EDGE: The Blind Side

by George G. Gilman

  "But you made it, feller," he told himself softly. And uncorked the bottle, raised it and growled: "Here's to you, feller. Too damn moral for your own peace of mind. Too damn moral to have yourself a piece of somebody else's."

  His teeth were exposed in a sardonic grin and they showed up starkly white in the meager light which filtered in through the uncurtained window: but the glittering slivers of his nar­rowed eyes were brighter as they expressed an odd combination of cynicism and disillusion­ment. That gradually mellowed toward dispas­sionate resignation as the level of whiskey in the bottle fell and the quantity in his empty stomach increased. Then he drained the final heeltap of liquor as he heard the front doors of the hotel open and continued to hold the bottle's smooth curve to his cheek as he lis­tened to other sounds—the rap of a fist on wood, the opening of another door, the in­distinct exchange of words between a man and a woman, footfalls rising on the stairway, moving along the landing and then the rap of a fist on wood again.

  "It's not locked, sheriff," Edge called flatly.

  The medium-built, running-to-fat, middle-aged man with the peace-officer's badge pinned to the breast pocket of his suit jacket swung open the door. And, in silhouette on the dim backdrop of light that came up from the lobby, it was plain to see Jack O'Rouke was nervously tense—maybe poised to go for the gun he carried in a shoulder holster. But the half-breed could not be sure if the lawman actually sighed his relief as the tension left him and he stepped into the room, closed the door gently behind him and leaned against it, his hands clasped at the base of his belly as if as a token of his intention to remain non-aggressive. Asked in his cultured, New England voice:

  "Are you drunk, Edge?"

  "With a bottle of whiskey and no grub inside me, I should be. But I guess it's been a too long day and I'm too tired."

  "You may sleep here for what remains of the night."

  "Intend to."

  "Both incidents at the Palace Saloon were provoked by the others involved. I learned this from witnesses who, if they were partisan, would support Whitney Turner and Silas Reeves. But the fact cannot be ignored that, if you were not in Fallon, there would have been no trouble."

  "Story of my life, sheriff," Edge said flatly, and dropped the bottle noisily on the floor, where it rolled under the bed. Then he took out the makings.

  "I told you how Otis Selmar got this town started as little more than his ranch and some places for his hands and their families to live and spend their time when they weren't work­ing. Since then, it's grown slowly but well. Not everybody here depends upon the C-bar-S ranch for a living anymore. But most people in Fallon share in the same ambition that Clark Selmar inherited from his father—to develop our community into a city with a fine reputa­tion that will get it considered for capital when the territory is accepted for statehood.

  "That's a long way off, we all know. But it's never too early to lay plans for something so important."

  Edge lit the cigarette with a match struck on the butt of his Frontier Colt. Dropped the match to the floor.

  "I can't recall the last time I planned for any­thing important, sheriff."

  "We're lucky. We don't get very much trouble here from outsiders. So we're happy to be off the beaten track of the main trail for the present. Even the four men who are locked in the jailhouse did not happen to rustle on C-bar-S range by chance. Hayden once worked for Clark Selmar, before he was fired for lazi­ness. Obviously he has harbored a grudge. But, unfortunately for Hayden and his partners-in-crime, he was seen and recognized by Floyd Cassidy. Which was unfortunate for you, too."

  "I can't recall the last time I had a stroke of good fortune, sheriff," Edge paraphrased his last comment, the cigarette hardly moving at the corner of his mouth.

  "Mrs. Rochford is the woman they are alleged to have assaulted?"

  "You know it."

  "And Rochford hired you to find the rapists?"

  "Right."

  Now O'Rouke definitely sighed. "I can understand your feelings over this conflict of interests in the prisoners, Edge. And I apprec­iate your attitude."

  "But you don't trust it?" the half-breed posed as embarrassment seemed to check the lawman.

  "Not me," O'Rouke responded quickly. "From what I have seen of you, and heard about you, I consider you to be a man of honor according to your own lights. Your word given is your word kept. But there are some in Fallon who have their doubts. Not so much about you on your own—but you in concert with Mrs. Rochford."

  It seemed that he was disconcerted by his subject again, and on the verge of faltering in what he was saying. But then he hurried on, changing tack. "The frontier has not yet reached the Pacific Ocean, Edge. And Fallon has little claim to being anything but a frontier town. Nothing more than values, perhaps. But by having those values, certain citizens are in­clined to mistrust strangers who do not conform immediately to... Goddamnit, I think you understand me, Edge. I have a job to do and I'm required to do it irrespective of whether I agree with the people who elected me. I've been instructed to instruct you to leave Fallon before noon tomorrow."

  "Just like unwelcome strangers are asked to get out of frontier towns that don't claim to be—"

  "I've done what I was told," O'Rouke inter­rupted dully, and unclasped his hand so he could reach behind him and open the door. "On my own account, I'd like to add that it might be as well if you persuaded the Rochfords to go with you. Since Doc McCall has said there is nothing that he can do medically for the man. And if the woman wishes to seek retribution against my prisoners, she must do so by means of legal representations in Tucson—as I think I mentioned to you earlier."

