‘You want some of that, Wilkes?’ Ely demanded in the same rasping tone. And he took a step closer as the younger man, blood spilling over his lower lip, fought himself up into a splayed-leg sitting posture again.
‘You’re through, you ball-less old sonofabitch!’ Wilkes screamed, spraying blood droplets.
‘Don’t be crazy, Chris!’ Lee roared, backing further away from the line between Ely and Wilkes. Forcefully enough to collide hard with Gould and send the lawman stumbling and cursing into the crowd.
‘Emmylou ain’t worth it!’ Travis called, his voice husky with fear. And his sentiments drew Ely to snap his eyes away from Wilkes and glare with renewed anger at a new target.
Ely, Edge realised, must have seen the man with the blood-run jaw start to claw the Colt from the holster. But the insult directed at Emmylou – the old man’s young wife – took precedence in his mind.
‘That girl’s better than all–’ Ely started.
He spoke into another tense silence which began as all the watchers realised what had caused Lee and Travis to shout at Wilkes. And broke off as the revolver shot cracked.
Silence again for part of a second Until the bullet thudded into the closed door of the Freedom Restaurant and Bakery. The lead could only have missed Ely’s turning head by a fraction of an inch, exploded by a man unable to take careful aim as he shook his own head to try to ease the pain and perplexity caused by the second blow to his jaw.
Then the screams and the gasps and the shouts filled the chill night air. As the crowd pressed backwards, carrying the cursing Sheriff Gould with it.
Wilkes cocked the hammer of his Colt and spread a grin of evil triumph across his features. Supremely confident of a killing shot with his second bullet as, with an anguished cry of defeat, Art Ely chose to stumble backwards instead of hurling himself at the man with the gun.
All sound except for the liveryman’s frantic intake of breath was again abruptly, shockingly curtailed. ‘He ain’t armed! You’ll hang!’
The first three words which Gould roared came before the gunshot. The second two, husky in tone, followed it.
Ely fell hard to the ground. Going to the side. With a cry of alarm rather than pain. And all but a single pair of eyes looked on in terror as a black hole appeared in the centre of Chris Wilkes’s forehead. The man measured his stocky frame on the street again, his once-fired gun sailing through the air – powered by an involuntary throwing action as he flung both arms to the side. As the back of his head impacted with the ground, a gout of blood exploded from the bullet wound and rained in light reflecting droplets back down on to his face.
Slowly, in the stretched seconds which followed the killing, all eyes raked away from the spread-eagled corpse to look at the tall, lean man with coldly glinting blue eyes who had fired the second shot. He stood in an evenly balanced half-crouch, half-turned from the waist towards his victim. Both arms extended. In the left was the uncocked Winchester which he had used to send Ely crashing to the street. In the right a Remington revolver, blue smoke wisping from the muzzle, hammer back in the event that another shot would be needed.
But Edge saw in the next instant that one shot had been enough to kill Wilkes. Then, after his heavily hooded eyes had raked the scene and he was sure there was no immediate danger from other sources, he eased the hammer forward, slid the Remington into its holster and straightened up.
‘Gee, mister!’ the liveryman croaked as he started to get painfully to his feet. He’d have killed me for sure.’
‘What I figured.’
Travis and Lee had hurried over to crouch beside the sprawled form of their buddy.
‘Chris is dead, sheriff!’ Lee said with a noisy gulp.
Gould had struggled clear of the crowd again, his expression so morose now it looked almost moribund. ‘Somebody was bound to be,’ he said in a voice that matched the set of his thin features and his dark garb. ‘Way it turned out, no law was broke. Not like if Chris Wilkes had gunned down Art who wasn’t armed.’
The dark eyes of the lawman as they came to rest on the half-breed’s impassive face showed a momentary deep-seated resentment.
‘Couldn’t agree with you more, Huey!’ Billings called, the accent in his words placing his origins far to the east and south of this Nevada Territory-California border area.
There was a murmuring of other voices, all contributing to a general sound of further agreement.
‘Though I can’t for the life of me see,’ the lawman went on, ‘why this stranger felt the need to interfere. To my mind he don’t look like no–’
‘Did it for my horse,’ Edge drawled.
‘Uh?’ Ely and Gould said in unison as the liveryman was eased to the side by the white suited Billings emerging from the crowd.
‘Needs shoeing. And this feller is the only blacksmith within thirty miles of here.’
That certainly is right, sir,’ Billings said enthusiastically. ‘Which means you did the whole town a favour.’
This was greeted with a more fervent cheer than any Willard Clayton had received during his performance.
‘Well, I guess I know now where that leaves me in the opinion of this town!’ Ely muttered with bad grace as he scanned the faces of his fellow citizens.
‘Alive, sir!’ Billings supplied with a bright grin as he slapped him on the back.
