EDGE: Vengeance at Ventura

by George G. Gilman

  Edge said nothing and Vince allowed perhaps a full minute to pass before he asked: ‘Well, mister?’

  ‘Well what, kid?’

  ‘You agree me and Pa have a rightful claim to a share of the money?’

  ‘It matter what I think?’

  ‘Sure as hell does. Even if he lives, Pa ain’t gonna be able to go lookin’ for Gramps for a long time. And I’d like to stay with him until I know what’s gonna happen, one way or the other. Like I said more or less already, I trust you. But I won’t have no money to pay you until Gramps is found.’

  ‘No sweat about me finding him, kid. He’s stole my horse.’

  ‘And our money, damnit!’ Vince blurted, sounding close to tears.

  Edge nodded and clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘Guess that puts us just where the old timer wanted us, rain or not.’

  ‘What the hell are you talkin’ about?’

  The half-breed grinned wryly toward the distant lights of Ventura as he drawled: ‘All in the same boat.’

  Chapter Four

  THE mining community of Ventura was sited in a hollow between two pieces of high ground. To the west was a sheer cliff rising to more than a hundred feet and to the east the rock sloped upward in a much more gentle incline.

  The route from the tableland to the south lay down the shallowest drop of all, to end between the railroad depot and a two storey building with a painted sign proclaiming it as Regan’s Place. From this point, a trail and single track railroad ran north, arrow straight across level ground for at least a mile before both curved out of sight around a bluff to the east.

  Scattered to either side of the railroad and the trail there were close to fifty tents of many shapes, none of them large enough to hold more than three people with the minimum of their possessions.

  There were holes in the ground all over the area, both within the confines of the tent town and beyond - those dug in the east slope and pocking the base of the cliff to the west obviously having been exhausted of metal-bearing rock.

  All the tents were in darkness and there was just one lit lamp midway along the railroad depot building - illuminating a sign which read: Ventura - Silver Capital of Utah.

  Directly across the three spur lines and the broad street, light spilled dimly from over the batwing doors and the flanking windows of Regan’s Place. But after Edge had drawn the wagon to a halt in front of the crumbling stoop of the combination store and saloon, there were no sounds from inside to back up the lamplight’s implication that the place was open.

  Until the half-breed, Winchester held in the crook of an arm, rapped his booted feet on the stoop boarding and halted to look in over the batwings.

  A girl greeted: ‘Howdy, mister.’

  A sleeping man started a snore, grunted and settled back into peaceful rest.

  And another man growled: ‘I’m just about to close up, stranger.’

  Edge pushed through the doors and asked, ‘Looking for a doctor.’

  The girl laughed as if it took a lot of effort and answered, ‘You’re the healthiest man I seen around here in a longtime.’

  She was no older than twenty. Thin rather than slim, with small breasts and a waist that was hardly defined above her lips. The make-up on her pretty face had run and smudged and her mouse brown hair was tangled and looked greasy.

  She stood with her back to the bar, a cup of cooled coffee in her right hand. Her stance was a match for the drunken tone of her voice and set of her slack mouth, and the contents of the tilted cup dripped steadily to the floor.

  The man who wanted to close the place was behind the bar to her right. Fat and fifty and tired, not just from the work of a long day. He had a grey moustache and an arc of grey hair above each ear. His eyes were small and flesh crowded and there was a sullen pout to the set of his thick lips above a series of double chins. He was a head taller than the girl’s five and a half feet.

  In front of the bar counter which ran along the side of the thirty by thirty saloon were a dozen tables, each ringed by four mismatched chairs. In one darkened corner of the room, on the fringe of the light from two ceiling hung lamps, the sleeping man was sprawled across a table, right hand fisted around an empty glass and left clutching an almost empty whiskey bottle. His face was turned away from the entrance and a Derby hat was balanced on his head. So all that Edge could make out about him was that he was tall and thin.

  ‘Comes from clean living,’ Edge answered and gazed levelly at the bartender. ‘Does this town have one or not, feller?’