  Not a single sound from outside the room had intruded into it since the lawman entered and closed the door at his back. So that now, the crash of another door as it flew open to impact with a wall perhaps sounded dispropor­tionately loud. From out on the street and diag­onally across it. No ordinary door opened to allow a person through—its nature and the reason for its forceful opening revealed a moment later. When galloping hooves beat on the street: the horse raced out of the Fallon House Hotel livery stable and passed the hotel itself, heading for the intersection with the main street.

  Edge came up off the bed and O'Rouke lunged away from the door. Reached the win­dow both together—in time to glimpse a slightly-built rider dressed all in white astride the galloping mount a moment before the field of vision from the window was restricted by the frame. But as they straightened up, the half-breed and the lawman were able to hear the clattering hoofbeats still and knew the animal had been steered left at the intersection, to head along the northwestern length of Fallon's main street.

  "It was the Rochford woman," O'Roukel said.

  "I wouldn't bet against it." "She has a rifle and she's heading for the jailhouse."

  The hoofbeats were getting fainter in the distance, but they could still be heard clearly enough for the men at the window of the hotel room to distinguish the fact that the horse was being slowed.

  "That direction sure enough."

  O'Rouke stared fixedly out into the dark night, as if struggling to see over and through the intervening buildings to where he knew the red-brick building with the barred windows and the gallows in the yard out back was sited. And an anguished expression was abruptly spread across his deeply lined and weather-darkened face as the clatter of hooves on hard-packed dirt was curtailed.

  "You don't think...?" he started in a tone of voice that announced he knew he was clutching at straws that didn't even exist.

  Silence crowded into the void that followed the end of what he was saying—a silence that was generated by more than just the two men in this room straining to hear what was to come in the wake of the reining to a halt of the horse. Like the whole town was holding its collective breath. Then a man cried out. Too far off for what he yelled to be understood—so that Edge and O'Rouke knew only that the man exper­ienced terror. Before a fusillade of gunfire ex­ploded. Reached the hotel room a
fter travelling the same distance, but sounding loud enough to mask whatever lesser noise was created in any part of town in reaction to the exploding of the hail of shots. Twelve of them in all, spaced equally apart by the need to pump the action of the repeater so that an empty shellcase was ejected and a fresh bullet was jacked into the breech after each squeezing of the trigger. Until the magazine was exhausted, when there was another period of silence as stretched sec­onds were linked together: before hoofbeats hit the distant street once more. Receding into the distance.

  "Yeah, I sometimes think more than's good for me, sheriff," Edge said to the lawman who looked like he had felt a shockwave from every bullet that exploded from the muzzle of the repeater rifle. "But I figure that can be better than talking too much."

  Now, it sounded like the whole town was shouting demands for its questions to be answered. This as many shafts of light were laid out into the night by newly lit lamps, and Edge opened the window to arc the butt of his cigarette across the balcony and down on to the street.

  "Those men were unarmed and locked in cells," O'Rouke groaned. "Helpless."

  "Helen Rochford was naked and alone when she stumbled on their camp. If she had had some help—"

  "Goddamnit, there's no room for that kind of thinking anymore!" the lawman snarled, whirling from the window and swinging around the end of the bed to reach the door. Which he wrenched open before he added bitterly: "We Fallon people are striving to put behind us that eye-for-an-eye morality!"

  He had to swerve suddenly to avoid crashing into Geoffrey Rochford who stood on the landing, the blanket draped over his shoulders serving only partially to conceal his nakedness.

  "Help me, I beg of you!" the Englishman pleaded, thrusting out an exploring hand and failing to make contact with the hurrying sher­iff. "What is happening? Please help me? I can't see."

  "Me neither, feller," the half-breed growled as he moved at a far easier pace in the wake of O'Rouke. "In the matter of eye to eye with some people."

  "Edge?" Rochford croaked, turning away from the sound of the sheriff's footfalls and reaching toward the sound of a familiar voice while his other hand continued to clutch the blanket at his throat. He took an anxious step forward and something akin to a smile of im­mense relief made attentive visit to his pale-under-the-tan, dead-eyed face. "Is that you, Mr. Edge?"

  "Ain't been myself lately, but I figure it is," the half-breed answered, taking hold of the outstretched hand as if he were going to shake it. Then he pushed the hand and arm down to the side of the man as Rochford vented a short gust of laughter.

  "Helen has gone again, Edge! Do you know where? Will you help me to find her? Do you know where she is? Dear God, I feel so utterly useless without eyes."

  "No sweat, feller. Figure we have to have a better chance than the rest of getting to her first," Edge answered, and took a hold of Roch­ford's wrist to turn the man and steer him back into his room across the landing.

  "Better chance than the rest? I don't under­stand. Better chance than the rest, Mr. Edge? Are you telling me we are in competition with others in seeking Helen?"

  "The enlightened people of this town, feller," the half-breed answered evenly as he eased the Englishman into a seated posture on the bed. "But, like I say, it's better to come from the blind side."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Edge needed to light the lamp on the bureau in room seven to find Geoffrey Rochford's clothes, which he piled on the bed beside the Englishman—ignoring his constant barrage of questions which demanded an explanation of the cryptic comment with regard to Helen being sought by others. Inquiries made it ap­parent the man was still unconscious during the slaughter at the jailhouse—had come to amid the raucous shouting of the towns­people.

