California Killing (Edge series Book 7)

by George G. Gilman

  "You got a problem, Justin?" Edge asked softly, sleepily.

  "I can't help thinking about that poor man, Judd," Wood replied, "A wife and seven children. He must have been frantic to try to save Mr. Dexter's money the way he did."

  "Forget it, Justin," Edge murmured. "Man with a family as big as that - must have had a good life on the whole."

  Chapter Eight

  IT was after midnight and the Paramount Hotel was closed and quiet, in darkness except for one kerosene lamp which cast a dim light along the balcony from the top of the stairway. When Duke Scott, moving silently in stocking feet with his boots tied together by their laces and slung around his neck, turned down the wick to its limit, the whole place was plunged into pitch blackness. This was a signal for four other men, moving with similar stealth, to take the steps two at a time and join Scott on the balcony. They moved in single file towards the door of room five.

  Out on the street a few lamps continued to glow above the sidewalks and from windows, but their yellowness was made insipid by the light of the near full moon which bathed some parts of the buildings in ghostly white luminescence and threw other sections into deep shadows. Such an inky patch of shade fell across the front of the Paramount, concealing from anybody who chanced to look up, the forms of Randy Wayne and two other men crouched on the porch canopy.

  Inside room five, Edge slept peacefully, unmoving except for the regular rise and fall of his powerful chest. Justin Wood dozed fitfully in the chair. He had tried valiantly to stay awake, but the strain of the day and the time-stretching task Edge had set him finally took its toll and forced his body and mind to surrender to their weariness.

  Edge came awake the moment the turning door handle emitted the softest of squeaks. He had slept with his right hand curled around the butt of the holstered revolver. Now his forefinger moved to caress the trigger. Every one of his senses was instantly alert and the training of so many years living on the knife edge of danger stood him in good stead. Despite their stocking feet, the intruders were unable to move in complete silence, and Edge counted each man as he slid in through the half-opened door. Because there were five of them, he made no move. Five were four too many for a simple murder attempt.

  "Sorry fellers," he said into the near silence which had settled within the room when all the men were inside. "Room's already taken."

  Wood came awake with a startled cry. A match flared. He blinked in the sudden brightness and saw the five men with guns drawn, each with his boots slung around his neck. "Oh, my," he exclaimed.

  "Get the lamp," Duke Scott rasped as knuckles rapped on the window. "Eddy, open the window."

  Edge folded up into a sitting position and tipped his hat on to his head as one man fired the lamp and another ripped aside the curtains and pushed open the window.

  Randy Wayne and his two companions entered, their revolvers held at the ready.

  "I heard of double booking, but this is ridiculous," Edge said easily.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Edge," Justin whined!

  "Shut up', Justin," came the harsh retort. "Your eyes and ears are about as much use to you as your tongue."

  "Cut it out!" Scott demanded and Wood gulped and began to shake. "We're a properly constituted vigilante committee. We want the picture of Sam Hood. Who's got it?"

  Edge pointed a finger. "Justin's the photographer."

  "Guy's got a gun, Duke," Wayne warned.

  "We got eight," Scott returned crossing to stand in front of the quaking Wood. "Kill him if he moves."

  "I haven't got any picture," Wood said hoarsely, shaking his head from side to side. "He made it up."

  Scott lifted the Colt and side-swiped Wood's hat. The little photographer let out a yelp of terror as the derby scaled across the room. Scott's expression was utterly devoid of emotion as he upended the gun and let the muzzle rest precisely in the center of Wood's skull. "Mr. Mayer wants this done legal," the gunman said softly, steadying his gun as its resting place began to shudder. "But anyone tries to sway the course of justice, we got authority to put some pressure on. Don't need much pressure to squeeze this trigger, pint size. Where's the picture?"

  "Honest to God!" Wood yelled. "I'm not trying to…"

  "In the bag," Edge interjected softly.

  Eight hard-eyed stares were turned upon Edge, then swiveled to the valise resting upon Wood's bony knees. Edge thought he could draw and blast at least four of the men before they knew what hit them. But those odds were not good enough. So he concentrated his attention upon the little man in the chair, silently threatening him with a thousand ways to die.

