EDGE: Rhapsody in Red (Edge series Book 21)

by George G. Gilman

  “Great believer in education,” Edge allowed with a cold smile.

  “My thanks,” the Baron replied, with a stiff bow that almost unbalanced him.

  “No disrespect intended, young feller,” Augie said as Edge turned away from the bar. “But I reckon it’ll be the Tallis bunch that’ll be teachin’ lessons.”

  The half-breed broadened the smile that did not extend beyond the deep lines cutting away from the corners of his thin lips. “You’re entitled to your school of thought, feller.”

  He moved casually among the tables, toward a corner of the room where the poker game with the largest stakes was taking place. Six shirt-sleeved men were already seated around the money-littered table and the dapper-dressed Duke Box was standing nearby—first in line to fill a vacant chair. But two players were showing signs of retirement from the game. One was having trouble keeping his eyes open and a second mopped frantically at his brow every time he glanced down at the meager remains of his depleted stake.

  Edge leaned his back against the wall, rifle still canted to his shoulder, and carefully watched the players and the play.

  He was out ten thousand dollars after his run-in with Sullivan and the Apache renegades, and second in line of his priorities—after staying alive—was to replace what had been lost. He had only to watch three hands of the five-card stud to know he had a good chance of achieving his aim in coming to High Mountain. For the players were rich enough to provide the bankroll and, after Box had replaced the exhausted man, only two of them were experts on the subtleties of the wild card game—which, in a six-chair school, meant that three were ripe to be taken.

  The only factor working against the half-breed’s plan was time: and Ben Tallis was in control of that But from what the whore had told him, and based on the evidence of his own eyes, Edge was sure he would receive advance warning of the trouble to come—provided he stayed away from dark and deserted places where the Devil’s Disciples merged into the shadows.

  “You wiped me out, gentlemen,” the player who had sweated a lot announced when another pot was taken. “I ‘m for bed and regrets.”

  “Any objections?” Edge asked, gripping the back of the chair with a brown-skinned hand as it was vacated.

  “If you know the rules and have the money, none,” Box answered, his round, fifty-year-old face wreathed with a beam as he gathered up the cards for his deal.

  The other four men at the table expressed their discontent without speaking. Until one whispered: “He’s the feller that shot two of Ben’s boys, Duke.”

  Box bobbed his head. “Figured that out for myself, gents. When he showed up on the stairs it was like most gents in this place saw a ghost.” He brightened the smile and waved for Edge to take the chair. “But he ain’t so dumb as that shoot-out makes him look. Knows same as me—and same as you gents oughta—that Ben Tallis ain’t gonna do nothin’ about him until Ben Tallis is good and ready to pick where, when, and how.”

  Edge sat down and nodded in acknowledgement as he leaned the Winchester against the chair. “Man has to be careful about rocking this kind of showboat—especially when he’s getting twenty-five per cent of what the passengers pay for being taken for a ride?”

  “This game’s private,” the little entrepreneur said, dealing the cards around the table. “No house share. Five card stud. Dealer calls wild or not. No stake limit and no markers. Hard cash only.”

  Edge put his money on the table in front of him—a few dollars more than two hundred and seventy—the money he had been paid for his dead horse, the reward on the two hold-up men he had killed, and what was left of the pay he had earned at Fort Hope.

  He had played five games, and almost doubled his bankroll by taking one pot, when the bellowing voice of Ben Tallis sounded out in the street.

  “Duke! Me and the boys are pullin’ outta this town!”

  The half-breed was in the process of dealing as the harsh-spoken words cut across the moan of the strengthening norther. He reacted with just a further narrowing of his hooded eyes in the shadow of his hat brim—and continued with the deal. But Box ended the game by leaping to his feet and snatching his hat from the floor beside his chair.

  “What the hell!” he snapped, jamming the hat on his head as he stormed toward the door, swinging his short arms to force a way through the other saloon patrons who were crowding in the same direction.