Ely made a deep throated sound of disgust and glanced from the smiling face of the hotel owner to the impassive set of the half-breed’s features. ‘I ain’t sayin’ I ain’t grateful, but–’
‘Don’t be, feller,’ Edge told him evenly. ‘Put it down to one of the things I do for Art.’
Chapter Four
‘You’ll take a drink in my establishment, sir?’ Billings invited. ‘On the house. And perhaps you’d care to stay at the Four Aces if you have business to hold you in Freedom?’
He was ushering Edge ahead of him as the crowd divided to allow them free passage to the steps leading up to the hotel stoop. Willard Clayton was still in front of the batwings, looking lost and lonely and not a little nervous.
‘Hello again, Mr Edge,’ the young magician called down.
The half-breed nodded to him. ‘Take a drink and pay for it, feller. Only figure to be in town the one night. While my horse gets what’s needed and I rest up. Single-bed sleeping style.’
He glanced at Billings and saw that the one-eyed man was resentful of his attitude, but only allowed it to show for a moment before the grin was back in place, as firmly fixed as ever.
‘Guess Art Ely steered you to the Widow Emmons’s place? Martha Emmons is Emmylou’s mother and she and Ely feel real sorry for each other about that girl running off the way she did.’
Up close, only one of the three women at the batwings was as attractive as she had looked from the rear of the audience. She was an oval-faced blonde with eyes only a shade darker than her vivid green dress. Her skin looked as if, under the paint, it was soft and clear enough not to need the cosmetics. Her teeth as she parted her full lips in a warm smile were very white and perfectly matched. She had slender arms, a narrow waist and finely shaped breasts, at least in the contoured cups of the gown’s bodice.
The two brunettes who flanked her were of the same age but had either been more ill-used or had taken less care of themselves than the blonde. One had a sallow complexion and the other was spotty, her imperfections extending across her chest and down into the valley between her breasts. Both had brown eyes that looked glazed by world-weariness and as smiles spread over their faces there was a longing behind the expressions to be elsewhere doing something different.
‘Welcome, Mr Edge,’ the blonde said. ‘I’m Rose Pride. And these are two of my young ladies. Liz and Joanna. Or there’s eight more if you do not–’
‘He just wants a drink, sweetheart,’ Billings told her.
‘Whatever your pleasure is, sir,’ Rose said, her genuine-looking smile appearing to remain as warm as ever.
Meanwhile the two who
res shrugged their indifference to the stranger’s lack of interest in their wares and swung around with a rustle of petticoats to saunter back into the depths of the hotel’s big bar room.
‘Mr Billings,’ Willard Clayton called nervously as the one-eyed man held open one of the batwings for Edge to enter. ‘I do a good act, sir. But I figure it’s gonna be hard to follow the spectacle of a man gettin’ shot down on the open street.’
Both Edge and Billings turned to look beyond the artificially bulky frame of Clayton at the scene on the intersection before the hotel. The crowd had dispersed now, family groups hurrying away along all three streets, as if the parents considered that speed would aid in wiping from the memories of their children the scene of violence which had been witnessed. A number of men, alone or in pairs or threes, were ambling diagonally across the intersection towards the dingy facade of the Sheepman Saloon. Another group of men stood at the foot of the steps, obviously waiting for Billings to declare his place open again for normal business. Sheriff Gould and another man were leading Lee and Travis – these two with the body of Wilkes slung between them – along the First Street fork.
‘Don’t even try, son,’ the one-eyed man replied with a nod. Another smile. ‘But tomorrow’s another day, uh? Come on in.’ And he beckoned to the men at the foot of the steps. ‘You, too. First drink on the house. For those that ain’t averse to bein’ treated, that is.’
The warmly smiling Rose linked her arm through that of Edge and tugged him gently across the threshold of the Four Aces. ‘Bet you’re a real wet blanket at Halloween, Mr Edge,’ she accused lightly.
‘How’s that, ma’am?’ the half-breed asked, aware of her subtle perfume as he looked around the bar room across which he was allowing himself to be steered.
‘It’s miss. But I like plain Rose best. I mean you don’t go for...’ she laughed a gentle laugh, ‘...tricks or treats.’
The big, high-ceilinged room was warm with the heat from two large pot-bellied stoves, one at either end. The long bar ran along the rear wall. There were a dozen-and-a-half tables with chairs around them. At one end of the bar was a small platform with a piano, some chairs and music stands on it. At the other end a broad staircase rose to the upper floor. The white-painted walls were hung with gilt framed paintings of reclining nudes wearing coy expressions. Suspended from the ceiling were two clusters of kerosene lamps. The floor was of scuffed boarding.
Two negroes were behind the bar and another sat on a stool at the piano. The nine whores were scattered among the tables, some alone and without drinks and the rest with men who had apparently paid for whatever was in the glasses in front of them. There were some twenty paying customers in the bar room – keeping company with whores, intent on playing cards or simply drinking.
