He wheeled his horse and heeled her into a gallop out of the valley, trailing dust.
Chapter Twelve
JUSTIN Wood walked out into the center of the street and smiled for the first time since Mayer had turned him loose. An elderly painter was putting the final touches to the letter D above the plate-glass window of the building between Breen's office and the Playhouse. And Wood thought the man had done a good job. The WOOD was inscribed in two colors - white with a red outline - in a pleasant, flowing style. The paint was still wet and gleamed almost as brightly as the window which Wood had personally cleaned and polished.
But then the photographer's pleasure at seeing his name above the property was erased. He heard a rider come on to the street and was at once nervous when he saw the man sitting tall in the saddle.
Edge reined his horse to a halt in front of the little man. "So they turned you loose, uh?"
Wood nodded as he squinted up at the half-breed. "I don't know why and I don't care," he answered quickly "I don't want any part of any of this. I've got my business to think about now, Mr. Edge."
He looked across at the gallery facade as the sign painter finished his work and started to descend his ladder. Edge looked in that direction, too. He made a tutting sound.
"Don't you like it, Mr. Edge?" Wood enquired anxiously.
"Old timer same one did the theatre sign?" Edge asked.
Wood nodded. "Mr. Holly recommended him."
"Ain't got a lot of imagination, has he, Justin? But it could be the start of something big." He heeled his mount across in front of Wood and on down the street.
Wood waited impatiently for Edge to clear his line of vision, then scrutinized the building facades. "Oh, damnation!" he exclaimed as he realized what Edge meant The sign painter had placed the new sign at the same level as that on the theatre front and had used the same style of lettering. It seemed to read:
THE HOLLY WOOD
PLAYHOUSE
"Okay, Mr. Wood?" the old timer asked.
Wood sighed. "It will serve, Mr. Disney," he allowed.
Edge rode on down to the Universal Livery and ensured the roan was fed and watered before he ambled back through the fierce heat to the Grauman Chinese Restaurant. The young waiter stood in the doorway, wearing his wide grin. He pointed a yellow finger at the ground and Edge saw a third footprint had been molded beside those of John Wesley Hardin and his own. It matched his in both length and width.
"Too big for Jesse James," Edge said sourly.
"Jonas Pike, sir," the Chinese announced proudly.
"Never heard of him," Edge said, pushing past the Chinese and going in through the doorway.
"He very famous hunter of bounties, sir," the youngster said enthusiastically as he scuttled into the restaurant in the wake of his new customer. "He been in Mexico, but now he gone north. He, like you, honored this dishonorable establishment."
"So we got one thing in common," Edge muttered as he sat down at the window table, aware, but choosing to ignore the nervous glances from the other customers.
"What that, sir?"
"Bad taste," Edge replied. "Bring me the same as this morning, but more of it. Seeing a man die gives me an appetite."
The Chinese broadened his grin. "Gives it an edge, Mr. Edge?"
"The half-breed grimaced. "I'm the one from Iowa, China."
"Pardon, sir?"
"Where the corn comes from. Get the food."
The Chinese scratched his head, continued' to smile out of politeness to a patron and moved away between the tables. People hurried to finish their meals.
Sheriff Breen was finished anyway; but when he had paid the check he ignored the door and moved across to the window table. His solid bulk threw a shadow over the seated Edge.
"Something, Sheriff?" Edge asked, sliding his Winchester to the floor beneath the table.
"Saw you ride out. Couple of the stage passengers and Mayer's vigilantes weren't far behind. What happened?"
Edge found something of interest on the street. "You pick up Hood's inside man from the hotel roof?"
Breen's rough-hewn face exuded a hardness which had been proved to be only skin-deep. "Mortician's got him. I've only got your word he was one of Hood's men."
"Didn't know you needed a signed statement, Sheriff," Edge said softly, turning his hooded eyes to look up into the rust-colored face of the lawman. "Neither did Mayer, I guess. He killed another of them up at the old R.K.O. spread awhile back."
Breen's face was suddenly shiny as the skin tightened over his cheekbones. The Chinese delivered a heaped plate to Edge and withdrew hurriedly. Edge began to eat.
