Edge: Arapaho Revenge

by George G. Gilman

  "You got a reason for telling me this, I figure?"

  Meek nodded. "If the Kansas cow towns are anythin' to go by, railheads can get to be pretty damn rough and tough places. Not our intention to have that happen here in Calendar. So we're takin' a hard line with troublemakers right from the start."

  Outside, across the street, Eddie Marx had completed his sales talk and now the buying had begun. A lot of people were talking now, but with less forceful stridency. Occasionally, the sound of metal striking metal rang out from the disabled locomotive.

  The half-breed struck a match on the butt of his Colt to light the cigarette, and said on a trickle of smoke: "Times ain't been so good for this town until now?"

  He looked pointedly about himself—at the in­terior of the Cottonwood Saloon which in many ways typified the town of which it was a part. Once it had been less than half its present size, until an extension was built on at the rear—the enlarged whole now under-used by customers and neglected by the owner.

  "They were good for us when we wanted only what we had, stranger," Bruno Linder said in an accent that was much thicker than his father's. Speaking with his attention appar­ently still fixed on the book on the bar top be­tween his elbows. "When we were all in the business of selling just to the local people who have small farms and ranches hereabouts. And some few passengers who travel through on the stage. But with the coming of the railroad, also has come greed for many of us. And much money has been spent to make the town bigger in hope that—"

  "Bruno, he is not a businessman, Mr. Edge." the older Linder cut in apologetically on the in­creasingly sour-toned voice of his son.

  "I do not think bigger is always better and I consider the money expended on—"

  "Damn glad all young American's don't think like you, kid," Meek growled, "or this country of ours'd still be just a bunch of states way back east and the rest of it carved up by a bunch of foreigners!"

  The sheriff of Calendar finished his beer with an angry gesture—obviously irritated with himself for allowing the young Linder to provoke him. Perhaps in the latest of frequent heated discussions on the same subject. And Bruno looked up at last from his book, a smirk­ing smile of triumph on his callow face, was about to press the needle harder into Meek when his father spoke first. In fast, harsh-sounding German accompanied by a grim frown. Which caused the boy to slam his book closed, straighten up, spin around and leave the saloon through a door between the end of the bar and the entertainment dais. After he had gone, his father became shame faced as he explained:

  "I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I mean always never to speak German now I am Amer­ican. I tell my son he is not a credit to the memory of his mother who shared my hopes and dreams and died in helping me to realize them. You see how this disgraces him?"

  "Mrs. Linder was killed by Indians, Mr. Edge," Meek said pointedly, his self anger sub­dued now. "Ain't hardly any family here in Cal­endar that didn't lose one or more of its number on the wagon train from Independence that brought them all here. Them that have places out in the country to the south, too.

  Edge had been slowly sipping his whiskey and beginning to relish the pleasant feeling of weariness it was helping to ease over his entire being. Said, having to stifle a yawn:

  "Got the message out on the street awhile ago that this town holds a grudge against In­dians, sheriff."

  "I don't, personally. New here, along with the railroad and the expansion. Hired on to stop the kind of trouble you tried to start out on the street awhile ago."

  Edge nodded. "Yeah, I have to admit I did start it."

  "You like another beer, Mr. Meek?" Hans Linder asked eagerly, reaching for the empty glass the sheriff had replaced on the bar top.

  "No!" the lawman said, snappishly, and waved a dismissing hand at the bartender in an angry gesture. Irritated by the interruption. "And that's not your usual style, I'd say?" he put to the half-breed. "Because I pride myself I can see beyond the outwards looks of people."

  His dark eyes ran a tacitly eloquent survey over the seated length of the man at the table. And Edge remained just as silent for several seconds, like he had no comment to make to what Meek had said. Then he swallowed the few drops of rye that remained in the shot glass, and sighed as he replaced the stopper in the bottle.

  "You're right, sheriff. It was real dumb of me to start that play. Without knowing the feel­ings of the people here and how smart their lawman is."