  The man stabbed a stubby finger at the sleeping drunk. ‘That’s Gerry McArthur, stranger. He pulls bad teeth, lances boils and cleans up cuts. Personally I wouldn’t let him jerk a wood splinter outta my little finger.’

  ‘How far to a doctor that can be trusted, feller?’

  ‘Colorado Junction up where this line joins with the D and RG track. Two days fast horse ridin’. Few hours on a train. Who’s sick, stranger?’

  Vince Attinger’s footfalls sounded on the stoop. Then the youngster pushed through the batwings. ‘My Pa, Mr. Regan. And he ain’t just sick. He’s dyin’.’

  ‘Howdy again, handsome,’ the girl called and straightened up, smoothing the wrinkles from her plain red dress and then running her hands through her disarrayed hair.

  ‘Then he ain’t got a chance, boy,’ the fat Regan growled. ‘And around here, folks bury their own dead. Hey, where the hell you think you’re goin’?’

  His voice got loud and angry as he saw Edge heading for the open end of the bar counter. And when the half-breed swung through the gap, the fat man reached under the bartop.

  ‘Hold it, Mr. Regan!’ Vince snarled, and the man froze after snapping his head around to see that the youngster had drawn his Remington revolver.

  ‘Any charge for water in this place?’ Edge asked, reaching for a bucket under the bar.

  Regan grinned cynically with his sullen lips. ‘Not when it’s that dirty, stranger. I use that for swabbin’ down the floor with. That’s got spit and dirt and like that in it.’

  Must so long as it’s wet,’ the half-breed said as he lifted the bucket and in three strides reached the table where McArthur was slumped.

  ‘Put up the gun, boy,’ Regan said and vented a harsh laugh. ‘I wouldn’t do anythin’ in the world to stop seein’ this.’

  ‘The Doc…’ the girl started, paused until the bucket of filthy water was thrown over the sleeping drunk, and completed, ‘. . . won’t take kindly to that.’

  Her warning was superfluous because before she had finished giving it McArthur had returned to enraged awareness. He jerked upright in his chair, which would have tipped over backwards with the force of the move had the wall not halted it.

  ‘You sonofabitch!’ he shrieked as his Derby flew off and he shook his head violently, focused his bloodshot eyes on Edge and powered erect. His knees caught the underside of the table and tipped it over. ‘You sonofa-bitchin’ bastard!’

  He hurled away the shot glass, but retained his grip around the neck of the bottle as he brought it down on the rim of the overturned table. Glass shattered and he made to lunge at the half-breed with this oldest of barroom brawling weapons. But his brain was dulled by liquor and in turn his physical responses were slowed.

  Edge had discarded the empty bucket the moment McArthur began to fold up from the table. And had the Winchester in a two handed grip before the man started to his feet. Now he brought the barrel down hard on the wrist of the hand holding the broken bottle. The roar of anger became one of pain as the whole length of his arm was numbed and his fingers opened.

  More glass shattered. Under one of Edge’s boots, as he stepped up close to McArthur and kicked the table away with a back-heel move. He was holding the rifle high now, around the barrel and narrowest section of the stock. And when he leaned forward to a man almost as tall as himself, the frame of the Winchester was pressed against McArthur’s throat. Then, part of a second later, the man’s shoulde
rs and the back of his head were hard to the wall. And the rifle frame threatened to burst open the skin which contoured his Adam’s apple.

  ‘Understand you’re what passes for a doctor in this town?’ Edge said evenly as the tall and skinny McArthur made to counterattack with his hands - but suddenly dropped his arms to his sides when the half-breed applied more pressure to the rifle. Then he eased up a little so that the man was able to vent a moan that gave voice to the agonized expression his hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed face wore. ‘Nod or shake your head, Gerry.’

  McArthur, staring hatefully at his attacker, nodded. He tried to speak, but the pressure of the rifle against his throat made nonsense of the words.

  ‘Feller on the back of a wagon outside has got a deep stab wound. Happened some time ago and he had a rough ride to get here. If we had gone through the strong, hot coffee routine to sober you, he could have died. Obliged if you’d go take a look at him.’

  Now Edge stepped back from the dripping man, and canted the Winchester to his shoulder: spared a glance for Regan and the girl and saw they were still shocked by what had happened and expected more trouble.