  “Has to be another way down and out from upstairs,” Edge said evenly as the other players showed indecision about whether to remain at the table or move to see the outcome of the new disturbance in High Mountain.

  “Outside stairway at the rear,” one of the men supplied.

  “Obliged,” Edge said, picking up his money and his rifle and pushing back his chair. “Finish the game another time?”

  He raked his glinting eyes over their faces and each responded with a reluctant nod.

  “Hey, Ben!” Box yelled as he reached the sidewalk. “What you and the boys doin’, for Christsake?”

  “I told you, Duke! Pullin’ out! Can’t do our job of protectin’ people if my boys get arrested for doin’ it!”

  Only Augie and the Baron were still at the bar, their liquor-glazed eyes following Edge as the half-breed took the stairs two at a time.

  “That Tallis is smart,” the stage driver growled as Edge was lost in the smoke haze. “He ain’t gonna pull out.”

  “Seems our fellow-traveler is equally aware of that fact, sir,” the Britisher said. “I’ll be gravely disappointed if he keeps on running.”

  “He’ll be in a grave if he don’t,” Augie countered.

  As he moved along the balcony, Edge could still hear the exchange out in the wind-blown street.

  “I’ll talk to the sheriff!” Box yelled. “He can’t handle this alone!”

  Edge pushed open the door of Virginia’s room, moved silently inside, and closed it after him. The whore was still enjoying her lone rest, sprawled out on her stomach under the cover. She did not move as the half-breed crossed the room and eased open the window a crack.

  “High and mighty Sheriff Fyson ain’t in no mood to listen to nobody, Duke!” Tallis snarled.

  The sounds of the weather had been loud enough to mask the movement of horses—more than twenty of them, reined into a close-knit, unmoving group between the saloon and the law office, each mount straddled by a black-garbed gunman with studded lettering on his back. The big, strong-looking stallions were finely curried and tacked out with polished black-leather saddles, and bridles glinting with metalwork trim.

  “We’ll damn well see about that!” Box yelled, and stepped down off the sidewalk to cross the street.

  The door of the law office swung open as the rotund form of Box drew level with where the ugly Ben Tallis sat his horse, and the lawman ducked his head under the lintel to step outside. The tall Hiram Rydell looked almost slight beside the towering figure of Fyson.

  “Law has to take its proper course, cousin!” Fyson drawled. “Ain’t turning loose a man that shot an unarmed female in the back.”

  The loud exchange of voices disturbed the sleeping citizens of High Mountain yet again. Light spilled from windows and doors were jerked open. The word spread fast along the length of the single street and reached the tent town.

  “Sheriff!” Box snarled. “The man was a duly deputized law officer who made a genuine mistake! Do you realize what will happen if Ben Tallis pulls out with his men?” He flung out both arms to point each way along the street. “We got some of the wealthiest folks in the West here in High Mountain. And they already spent small fortunes with the businessmen hereabouts.”

  Edge saw the knowing grin on the knife-scarred face of Tallis as the leader of the vigilantes turned to look toward the crowd moving along the street from the tent town.

  “The bad element has only been kept out because they know we have fine protection. Do you think they will stay out when they hear all we have is a sheriff?”

  “Dang it, two notches on
my shooting iron means I ain’t no tenderfoot no more!” Hiram yelled, and hitched up his gunbelt.

  The advance of the out-of-towners had halted short of the group of horsemen. A half-dozen were listening intently as the bald-headed horse trader explained what the new arrivals had missed of the exchange. The town’s mortician and the owner of the Peaks Saloon and Hotel hurried across to join the discussion.

  Hiram was again ignored.

  “Town’ll be wide open for any trigger-happy thief to walk in and take what he wants!” Box continued. “But there won’t be just one. Every crook west of the Mississippi will head for High Mountain.” His tone became scornful. “You’re big and you’re broad, High Fy. But ain’t no one man big enough to handle the hell that’ll break loose if Ben and his boys move out.”

  “Dang me, I already—” Hiram started, his youthful face inscribed with rising anger.