  "That isn't what I said, Mr. Edge. What in­terests me is why you provoked those two men so that one of them tried to get a gun—"

  "Wasn't like it seemed, Mr. Meek," a man announced from the doorway as he pushed open the batwings. The disheveled undertaker who had been suspicious of Edge at first sight and now directed even more enmity toward the seated man as he halted just inside the threshold of the saloon.

  "You want a drink, Mr. Downing?" Hans Linder asked eagerly.

  "It wasn't, Cecil?" Meek asked.

  The totally bald and almost toothless old man at the doorway shook his head. "No. Spenser claims he just took the rifles outta the box to show folks him and his partner had them to sell."

  "Great sense of timin'," the sheriff growled.

  "But that ain't what I come to tell you, Mr. Meek."

  "It's not?"

  Up at the railroad depot, a whistle shrilled. Blown by a man, not the locomotive. And may­be it was the same man who yelled into the silence the blast had heralded:

  "Just advance news, folks! Figure to get the train rollin' in an hour! So she'll be ready to leave at eight o'clock! That's all, folks!"

  Relief was expressed by many people out on the street. And Marx began to talk loud and fast above the mass of voices, exhorting the crowd that there was still plenty of time to spend at the store on wheels.

  "No, it ain't," Cecil Downing went on im­patiently after the interruptions from outside. "I had my suspicions when I first seen this stranger roll into town, sheriff. That the buck-board he was ridin' and the mules that was haulin' it didn't belong to him."

  "I, too, recognized that the animals which stop outside my saloon—" Linder begain, constantly nodding his head. But, unlike the un­dertaker, there was no rancor about the way he said it. Nor in the attitude of Meek as the lawman cut in:

  "Seems certain of the local citizens don't ap­preciate as much as you do, Mr. Edge, that I still have at least the sense I was born with." He glanced over his shoulder at the bartender, who expressed chastened contrition. Then shifted his dark-eyed gaze to the down-at-heel man at the doorway, who was unrepentant but broodingly silent. Finally looked down at the half-breed as he continued: "Marc Maziol doesn't come to town as often as he used to. Can't afford to since the railroad took away most of his payin' customers. And doesn't have much of an inclination on account of not likin' people hereabouts for lobbying for the railroad."

  "Exceptin' for me!" Downing put in vehem­ently. "Marc and me been checker playin' friends a lot of years and—"

  "Except for Mr. Downin' here," Meek allow­ed. "But to get to the point. There's more than one rundown old wreck of a buckboard still bein' used in this part of the country. And more than a single pair of mules. But there's just the one pair of mules haulin' one old buckboard that would make the first stop in Calendar-come hell or high water—outside this saloon."

  He looked questioningly at Edge as the smell of smoke mixed with steam wafted in over and under the batwings. Along with the sound of the locomotive coming to life.

  "Mules are a little like elephants, I guess. They never forget."

  "No doubt about it, Mr. Edge." The sheriff nudged the half-breed's gear with the side of his booted foot. Added: "Also no doubt that a wagon isn't your usual way of travelin', seems to me?"

  "The Frenchman and I did a kind of trade, sheriff," Edge supplied, no longer feeling pleasantly weary. Sensing danger, but from be­yond the confines of the cavernous saloon and the three men he could clearly see.

  "Kind of?" Meek posed.


  "Left my horse there and took his wagon and mules."

  "Mr. Meek, I don't believe Marc would've made a trade like that!" the undertaker com­plained, stroking the fires of hatred for Edge in his weak looking eyes.

  "He said a kind of trade," the lawman re­minded, not shifting his gaze away from the half-breed. And this implied demand for further information was punctuated by a short, sharp whistle, this time from the locomotive as the repairmen tested the build-up of steam.

  "And it's a kind of truth he told, sir," a man announced from outside of the batwing doors, to draw the largely surprised attention of all four men in the saloon toward him. Three of the men recognizing the tall, thin, beak-nosed, red-haired, twenty year old kid who now eased open the slatted doors—with the barrel of a rifle that was aimed from the hip at the only member of the quartet who did not know him.

  "You look like you just reached town, feller," the half-breed said, to fill the silence that Meek, Linder and Downing had expected the new­comer to fill.

