead or alive!”

  Edge sniffed. “Dead is easiest,” he said, and got to his feet.

  “You sound as if you think the whole thing will be easy,” Haven replied. “Do you have any idea where to look for the Balls?”

  Edge eyed the girl who had recovered from her painful humiliation and was using her painted fingernails to peel more grapes. “One I aim to keep to myself,” he said pointedly.

  “You can speak in front of Cyn,” Haven assured him. “I pay her well enough so that she doesn’t need to make anything else by selling what she hears in this suite.”

  “Nobody ever gets paid enough,” Edge said, and turned towards the double doors just as they were flung wide, crashing back against the walls.

  John and Elizabeth Day stood on the threshold of the room, the man leveling his Winchester at Haven. The couple stared hatefully at the Colonel. Behind them, his pockmarked face wreathed with anxiety, stood the priest.

  “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Haven demanded angrily.

  “Are you Colonel Haven?” John Day snapped.

  “Please be reasonable!” the priest pleaded.

  “He was responsible for Byron’s death,” Elizabeth tossed over her shoulder and added fire to her hate as she stared again at the Colonel.

  “That your personal business in Summer?” Edge asked easily, looking coolly at the girl. “What you going to do after you shoot him - hang him out for the buzzards?”

  “Stay out of this, Edge!” Day rasped. “You know how personal it is.”

  Haven was not the kind of man to be scared. For a soldier he had survived longer than the average by luck and judgment and he was prepared to meet death on its terms whenever it chose to strike. But the priest and the girl seemed to apportion his share of anxiety between them as the brother and sister advanced into the room.

  “Byron Day,” Haven said evenly and raised a finger to inscribe an imaginary line on his forehead above his nose. “Had a scar here.”

  “You couldn’t get volunteers to haul your crumby stuff from Fort Abercrombie to Fort Bridger,” Day snarled. “So you just detailed Byron and the others. It wasn’t army business. They were killed protecting your miserable home comforts.”

  “Please?” the priest begged.

  “They died following orders,” Haven said with a note of finality in his voice. “Doing a soldier’s duty.”

  “Don’t hand me that line of crap!” Day snarled, his hands trembling as they gripped the Winchester.

  “You don’t need it,” Edge put in. “You’re full of it already if you figure to blast Haven.”

  “I told you to stay out!” Day yelled, not taking his glaring eyes away from the placid face of the Colonel.

  “I’m already in,” Edge said. “And with the pot stacked ten grand high I don’t figure to fold. There are a few other guys downstairs who’ll feel the same way. Kill the Colonel and every one of us will have ten thousand reasons to be sore at you.” He curled his lips back from his teeth and narrowed his eyes to mere glinting slits. “And when I get sore, feller, it ain’t me who feels the pain.”

  It was a factor that neither of the Days had taken into consideration when planning their revenge. Now, both of them recognized the danger in the same instant. The girl on the sofa let out a soft sigh as she saw the anger drain from the brother and sister. The priest caught the expression and some of the stiffness went out of his tall frame.

  “John!” Elizabeth said in awe and swung towards her brother.

  He made a similar move towards her and her hand smacked against the rifle stock. John had relaxed his grip but suddenly tightened it to keep the Winchester from falling. His finger squeezed the trigger.

  The report was like a cannon in the confines of the room. His bullet ricocheted off Haven’s rigid collar with a metallic clash and spun into Cyn’s open mouth. She was no longer alive to utter a sound as she toppled from the sofa. Blood sprayed over her lips and spouted from the back of her head as the shell burst clear.

  “Dear God!” Elizabeth gasped, gripping her brother’s arm.

  Day dropped the Winchester as if it had suddenly become red hot The priest seemed undecided whether to advance into the room or turn tail and run back to his church in search of spiritual guidance. Haven fingered the bullet dent in his iron collar and reflected stoically upon his continued good luck. All of them stared down at the dead girl as her blood spread a widening stain across her night-gown, molding the material tackily to her breasts.

  “She didn’t deserve to die like this,” the ex-soldier murmured.

  “You only paid her money,” Edge said coldly. “She was a whore. The big pay off had to come some time.” Haven eyed him quizzically through his sadness. The wages of Cyn is death,” Edge said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EVERY person in the room looked towards Edge with blatant distaste as running footfalls sounded on the stairway at the far end of the corridor.

  “Doesn’t death mean anything to you, for goodness sake?” Elizabeth asked hoarsely, clinging to her brother.

  “I worry about my own,” he answered as the doorway became crowded with the curious.

  The Pitt and the wiry framed man who had questioned Edge about the Sioux were at the front of the crush. The owner of The Gates of Heaven, noting that Edge was the only man in the room holding a gun, stared at him in deep hatred.

  “I warned you once, mister!” she snarled. Then she saw the bloodied corpse and gave a shriek. “You’ll hang for this!” she screamed and spun around, to elbow
her way back through the press of people.

  The priest, recognizing Edge as a lost cause, transferred his horrified gaze to Haven. “I predicted this, Colonel,” he accused in the booming tone he normally reserved for fire and brimstone sermons. “I warned that you would bring bloodshed to this town.”

  “Go and tend your flock, padre,” Haven said softly. “There’s nothing you can do here.”

  Most of those who had rushed up from the saloon now turned to go back down again, satisfied that it was not the man with the money who had been killed. Just a whore and there a lot more of those in The Gates of Heaven.

  “Seems to me there’s a black sheep in this part of the pasture he could work on the wiry man with the unwavering stare put in, still concentrating his attention on Edge.

  He was now alone in the doorway and Edge examined him closely for the first time. Although he was no more than five feet six and probably carried less than a hundred and fifty pounds on his narrow frame, there was something about him to warn against discounting the man as an irritating nobody. Above his sparse body in its well-fitting, high-priced eastern suit, was a face with a kind of nondescript handsomeness. He had regular features that would merge easily into a crowd and be difficult to recall: unless he fixed the steady, open stare with his coal black eyes and backed it with a slightly crooked parting of his lips into a quarter smile. In this case, the object of his strangely searching humor would probably have difficulty in ever forgetting him. Edge, his eyes narrowed to slits, returned the frank examination, judging the man to be about his own age, from a vastly different background. But, apparent from the man’s coolness in the presence of sudden death, Edge recognized the mark of past experiences which paralleled his own. Violent death, which could never be a friend to any man, was certainly no stranger to this one.

  “Let’s set the record straight before any wrong ideas start circulating,” Edge said softly. “I’ve been the route of serving time for a murder I didn’t commit.* (*See: Edge - The Blue, The Grey And The Red.) Then it didn’t matter too much. Right now I’ve got things to do. The avenging angels over there sent the dame to that big bordello in the sky.”