"Law don't take care of guys like Hood, I guess citizens got to do what they can."
The Sheriff took out a cigar and jammed it between his teeth. "I told you I was working on it. I lost six deputies trying to get Hood. Ain't no more men willing to get sworn since they seen how the bastard killed them. And I don't figure to get burned alive or cut open and left for the coyotes, citizen."
Edge chewed contentedly on his steak. "He's a real mean guy, ain't he?"
"I figured like you. Hood had to have a man here in town. If I'd have flushed him out, he'd have talked. I'd have known where Hood was holed up and there'd been no trouble raising a posse. But you just up and killed the critter."
Edge patted his bulging shirt front. "He told me what I wanted to know, Sheriff. The guy out at RKO. Would have made me a profit, but Mayer wanted a piece of the action."
"And he killed him before he talked?" Breen said sourly as he fired the cigar.
Edge nodded. ''Was an accident, though. He didn't mean to."
"Trying to make a name for himself again." Breen made no attempt to hide his disgust.
"To give to the town, I hear?" Edge reflected. "A town ought to have a name. You're not careful, it could get called Hoodsville."
"No chance," Breen answered. "I'd rather see it named after a cathouse madam like the next town down the trail."
"Which one's that?"
"Beverly Hills."
"Sounds fancy."
"It's a place to live," Breen' said as he turned away, trailing foul-smelling cigar smoke.
As his body swung round, he almost knocked over an ill-matched couple who had entered the restaurant and were heading for the table behind where Edge sat. The man was a hatchet-faced thirty-year-old wearing an eastern suit, dirty with trail dust His, right arm was heavily wrapped in a filthy bandage from shoulder to fingertips, The woman with him was shorter and thicker bodied, dressed in a voluminous black dress, high at the neck, and a hat from which hung a thick veil so that only a narrow area of her throat was visible. She carried a rolled up parasol under her arm.
The couple moved to the side to avoid colliding with Breen. The Sheriff began to doff his hat in apology. Edge sighed and reached down nonchalantly as if to scratch his ankle. But, instead, his hand curled around the Winchester and he tipped up the barrel and squeezed the trigger, falling sideways out of the chair.
The rifle bullet flung splinters in every direction as it burst through the table top. It found less resistance as it pierced the black veil. The woman emitted a blood-curdling wail and flipped over backwards into the outstretched arms of the amazed lawman.
"What the hell..?" Breen roared.
Edge had released his hold on the Winchester and as he hit the floor he was already clawing out the Walker-Colt, Two less strident reports sounded close together and the window in front of which Edge had been sitting was at once patterned by thousands of glittering cracks.
"Okay!" the hatchet-faced man yelled, flinging his arms high, smoke still rising from the charred holes in the bandage.
"I'm fine," Edge said. "Obliged for the thought." Then he shot the man, drilling the .44. shell into the center of his heart.
A woman began to scream and the sound reached a crescendo of shrillness before her companion cracked her across the cheek and rushed her out of the rear exit. Other customers made f
or the front door. More stayed where they were, watching Edge in awe as the half-breed picked himself up and dusted off his clothes.
"Seems like Hood was hedging his bet," the half-breed said to the startled Breen. "If Kilroy didn't blast me, these two got their chance."
He stooped over the dead man and began to unwind the bandage from the hand. When he pulled it free, a Remington Double Derringer clattered to the floor. Edge nodded to the startled Breen who was still supporting the dead woman. As he lowered her to the floor, the half-breed glanced at the body, but then the parasol captured his attention. He picked it up, his face impassive as he tested its weight.
"Kind of heavy," he said as he released the clip fastening. An awed gasp went up from the spectators as he pulled out a shotgun with a sawn-off barrel. He tossed the weapon onto the table and retrieved his Winchester.
"Hood's beginning to bother me, Sheriff," he told Breen softly. "When Dexter gets back to town, tell him I'd like to see him over at the Paramount."
Breen tried to swallow a lump in his throat. But he couldn't, and he spoke thickly around it. "How in tarnation did you spot them?"