  McArthur, who was in his mid-forties and dressed in an old, creased, patched and stained city suit of uncertain color, massaged his punished throat with both bony hands and continued to stare his hatred at the half-breed.

  Edge jerked a crooked thumb toward Vince who still had the Remington drawn and held loosely, muzzle aimed at the floor in front of him. ‘That’s the hurt man’s son. Maybe you know another member of the family? Name of Aristotle Attinger. Lot of money there. Can afford to pay well for good service.’

  ‘You have to be crazy as you act, mister, if you’re counting on me to help you. After the way you just—’

  ‘You’ve got it wrong, feller,’ Edge cut in. ‘It’s not me needs the help.’

  ‘Please, Doc!’ Vince begged. ‘My Pa’s hurt real bad and—’

  McArthur shook his head and came away from the wall, picking his way carefully over the shattered glass and between the overturned furniture. ‘I’m not a doctor, son,’ he growled and ran hands through his hair, scattering droplets of dirty water. ‘Just a vet who’s read a few medical books. I’m not qualified to treat a man as badly injured as you say your father is.’ He reached the bar and asked: ‘Give me a shot of rye, Pat.’

  Regan swung to lift a bottle down from a shelf. But froze when Vince Attinger fired his revolver, blasting the bullet into the floor, not close to anybody.

  ‘Look at him, won’t you?’ the youngster demanded desperately as all eyes swung to stare at him. ‘He got stuck deep with a knife and he’s been out ever since. Bleedin’ awful bad. You gotta have somethin’ to keep the poison from startin’. And you gotta know how to stop the bleedin’.’

  ‘Least you can do is look at the guy, Gerry,’ Regan said.

  ‘I think so, too, Doc,’ the girl agreed.

  McArthur glowered at Edge, and the other three people in the saloon expressed similar feelings, but to a lesser degree, for the impassive half-breed.

  ‘I wouldn’t have done what he did,’ Vince added quickly.

  Then McArthur swung away from the bar. ‘All right, son. I’ll see what I can do for your father. But my fee will take account of the treatment I received at the hands of your friend.’

  Vince holstered his gun and began to blurt effusive thanks as he led the way out of the saloon.

  ‘Seems that soaking went to his head,’ Edge muttered as the batwings flapped behind McArthur.

  ‘With a friend like you, nobody needs enemies,’ Regan growled. And made to return the bottle of liquor to the shelf.

  ‘I’ll take a shot of that, feller,’ Edge told him as he bellied up to the bar.

  A glass was produced and filled to the brim. Edge paid and started to sip the whiskey.

  ‘That all you want, mister?’ the girl asked, trying not too hard to resume the come-hither attitude of a member of the oldest profession open for business.

  ‘No.’

  Outside, the wagon rolled forward and the sound of its slow progress receded. Inside, the young whore advanced along the bar toward the half-breed.

  ‘Her name’s Millicent, stranger. I charge a dollar for the room. What she gets is between the two of you.’

  Edge finished the liquor at a swallow and eyed the young whore bleakly, halting her four feet away from him. ‘Like for at least this much space to be between us, Millicent,’ he said evenly and the professional smile froze on her dissipated features. Then transformed into a scowl.

  ‘So what else is it you want?’ Regan asked sourly.

  ‘My horse back. Old man Attinger stole him and rode in this direction. You see anything of him?’ A couple of hours ago, maybe?’

  Regan was committed to the spit before he realized the slop bucket was no longer in its accustomed place under the bar counter. ‘That sick in the head old man ain’t been to town in more than a month.’

  Millicent vented one of her hard to raise laughs.

  Regan growled: ‘What’s so funny, girl?’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a barrel of laughs, Pat?’ she answered. ‘That crazy old buzzard stealin’ the horse of this mean-hearted sonofabitch?’

  ‘Take care, girl,’ Regan warned. ‘Or could be the stranger will get in some practice on you for what he plans to do with Attinger when he catches up with him.’

  ‘That kind of practice I don’t need, feller,’ Edge said. ‘Obliged for the information.’