  “Keen it shut, boy!” the lawman told him. “Real talk’s just about to start.”

  Danby and one of the out-of-towners had broken from the front of the crowd, to circle around the horsemen and join Box. Fyson watched them with wary eyes, and his tight mouth was drawn into a thinner line.

  “I don’t like this, High Fy,” the skinny mortician announced “But it’s gotta be done. I’m speaking for the town councilmen—and most of the people of High Mountain, I reckon. This here feller reckons he can get the backin’ of all the folks that come to the festival.”

  The man at his side was short and broadly built with white hair and a pale face. He had to clear his throat before he could make his voice heard above the wind from the north.

  “No disrespect intended, sheriff. But we strangers to this town have no confidence in the ability of you and that young boy to protect our persons and property. Should Mr. Tallis and his men leave, then so shall we. I have not canvassed all those involved, but I feel I can—”

  “And I ain’t spoken to all our folks,” Danby cut in, “but I’m damn sure none of them want to lose the kinda business been brought here by the festival. You want a vote taken, I’ll fix it. But you know which way it’ll go. And you know the town councilmen got the right to suspend you from office—on grounds of dereliction of duty. Reckon we got them grounds in this case.”

  Stretched seconds of silence followed the mortician’s final word—broken only by the moan of the wind and the flapping of the overhead canvas signs. The lawman’s expression had not altered as he listened to the threat, and it remained hard as he raised his right hand to the left side of his chest and lifted the tin star off his shirt pocket. He weighed the badge in the palm of his big hand for a moment, then flipped it out into the street. It was heavy enough to maintain an intended course through the wind, and hit the ground between Danby’s boots.

  “When a man resigns, Harv, no need for a vote to be taken. Wouldn’t want anyone to lose business on account of me. But I reckon you could become the busiest man in town, cousin.”

  He unhooked the ring of keys from his belt and said something to Hiram as he handed it to the youngster. The kid was as surprised as most other people at the ease with which Fyson had surrendered his office: and he turned like a robot to go back inside and through into the cell block. Then the initial reaction was replaced by relief on many of the cold-pinched faces, and only those who happened to see the brief grin of triumph flit across the grotesquely ugly face of Ben Tall is experienced a tremor of foreboding that the black-garbed man and his followers were now entirely in control of law and order in High Mountain.

  Fyson’s long legs carried him across to the saloon in short time without any show of haste. Danby and the spokesman for the out-of-towners moved back to where they came from with far less dignity. The released prisoner swaggered from the law office, hand raised in response to the cheers and ribald congratulations of his partners. The dudish attire of Hiram Rydell looked even more inappropriate as the kid reappeared, head hung low and shoulders stooped in an attitude of dejection.

  As Tallis and Box became engaged in low-voiced conversation, the crowd of bystanders broke up to return to the saloon or to their beds.

  Edge remained at the slightly opened window, feeling a tight ball of anger at the pit of his stomach. He was still better than nine grand short of the reason he had come to High Mountain and he had no chance of making up the difference while Tallis ran the town. But no part of the coldly controlled rage was directed at himself, for none was aroused by the irrefutable fact that he had created the difficulty by his own actions.

  The drunken Britisher had been wrong in his opinion that the half-breed only acted for a logical purpose—if the Baron had judged Edge by the standards of normal men. But perhaps his perception was still as strong as it had been at the scene of the hold-up, despite all the liquor he had poured into himself since then. Maybe he recognized that the man called Edge had more in common—emotionally—with a cougar than with his fellow human beings. And that for him to act instinctively was not a sign of irrationality: merely a valid aspect of the character which cruel fate had forced him to adopt.

  Two men had tried to prevent him from doing what he wanted to do. He had warned them: always he warned those who blocked his way—if there was time. They had ignored the warning and so they had died. Such an occurrence in the harsh life of the half-breed was an inevitable result of the circumstances which created it, and at the moment of its staging was completely divorced from its ramifications—much as a cougar must hunt and kill its prey to live, even while those who seek to kill it may be closing in.