"Women are different from men in more ways than three," Edge answered, going down into a crouch and jerking the veil off the face.
"Jesus!" Breen hissed as he looked into the dead face of the hold-up man named Jose, its youthful smoothness bathed in already congealing blood from the forehead wound. "A man dressed up like a woman."
"Not dressed up enough," Edge said as he straightened and went towards the door. "Wasn't covering his throat. Women don't have an Adam's Apple."
The young Chinese pushed between the spectators, anger replacing his usual good humor as he surveyed Edge. "Killings in my place no good for business," he accused.
Edge surveyed him impassively. "It's a tough life, China," he said. "A real drag."
Chapter Thirteen
AN aura of peace and tranquility hung over the well-kept farmhouse in the pink twilight. It was a small, single-storey building but growing bigger. New timber showed where an extension has been built onto the original cabin. It nestled at a foot of a knoll at the side of the wide valley and groves of orange trees all around made gentle sighing sounds in the cool evening breeze. Blue wood-smoke rose from a chimney at the rear. At the front, seven horses were hitched to a parked flatbed-wagon and two more - the wagon team - grazed contentedly on the lush grass in one of the groves.
"Low down!"
Hood's voice was a coarse intrusion into the idyllic scene. But the twin cracks of two pistol shots and the high, thin scream which followed were even more obscene in their implication. The horses stamped restlessly and then, as the front door of the house burst open and a man staggered out, clawing with both hands at his scarlet stained middle, some of them reared against the restraint of their reins. But then, as the injured man collapsed into a doubled-up position on the ground and began to moan softly as he waited for death, the animals settled down again.
Inside the neat, spartanly comfortable parlor of the house, growing murkier by the moment as the last rays of the sun died, Dayton and a heavy jowled man with a ring in one ear holstered their smoking Colts and turned from the open doorway to look at the object of their companions' interest.
She was a woman of some forty years, heavy-breasted and thick of hips, with long, beautifully kept brown hair. But this framed a face which had never been handsome and was now twisted-into a grotesque mask by her anguish.
"Hey, Sam," a stockily built boy just out of his teens complained. "I seen better looking tail in a Mexican cathouse."
"Cheap?" Hood asked as his protruding eyes roved over the woman.
"Sure."
"You get what you pay for. This one's real cheap. Unwrap her, Burt."
The woman was backed up against a glass-fronted china cabinet and the seven men faced her in a half circle.
"Why you shoot my husband?" the woman asked, her voice heavily accented with a guttural European tone.
A thick-set man with prominent teeth set in a fixed grin stepped in front of her, drawing a knife. He inserted the blade into the neck of her dress, the back of his hand forcing up her chin.
"Ain't right he should see what we gonna do to you," Hood answered easily.
The woman suddenly pulled back her head and sank her teeth into Burt's hand. The man let out a roar which became a high scream of horror as he slashed downwards with the knife and saw a gobbet of his flesh dripping blood from her mouth. Burt reeled, raising his savaged hand to his own mouth, sucking it. The woman's dress fell away to bar her to the waist, exposing her pendulous, very white breasts.
Burt held out his hand, staring at the pumping blood. "The cow bit me!" he shrieked."
The woman spat out the fragment of flesh and it spattered to the floor between the feet of its former owner. He snapped up his arm to throw the knife at her, but Hood swung his Spencer in a vicious blow across the man's stomach. Burt doubled up, coughing and clutching his middle.
"Later maybe," the bald-headed man in the frockcoat said easily. "They ain't no fun when they're dead." He looked around at the men. "Who wants to be first at the well?"
None of the men made a forward move. Then the man with the earring shook his head. "Not me, Sam. She'll likely bite it off."
Hood returned his fish-eyed stare to the face of the woman, whose chin was still run with Burt's blood. She held his gaze without showing fear. For her despair at the suffering of her husband left no room for further emotion.
"Needs a little taming down, you reckon?" he asked softly.