  "Open the bag, pint size," Scott ordered, bearing down on the gun, forcing Wood's chin to rest on his narrow chest

  "Tell 'em, Justin," Edge urged.

  ''Tell them what?" Wood choked, his voice on the verge of hysteria, his terrified eyes finding nowhere to rest as his gaze rebounded back and forth between the unpitying faces of Edge and Scott.

  Edge sighed. "Obvious folk out here in California don't know anything about picture making, Justin," he said softly. "Tell 'em how, if you open the bag and light gets on the plate, there won't be any picture. Tell 'em about positive and negative and fixing. Won't mean a damn thing to these clucks, but if Mayer finds out his boys ruined the picture, I don't reckon he'll renew their contracts."

  "You tryin' to pull a fast one, Edge?" Scott barked, half angry, half confused.

  Wood licked his lips rapidly and struggled to find his voice. "He's right about developing techniques," he stammered suddenly. "The exposed plate has to be kept in the dark."

  "How long?" Scott snarled. Wood had succeeded in telling the truth. But now he had to shoot a pleading glance towards Edge for support. Edge splayed his fingers and thumb across his forehead to push his hat on to the back of his head.

  "Five min…" Wood began, but caught the negative movement of Edge's head. "Five hours. Five more hours!"

  Edge smiled coldly as Scott's hard-faced handsomeness showed his anxious thought processes. Then, suddenly, he realized the solution and snatched the valise from Wood's nervous grasp.

  "We take the bag!" he snapped, backing away from the seated man, relieving the pressure on Wood's skull. But the Colt continued to be aimed at the man in the chair. "And you, pint size. We need you to make sure there's no slip up."

  Wood's terror heightened and the trail of dried blood on his chin seemed to grow darker in contrast to his pale face. "But I don't…"

  "Do like they say, Justin," Edge urged. "No sense in having the picture spoiled. They won't hurt you - they need you to work on it."

  Wood looked along the line of vigilantes and drew no. comfort from their wooden expressions. But the validity of Edge's statement cut through his fear and he nodded. He got shakily to his feet.

  Scott passed the valise to the stocky gunman called Eddy. ''Take pint size over to the Metro," he ordered. "Randy and me got some unfinished business to settle with this guy."

  As the two men moved in to flank Wood and then hustle him towards the door, Wayne moved in close to the window side of the bed, jabbing his Colt painfully against Edge's ear. Scott contented himself with merely scowling at the half-breed until the rest of the men had left the room, closing the door behind them. Then he reached the foot of the bed in two strides and fastened his coldly angry eyes upon Edge's impassive face.

  "We gotta be careful with you," he hissed softly. "Mr. Mayer don't want you dead. He don't ever want anybody dead. Causes too much trouble. But he can't let you get away with blasting off his arm."

  "Figured it might have pained him a little," Edge said easily, holding his head firmly, refusing to give way to the pressure of Wayne's gun.

  "Course," Scott continued. "You'd tried to draw your iron, you'd be dead. But that would have been self-defense. And that ain't no trouble at all. But I reckon you ain't gonna make a play. So Randy might as well take your gun. Mr. Mayer thought two broken legs would be a fair exchange for a lost arm. Busted when you fell out
the window."

  "He's a deep thinker," Edge put in.

  "Course, they'd have to be broken real bad - so you'd never walk again. And we can't be sure of that if we just shove you down on the street. So we figure to bust them in a couple of places before you take the dive." His voice rose. "Get his gun, Randy."

  Edge had seemed at ease on the bed, his body slack in the sitting position. But as Scott was speaking, he was preparing himself - coiling every muscle in his body like a series of steel springs, priming them to react instantly to the single trigger of opportunity. And the moment came when Wayne reached down to hook the Walker-Colt from its holster. Edge's right hand moved like a piston, the fingers uncurling from the butt of the gun then stretching to the limit to gather together the laces that hung down at each side of Wayne's neck. Even before the man could open his mouth to utter a cry of alarm, he had been jerked off his feet and was sprawled crosswise on the bed over Edge's outstretched legs. Working in unison with the right, Edge's left hand had drawn the razor and it streaked downwards as he jerked his head clear of the pointing gun.