  "From the north, mister. By way of the Dora River at Frenchman's Crossin'."

  He looked and sounded tough and sure of himself. Tired and dirt grimed from a long trip but not at all careless.

  "Then you didn't hear me—"

  "I heard enough, mister!" the youngster snarled and came through the batwings, to show that his finger was on the trigger and the hammer was cocked on the Winchester.

  Edge went on as if there had been no inter­ruption: "—warn the people here that if a gun is aimed at me twice, the second time I do my damndest to kill the one that didn't listen to me."

  "This is my deputy, Glenn Royale, Mr. Edge," Cy Meek said hurriedly as the young recent arrival looked ready to clash with the half-breed. 'What are you sayin', Glenn?"

  The sheriff did not take his gaze away from Edge after the brief glance at his deputy to see the danger.

  "There's a horse at Maziol's place all right, Mr. Meek. Dead and half eaten by buzzards and coyotes. Same as Maziol is. Least, I figure it's Maziol. What's left of him is in a blanket on my horse out front."

  Hans Linder rasped: "Mein Gott!"

  Cecil Downing snarled: "Sonofabitch!"

  Cy Meek asked coldly: "Why?"

  Edge answered: "He shot my horse instead of me. And was fixing to rape—"

  "Keep him covered, Glenn!" the lawman cut in sharply, and came away from the bar to get behind the seated half-breed. "You're under arrest, Edge. For the time being. Until I find out exactly what happened." He drew the Frontier Colt from the holster as his suddenly tougher looking deputy threw the stock of Win­chester to his shoulder and aligned the sights on the chest of his target, left of center. "Cecil, go take care of the remains Glenn brought in. Guess there's nobody more fittin' to make formal identification of the deceased."

  There was a constant hissing of steam through the escape valves of the locomotive now and the air entering the Cottonwood Saloon was heavier with its moist scent mixed in with the more arid taint of woodsmoke. The undertaker went out, careful not to get be­tween the barrel of the rifle and Edge, and the sheriff backed off from behind the prisoner, pressing the confiscated revolver into the waistband of his pants at the belly.

  "Okay, on your feet, Edge," Meek said, sounding less tense now he had possession of the Colt. "We'll try to get this sorted out down at my office. Hans?"

  "Yes, Mr. Meek?" Linder asked, nervous but also a little disappointed that he was not going to be a party to the rest of this incident.

  "Keep an eye on Mr. Edge's gear. Glenn will be along to pick it up in a few minutes. Okay, Edge, head on out and don't let my deputy's youth fool you. He could kill you or cripple you over a lot greater distance than this. And I don't mean it would be a matter of your luck. Be his choice or my order."

  "Something else I have to report, Mr. Meek," the deputy said, the muzzle of the rifle not wavering even fractionally as he turned and backed off so that the half-breed had a clear path to the doorway.

  "What's that, Glenn?"

  "The trees at Dora Spring are loaded with Indian dead."

  "The trees?" Linder gasped, incredulous.

  "It's the Arapaho way to bury the dead, Mr. Linder," the deputy answered. "They put the bodies up in the branches of trees."

  "How disgusting!" a woman who had been eavesdropping outside exclaimed.

  "Buzzards got to eat, the same as worms, lady," Edge said as he pushed between the batwings and saw a large group of local citizens and held-over train passengers on the center of the street. Between the saloon and the freight wagon where the two salesmen were in process of shutting up the store—the gathering perhaps just half the size as that which had been attracted to the sale.

  "Murderer!" the matronly woman accused bitterly, frumpishly insulted by the half-breeds insensitivity to her squeamishness. "I am sorry I must leave aboard the train! But I look forward to hearing that you have been hanged for your crime!"

  "Everyone's entitled to their own opinions, lady," Edge countered as he turned out of the doorway to move along the street toward theI sign that jutted from a building facade to announce that it was out front of the LAW OFFICE. "And mine is that no noose is good noose."