"You bet, Sam," the hard-faced Dayton answered. "How long you reckon' she'd last with one low down?" Hood rested his rifle against a chair and began to unfasten the brass buttons on his frock coat.
"Looks real strong, Sam," Dayton said.
"Long enough, I reckon." Hood drew the Tranter with deliberate slowness, scowling when his victim failed to react with terror. He' fired from the hip and grinned as the woman screamed and straightened up against the cabinet a moment before she clutched at the scarlet-flowing hole which had appeared in the white mound of her belly. She dropped heavily to her knees. He holstered the .43 and nodded his satisfaction. "Reckon she ain't so gutsy no more."
The woman's body was engulfed in a burning agony and she saw the men through a red mist. She prayed it would thicken to bring unconsciousness, even death. But her tormentors had been right. The many years of hard, ceaseless toil to establish the farm had developed in her a strength which acted involuntarily to maintain her awareness.
So that even when the last man raised himself from her, she was able to recognize him as the one she had bitten. She saw him, as she had seen the others, use her tattered dress to wipe the blood of her wound from his belly. And she heard his voice.
"Anybody want seconds?"
"Reckon not, Burt," Hood answered for the men. "Saving themselves for the sisters at the Mission." He grimaced and sank into a chair. "Jesus, that didn't do my rheumatics a lot of good."
A thin crackle of laughter erupted from Dayton. "That ain't rheumatics, Sam," he yelled. "You suppose to get stiff down there."
There was one last agony, one more indignity for her ravaged body. Before leaving, Burt slashed her savagely across the breast, nearly severing it. Her scream was short and terrible.
As the blood still gushed from her, Hood sprang up and swung towards the door. Burt strode after him and three others followed. Dayton and the man with the earring held back. Dayton clawed out his Colt and sent a bullet smashing into each of the two oil lamps on the neat mantel. The kerosene splashed across the floor and the woman's writhing body rolled into the pool. The second man struck a match on his fingernail and tossed it across the room.
The merciful release of death came at last to the tortured woman as her naked body was enveloped in the searing flames. The two men dashed from the house and joined the other members of the gang as they mounted their horses. The sun had now completed its slide into the d
istant ocean and the rosy-hued light of its death pangs was imitated by the glow from the burning building. The woman's husband stared at the house with unseeing eyes from his rigidly fetal position in the dust.
"Why'd you do that to her, Burt?" the youngest gang member asked excitedly as the group moved around the flatbed wagon and headed into one of the orange groves.
Burt jerked out his hand to show the blood encrusted wound made by the woman's death. "Taste of her own medicine," he snarled. "Look what she done to me?"
Hood pointed to the injured hand. "Kinda tit for that!" he roared as he led the gang into a fast gallop.
Chapter Fourteen
EDGE stood at the window of room five in the Paramount Hotel and watched Elmer Dexter move slowly across the deserted, night-time street towards the Holly Playhouse. The tall rancher's stiff leg gave him trouble as he mounted the side walk in front of the theatre. When he had disappeared into the lobby, Edge turned away from the window and went to the door. Downstairs, the saloon was doing good business and through the overlay of tobacco smoke he could see Cooper serving drinks with his usual lack of haste as money moved back and forth across the gaming tables and the plump dancing' girls went through their bored routine for the entertainment of a handful of lusting old-timers. A bright flash of yellow light splashed in one comer of the saloon and Edge allowed the beginnings of a smile to turn up the comers of his mouth as he saw Justin Wood emerge from beneath his hooded camera and endeavor to calm the startled group of sitters.
Then his lean face hardened in its lines as he moved along the balcony, to halt outside a door. With his hand hovering over the butt of the holstered Walker-Colt, he raised a leg and smashed his heel against the handle of the door. The noise from the saloon masked the sound as the door crashed open: and Stricklyn's cry of alarm as he folded into a sitting position on the bed. His nondescript face shook free of drowsiness and showed his fear as he saw Edge move into the room and kick the door shut. The tall half-breed went to the dresser and turned up the lamp wick. Then he rested his rump against the dresser and made a rutting sound as he studied the man on the bed.
California Killing (Edge series Book 7) Page 9