  Wayne continued to hold the gun, but now it was aimed uselessly at the floor and he felt the needle sharpness of the razor's tip resting on the fleshy part of his nape. He allowed the gun to slip from his fingers and then did not move to the extent of holding his breath. His boots swung lazily at each side of his terrified face.

  The killer glint showed in Edge's hooded eyes as he looked along the bed at Scott. "You gonna be his friend in need?" he asked softly.

  In the lightning instants during which Wayne was turned from captor into captive, Scott had snapped up the Colt, seeking a clear shot at Edge. Now his knuckle whitened around the trigger as his target was exposed. But the sight of the blade, its sheen dull in the lamp's glow, acted as a brake to the impulse.

  "Duke!" Wayne pleaded, the word little more than a rush of escaping breath.

  "Your move," Edge encouraged the shocked and angry Scott. "I know this guy ain't the king. And, he don't act like no queen. Maybe you'll only be losing a pawn."

  Scott thrust his gun forward. "Let him up, Edge."

  Edge curled back his lips in a grin that contained a grain of humor. "What are you, a comedian out of the Holly Playhouse?"

  "Duke," Wayne implored, his voice reaching a higher pitch. "He's got me cold."

  "Same way I got him," Scott replied thickly, his hand rock steady as he aimed the Colt at Edge's chest.

  "You ain't fast enough, Duke. I'll get stuck. What about Belle?"

  The name injected afresh emotion into Scott's unblinking eyes. He flicked out his tongue to moisten dry lips, emphasizing his fear and confusion. The aim of the gun wavered.

  "Who's Belle?" Edge asked easily.

  "Mr. Mayer's' sister," Scott answered in disgust. "Randy and her fixing to get hitched."

  "Mayer approves the match?"

  Scott opened his hand and allowed the Colt to fall to the bed between Edge's feet. "She's fat and forty and gives him hell. He approves."

  Edge had been resting his free hand on Wayne's back. Now he moved it to his hip and drew the Walker-Colt. "Women," he said reflectively, "Even when they ain't around they somehow get messed in man's business. On your feet, Romeo. Back off, Scott."

  As Scott stepped up against the wall, Edge removed the razor from Wayne's neck and the man scrambled to his feet, his complexion scarlet from the blood rush when his head had been forced down. A motion of Edge's gun sent him stumbling across the room to stand beside his partner.

  "Face the wall," Edge ordered as he swung his legs off the bed and stood up.

  The two men did as he said. He moved up behind them, gun in one hand, razor in the other. "Message for Mayer," he said softly. "The picture ain't in Justin's bag, I've got it. And I intend to hold on to it - until Hood gives me back my two-and-a-half grand for it."

  Scott stared tacitly at the wall. "You just gonna let us walk out of here?" Wayne asked with a hint of hope in his voice.

  Edge grinned at the backs of their heads. "Hell, no. I reckon you guys deserve something for your trouble. I always repay trouble."

  The wet sound of Wayne swallowing hard was very loud in the silence of the room. But as Edge went down into a crouch, the crack of the gunshot was much louder, masking the swish of the razor. Wayne screamed and buckled at the knees, dropping heavily to the floor and toppling forward to crack his forehead against the wall. Scott sucked in his breath and swayed forward. But he stayed upright by flattening his palms against the wall. Scott's shattered ankle bone gleamed white through his blood-soaked sock. Wayne's Achilles tendon had been severed by the blade. His blood gushed more freely. He stared at the widening pool with naked horror. "Christ, you didn't have to do that," he whined.

  "Right," Edge agreed, side-stepping to the door. He pulled it open. "I could have killed you."

  Hatred fought through the pain in Scott's eyes. "Mister, you're gonna wish you had," he spat out.

  Edge holstered his gun and slid the razor back in its pouch. A door opened further along the balcony.

  "What's the shooting?" Cooper yelled.

  Edge jerked a thumb through the doorway. "On your way, fellers. You're causing a disturbance."

  His tone was light but the set of his lean features warned he would accept no argument. Already on his hands and knees, Wayne began to crawl towards the door, dragging his useless foot behind him. Scott tried to stay upright, with the wall for support. But each time his shattered foot took his weight, fresh sweat broke out on his twisted face and he was forced to sink to his knees.