  Chapter Nine

  THE LAW office and jail were housed in a single story building with a flat roof on the west side of Calendar's only street, separated from the Railroad Hotel by a barber shop, bakery and the Presbyterian church. It was constructed at the front of timber and at the rear of red brick. The front section was a spartanly furnished but scrupulously clean office and at the rear there were three cells. A partition of floor to ceiling bars divided the two areas and there were also bars between the cells. There was a plate glass window, drape curtained to above eye level, beside the solid entrance door. And a single barred window, without glass, high in the rear wall—in the center cell. There were two desks, three chairs, a table, a rifle rack, a hatstand and a free standing closet in the office. In each cell there was just a narrow cot cemented into the floor with a straw mattress on top. These cots took up almost half the floor space of the cells.

  The jail was one of the new additions to Calendar's facilities, built on at the rear of what had been a notions store that went bust. This detail of information was one of many concern­ing the development of the town that Sheriff Cy Meek gave to his only prisoner dining a period when the lawman seemed reluctant to let silence reign in the place.

  Official business was concluded for the night by then. Edge was stretched out comfortably on his back in the cell to the right, hat covering his face and sheepskin coat draped over him to serve as a blanket. He was fully dressed except for his boots and his gunbelt, which Meek had instructed his deputy to stow with the rest of the prisoner's gear—including his Colt and Winchester—in the closet. When this was done, the young lawman sat at his own desk on one side of the room and made a verbal report to the sheriff.

  Meek interrupted Royale just once, when he held up a hand as he rose from his facing desk. And took from the top of the desk a shell ash­tray that he pushed under the door into Edge's cell after the half-breed had rolled a cigarette and was about to strike a match on the brick wall to light it. Edge was sitting on the cot, his back into the angle of the corner, and he re­mained so while he smoked the cigarette, made careful use of the ashtray and listened to the red-haired young man.

  It appeared that a local citizen out hunting had seen a sign that there was a large band of Indians to the north west of Trio Bluff. And on instructions from Meek, Glenn Royale had left town two days earlier to check on the band's movements. He had picked up some tracks of Yellow Shirt's party and followed them on a wide swing, far to the west of the river's bend. It was an old trail, left when the Arapaho re­turned from a previous search for a suitable piece of land to settle. But it led back to the once well-established encampment that was now a burial place at the source of the river, called Dora Spring.

  The deputy considered himself to be an expert tracker and knew there had been at least
twice as many Arapaho camped at the Spring than were lodged in the trees nearby. But he failed to discover the direction in which the survivors had left after dealing with the dead. He did pick up another sign, though. That left by Edge's gelding dragging the travois—these tracks made not too long after a wagon and team had gone south from the encampment.

  He had followed both set of signs to French­man's Crossing where he found the dead man and horse. The raft was missing and Royale had to swim his mount across the river. Where, for a mile and a half or so, the only reasonably fresh tracks on the trail were left by the wagon and team. But then a second rig had begun to leave a sign, after moving onto the trail from a patch of broken country to the east. Since both set of signs were leading from areas where trouble had struck toward the town where it was his sworn duty to help keep the peace, Deputy Royale had considered it best to make for Calendar with all speed. Which is what he did, spotting the dead Frenchman's buckboard and mules outside the saloon and getting into a position to hear what was being said just as the half-breed seemed to be trying to pull the wool over the sheriff's eyes in the matter of how Marc Maziol died.

  During the time that the deputy was making his monotone report within the spartan con­fines of the office, there was a great deal of quite noisy activity outside. Mainly concentra­ted at the northern end of the street where pas­sengers became eager for the train to leave and the locomotive hissed and strained as if in living sympathy with their feelings.

  Now the gray-haired sheriff who had listened with an attentive expression to his deputy, asked Edge to give his account of events at Dora Springs and Frenchman's Crossing. But the prisoner and two lawmen had to wait to talk and listen. For the train whistle shrilled, the conductor yelled in competition with escap­ing steam that it was departure time and there was the loudest burst of sound of all as the reversing locomotive struggled from inertia to push the line of cars out of the depot, over the switchgear and across the trail toward the north west. The barrage of noise resounding off the face of Trio Bluff.