  To back down from the menace of aimed guns did not kill a man, but to a man like Edge it would take away something of what he had become. And what he had become was all he had.

  “I sure hope it ain’t me you’re mad at,” Virginia rasped from the bed.

  She had been watching him for a full minute, having been roused from sleep by the sense of another’s presence in the room. And while she watched, she had seen the tautness of his anger set his profile into even harder lines than usual. Now, as he shifted his gaze toward her, she caught a glimpse of the blue fires in his slitted eyes when they reflected the light from outside.

  “Go get that murderin’ bastard!” Tallis roared from the street below. “You hear that, Edge? You’re gonna be got, man, and you’re gonna be got good! Nobody messes with the Devil’s Disciples and gets away with it!”

  “Set your mind at rest, ma’am?” the half-breed asked softly as he shifted his gaze back to the street.

  It was empty of all except the black-garbed men. Tallis stood on the sidewalk in front of the law office, moving his head from side to side to direct his threat toward both ends of town. One hand was draped over his jutting Colt butt while the other fixed Fyson’s discarded badge to the front of his jacket. Four of his men were leading away the horses. The remainder stood in a rock-solid group at the center of the street, rigid against the buffeting of the wind.

  “Not if they find you here with me,” the whore answered nervously.

  A curt nod from Tallis was the signal for his men to break from the group and fan out to cover the town. Two of them moved on the entrance of the saloon. Another went into the alley that led to the rear of the place.

  “Leave my gear here still?” Edge asked as he rose from digging a carton of .44 shells from a saddlebag.

  “Talk about extra charge if you’re still alive to pay it,” she allowed as he moved to the door. “Hey, how come High Fy’s lettin’ Tallis get away with this?”

  Edge cracked open the door and peered outside. “Guess you could say he’s resigned to the situation,” he muttered, and stepped out onto the balcony.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “HE was in here!” Sokalaski yelled across the saloon.

  “Right,” Box responded. “Was playin’ cards with us. Didn’t see him leave.”

  “Any of you others?” Sokalski’s partner demanded. “We’re all the law this town’s got now and you’d better not hinder us.”

  “Everyon
e was watching the events outside, my good man,” The Baron lied, and caused Edge’s lips to curl back in a cold smile as the half-breed strode silently around the balcony.

  A glance over the rail showed that the patrons of the saloon had resumed what they had been doing before Tallis had started his tactical ploy to gain control of High Mountain’s law. Through the slow-moving layer of blue smoke, he saw that the three poker games were underway again and that the heavy drinkers were lined up at the bar.

  Hiram was at the counter, standing between Augie and the Baron. He was drinking whiskey from a beer glass, shuddering as each gulp burned a way down his throat.

  The ex-sheriff sat alone at a table, sipping beer with apparent relish and seeming to ignore what was happening around him.

  The two Devil’s Disciples were flanking the entrance, right hands fisted around gun butts. But the Colts remained in the low-slung holsters as the men scoured the malodorous, now-silenced room with demanding eyes.

  The owner of the place mopped at his sheened brow with his apron as the hard stares of the black-garbed men became fixed upon his face. Then he issued a tacit reply to the unspoken question: he rolled his eyes up in their sockets to indicate the second floor of the building.

  Another of their number died as the two gunmen lunged away from the batswings to sprint for the foot of the stairs.

  Edge had moved halfway around the balcony and entered a short passage between two room doors. Light which spilled up onto the balcony from the lamps in the saloon did not penetrate into the passage and the half-breed was in pitch darkness when he reached the door at the end. Drafts of cold air from cracks between the door and frame told him that he was only a pace away from the dangerous freedom of the moonlit night. Footfalls thudding on the stairs warned him of the kind of danger that was out there.

  He felt for the hinges and discovered the door opened inward. The man running up the steps rose closer. Edge lay his rifle on the floor at the base of the wall, drew the razor with his right hand, and curled the fingers of his left around the doorknob. Then he went down into a half crouch and tensed his muscles.