  "Answer me!" Cooper demanded. The bartender was naked except for a pair of tattered longjohns. He could have looked ridiculous, had it not been for the double-barreled shotgun he aimed into the room.

  As he saw the two men on their hands and knees, trailing blood, he stopped short, showing uncharacteristic surprise. Scott and Wayne refused to look up at the bartender as they crawled out on to the balcony.

  "What happened?" Cooper asked.

  Edge pursed his lips and held his peace for long moments, then he shrugged. "Metro's star boys. Mayer sent them over, but they weren't big enough for the part." He waited for Scott to draw himself over the threshold, his hands slipping in the blood trailed by Wayne. "Couple of feet short."

  He slammed the door and picked up the discarded Colts. He hurled them out of the window.

  Chapter Nine

  EDGE slept no more that night. But over the violent years of his recent past he had become attuned to needing the minimum of rest. Thus, the nap he had taken while Justin Wood stood his negligent guard left the tall half-breed alert to face the new day. It dawned with a promise of high heat as the sun crested the eastern mountain range.

  But food was a prime necessity to maintain his deceptively lean strength and when, from his sentry position at the window, he saw Grauman's Chinese Restaurant open up, he left the room.

  The Paramount was silent as he crossed the empty saloon, its atmosphere heavy with the odor of old beer and stale sweat. There was little sign of early morning activity on the street, either, except for the pigtailed Chinese who was opening the window shutters of the restaurant.

  Crossing the dusty street, Edge rasped his palm over his stubbled chin and considered the need of a shave. But a low growl from deep in his stomach emphasized the priorities. The Chinese heard his approach and turned, grinning broadly, bowing elaborately.

  "Welcome to this most dishonorable eating establishment, sir," he sing-songed.

  "You cook anything except Chop Suey?" Edge asked.

  "Whatever you wish, sir:"

  "Steak, beans and grits?"

  "Best in California, sir," the Chinese said, bowing again. He was young, still in his teens. "Pardon sir, please do not break the foot mark."

  Edge halted and looked down. The sidewalk ended at the side of the Holly Playhouse and there was just hard-baked dirt in front of the restaurant. Just to the left of the doorway was the imprint of a booted
foot. Edge eyed the Chinese boy quizzically.

  "Very famous, sir, the youngster said proudly. "One day after heavy rain, visitor come. Step in mud. Sun dry mud later. Now, when the rain comes, we cover the mark. People much interested. Come to see."

  "Don't look like much to me," Edge said with disinterest.

  "Famous gunfighter make mark, John Wesley Hardin, sir. You famous sir? We always have pail of water ready. In case not raining when famous, man comes."

  Edge spat into the foot mark of John Wesley Hardin. "Known for one thing," he 'murmured.

  "What that sir?" The Chinese was excited.

  "Eating the waiter when I'm hungry and my breakfast ain't ready. Raw."

  Edge reached out a hand and the boy emitted a startled cry. He scurried into the restaurant, Edge ambled in after him and took a checkered clothed table near the window, offering a broad view of the empty street. As he waited for the meal to cook, and then ate it, the sun hauled itself clear of the mountain ridge and it was as if its mounting heat breathed life into The Town With No Name.

  He saw the tacitum Cooper sweep dust out of the Paramount and then fasten the batswing doors wide. Three men, still bleary-eyed from yesterday's drinking, went into the saloon, trying not to hurry. A flatbed wagon rolled along the street from the north and he recognized Mrs. Vine up on the seat. A buggy halted outside the porch of the Metro and a rotund man with soft hands lifted down a black doctor's bag before going up the steps into the hotel. Sheriff Breen, swinging his Starr rifle easily at his side, sauntered in front of the restaurant. The eyes of the two men clashed through the glass of the window and the lawman broke his stride, then tightened his mouth line and moved on down the street.

  Just as Edge was finishing the last of his coffee, Elmer Dexter came limping down the steps of the Metro Hotel and started across the street towards the restaurant. Edge was preparing to demand credit for the meal and leave when his gaze wandered to the steps from the Playhouse sidewalk and what he saw caused him to do a double-take.