  "I should be ashamed of myself making bad jokes about blindness, feller," the half-breed said at length, silencing the Englishman's vain interrogation and talking over a buzz of voices from another part of Fallon. "I'll tell you about it later. For now, get your threads on and wait for me. What I have to do will take more than a couple of minutes. I'll be back."

  He grasped Rochford's hand again and moved it to rest on the pile of clothes beside him.

  "You will bring Helen back here to the hotel?" the Englishman asked eagerly, and reached out to try to maintain a physical contact with Edge after the half-breed pulled away.

  "No."

  He turned out the lamp in the blind man's room before he left it to re-cross the landing and enter his own which was already in darkness. Draped his bedroll over one shoulder and hefted his saddle under the other arm to carry the gear downstairs. Geoffrey Rochford called out: "Thanks for what you are doing for me," and Edge made no response. He felt cold air coming up from the lobby and saw the reason for this was the open doorway.

  Rosie Shay stepped in from the stoop, hug­ging herself in the topcoat draped over her shoulders but still shivering. "Goodness, what a thing to have happened?" she said rhetori­cally. "I only went to the corner, but they say the jail is a charnel house. Blood all over the place. All four rustlers as dead as poor Harry. But at least he died peacefully. He wasn't slaughtered. What if there had been other prisoners in the cells? A drunk or someone like that? Imagine that? And the woman was stayin' here in my hotel."

  "Silas Reeves, ma'am?" Edge said.

  "Oh, that was self-defense, the way I was told about—"

  "Obliged if you'd tell me where I can find his workshop."

  "Workshop? Oh, I see. Yeah, if you turn right outside and go down to the intersection and across it, the place where he worked is three blocks down. On the right. Has the name Reeves' Forge painted on the doors."

  "Obliged to you. I'll see you about the room rent when I get back."

  She went to the door that gave onto hen private quarters while Edge moved to the ones she had left open. And she called after him as he stepped out on to the stoop:

  "You oughta have taken up my invite, mister. Once a whore always a whore—special­ly when she's a widow. And a man always knows where he is with a whore."

  Perhaps the lonely and frustrated hotel keeper continued to speak in the same dull tone, but she had to know she was talking to herself after Edge had stepped down off the stoop. Where he paused briefly to toss his gear over the tailgate into the rear of the disabled wagon. Then he followed Rosie Shay's direc­tions through a section of town that was quiet again—the center of activity having moved to the area of the jailhouse. While many of those too timid to gravitate toward the scene of the mass killings looked out from darkened win­dows at the tall, lean, loose-limbed half-breed as he strode purposefully but without haste to the intersection and across it. He sensed the watching eyes and once heard a whispered exchange that was patently resentful in tone.

  Fallon being the kind of town it was, the double doors of the blacksmith forge and wagon repair shop were not locked. Edge struck a match to get his bearings within the building that was as cluttered on the inside as it was ramshackle outside. As he had expected, Silas Reeves had been too busy with other pur­suits to start in on fixing the badly buckled wheel off the Rochfords' wagon. But the use­less wheel provided a pattern from which he was able to locate one of the same size from a stock of new ones. He needed to strike four more matches before he found what he was looking for—and by then the acrid smell of burning had masked a far subtler aroma that was in the chill atmosphere of the crowded and untidy workshop. Or maybe, he reflected briefly as he rolled the wheel back through the forge and out over the threshold, he only imagined he had caught the scent of the Englishwoman's perfume: triggered by a glimpse of a rumpled bed in a corner of the cluttered room.

  As he rolled the wheel back the way he had come, he guessed he was under surveillance again. And maybe there was talk about him. But the wheel was heavy and an awkward size for a man of his build to roll smoothly. The weariness that had kept him from getting drunk now weighed more heavily on his eyelids and seemed to make every muscle in his frame ache. And the whiskey that h
ad left him sober felt like it was still sloshing about his stomach, getting more sour by the moment. Thus he needed to concentrate his entire attention on steering the wheel, denying his need for rest and fighting the threat of nausea—which left no part of his perception free to monitor his surroundings. Until he had fitted the new wheel to the wagon, fixed it firmly on the axle and leaned against the rim to take a few moments of rest: flexing his shoulder, arm and hand muscles. Only a long period of sleep] would cure his tiredness, but at least the danger of throwing up had passed—and the relief he felt at this was matched by the easing of tension he detected in the atmosphere around him. Which made itself silently and invisibly even more evident as he crossed to the hotel livery and brought out the two mules— the only animals left in the stable after Helen Rochford took the chestnut gelding.

  Just as he completed putting the mules in the traces of the wagon, the doors of the Fallon House Hotel opened and Rosie Shay emerged, I talking softly as she gently led Geoffrey Rochford out on to the stoop. He was fully and neatly dressed in the expensive suit and this served to emphasize the sick-looking, skull-like gauntness of his bristled face with the starkly white bandage across his brow.