  He turned away from the bar.

  ‘Hey, stay and have one on the house,’ Regan said quickly.

  ‘You don’t owe me a thing.’

  ‘It’s worth a drink to hear about what happened down at that crazy old coot’s place, stranger.’

  ‘And about how rich he is, mister,’ the girl added cynically with a pointed glance at the bartender. ‘Seein’ as how Regan and everyone else hereabouts figured the old man broke himself buildin’ that stupid boat in the desert.’

  At the batwings, Edge turned and looked scornfully back at the weary bartender and the young wreck of a whore amid the squalid surroundings of the malodorous saloon.

  ‘I’m curious is all,’ Regan said defensively.

  ‘No you ain’t, feller,’ the half-breed countered. ‘It’s if money didn’t interest you that you’d be an oddity.’

  ‘Close mouthed sonofabitch, ain’t you?’ Millicent challenged sourly.

  ‘Maybe because it’s true what they say about money talking.’

  ‘I don’t get you,’ she sneered.

  He nodded. ‘Not in word or deed, lady. On account of I’ve got a bad case of laryngitis.’

  ‘I know how you friggin’ feel!’ Gerry McArthur yelled.

  And blasted a shot toward the half-breed.

  The erstwhile doctor was in the middle of the street, his tall and gaunt frame casting a long shadow from the lamp out front of the railroad depot. And it was this moving shadow that Edge saw as he made to push open the batwings: just part of a second before McArthur began to shout. Recognized the distorted shape of a revolver jutting from the elongated hand and arm.

  Thus, he was going backwards and starting to the side before McArthur was through with words and squeezed the trigger. Which saved his life. For with luck or skill the man placed his shot just above the centre of the batwings: only a fraction of time after Edge had powered from the line of fire.

  Regan roared an obscenity and the girl shrieked her fear as the bullet hit a bottle on the shelf behind the bar, to scatter glass fragments and liquor to the floor.

  But before the sound of falling shards was ended and McArthur had the chance to thumb back the hammer of his gun, the half-breed had resumed his place on the threshold, cocking the Winchester as part of the same action while bringing it down from his shoulder.

  His ice-blue eyes were narrowed to glittering slits and his thin lips were curled back to display his white teeth in a brutal killer’s grin.

  H
e brought up a knee to part the doors and the rifle was leveled from the hip between them.

  McArthur expressed a moment’s rage that he had missed with his first shot. Then his thin face was taken over by a frozen look of fear as he realized there was no opportunity for a second attempt.

  The Winchester exploded and there was hardly a movement of the rifle or the man holding it as the recoil was absorbed. The muzzle flash was bright. The gun-smoke was acrid in the clean, cool air.

  The man at the centre of the street took the bullet in his chest, left of centre. And staggered backwards for several steps, his arms stretched far out to the sides. Then the gun slipped from his nerveless fingers and his expression altered a final time. To show a mournful look - like he was grieving ahead of time about his own death. He glanced down at the blossoming stain on the front of his suit jacket and never looked up again. Dropped his arms to his sides, started to fall stiffly forward but then became limp and crumpled into an untidy heap.

  ‘You kill him?’ Regan asked hoarsely.

  ‘Seemed like a better idea than letting him kill me, feller,’ Edge muttered as he went out on to the decaying stoop.

  ‘If we took a vote on that, you’d maybe lose, mister!’ Millicent snarled as she reached the batwings, hooked a hand over them to stop them swinging and glared out at the half-breed.

  ‘We already did, lady. On a show of arms, he lost.’

  He didn’t look back at her as he moved along the street toward the tent in front of which the flatbed wagon was parked. Inside this tent, a lamp was dimly alight. Elsewhere in Ventura, if the exchange of shots had created any interest, the occupants of the tents peered out at the tall, lean half-breed without putting matches to their lamps. Then, as he drew closer to the wagon, his footfalls disturbing the silence of the night became counterpointed by the wracking sobs of a man weeping.

  But the sound of his approach penetrated through into Vince Attinger’s private world of sorrow and the boy crawled out of the tent and had fisted the tears but not the redness from his eyes by the time Edge reached him.