Both the help and the customers eyed the half-breed with great interest as Rose Pride took him among the tables to the bar counter.
‘Come on, folks, liven up this place!’ the good-looking madam shouted.
‘Yeah, do that!’ Billings augmented as he reached the bar and made a fist of one ringed hand to bang it down on the top. ‘A free drink for everyone! Make some music, Sam!’
The black pianist started a grin and began to thump at his keyboard. Then the bartenders matched his expression as they turned to lift bottles and glasses from the shelves. While the established patrons of the place were more vocal in their responses as they rose noisily from their tables, bolting down their old drinks so that they had empty glasses for the free refills.
The warmly-clad group from Willard Clayton’s disintegrated audience entered and moved across the bar room apprehensively, huddled together and casting nervous glances about them: obviously ill-at-ease strangers in a new environment.
But nobody looked quite so discomforted as the young magician who was the last to enter the Four Aces and trod a lonely path from the batwinged entrance to the stairway.
Edge caught sight of Clayton as he raised the shot glass to his lips and swallowed the rye at a gulp. Billings saw the boy, too and shouted above the clamour of piano music, loud talk and gusty laughter, ‘Hey, son! You’re included! Come on over here and take a drink!’
Clayton tried to mask his anxiety with a wan grin and then his mouth moved to form words. But he realised his voice did not penetrate the noise and he over-emphasised a yawn and used a fisted hand to mime rubbing the grit of weariness from his eyes. His other hand was clutched around the paraphernalia of his act, including the ears of the docile rabbit.
‘Suit your friggin’ self!’ Billings rasped, low but forceful, his lips pulled into a thin line and his one uncovered eye glinting with anger. And this expression – as far removed as it was possible to get from the warm friendliness he had exhibited a moment ago – was directed towards Edge as the half-breed dropped a silver dollar on the bartop and asked the nearest negro:
‘You can make change, feller?’
There was a mirror in back of the shelves of bottles and glasses behind the bar and Edge saw Billings’s face in profile. He also saw the pretty features of Rose Pride visited briefly by anxiety, then show a good imitation of her previous good humour.
‘Mr Edge and the kid are both tired, Abi,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Nobody reaches this town without a long, hard ride. Tomorrow’s another day, ain’t that what they say?’
‘And tomorrow the Sheepman will still get most of the business,’ the one-eyed man growled, but as he spoke managed to suppress his ill-feeling and raise an unconvincing smile. ‘Rose is right, Edge. Get some sleep. You’re welcome to stay here. Or go to Martha Emmons’s place if you’re set on it. But come morning, I’d appreciate the opportunity of a word with you, sir?’
He nodded to the waiting bartender who dropped the silver dollar into a pocket of his leather apron and counted out change in nickels and dimes.
‘Never drink hard liquor before noon, feller,’ Edge said as he pocketed the change. ‘Be at the restaurant for breakfast soon as it opens. Then at Ely’s livery for as long as it takes to shoe my horse.’
By now Billings had repaired all the damage which his sudden anger had caused to his demeanour. ‘Breakfast at the Freedom Restaurant at seven then? And after you hear what I have to say, maybe you won’t be in too much of a hurry to get your horse shoed?’
Edge showed no response to the man. But he touched the brim of his hat towards the madam and said: ‘Miss Pride.’
Then he turned from the bar and moved back among the tables towards the batwings. The noise level in the stove-heated, tobacco-smoke-and-perfume-smelling bar room had now been reduced to about the same as it had been before Willard Clayton began his performance out on the stoop. Two card games were restarted, the piano player was thumping out the least raucous of the only three tunes he appeared to know, the most hopeful of the whores were laughing at everything their potential customers said to them and money and liquor were being exchanged regularly across the polished bartop.
As he reached the batwings and began to push open one of them with his free right hand, Edge sensed hostile eyes looking at him and he glanced over his shoulder. And located the man who wished him ill-will just before the pair of brooding eyes were averted to peer too intently down at the surface of a glass of beer – long untouched and flat. The man was about thirty, prematurely bald, with a vee-shaped scar on the right side of his jaw. He was sharing the table, closest to the piano player, with the other expensively and stylishly dressed man whom Edge had first seen standing with Billings and Rose Pride during Willard Cayton’s performance.
The half-breed raked his narrowed eyes across the rest of the room and its occupants: and saw other isolated areas where tension lurked in the general atmosphere of conviviality.
Billings was talking fast to the now anxious looking madam. The group of men who had come in off the street were still gathered together at one end of the bar, their talk and free drinks exhausted, wearing expressions which suggested they wished they had never entered. And, at the top of the s
tairway above the group, Willard Clayton stood in the fringe of light from one of the lamp clusters – peering down at the one-eyed man and Rose Pride with blatant hatred, until he realised he had been seen. Then fear – as strong as that which he had shown after he almost shot Edge – flooded across his face. He searched frantically for whoever was watching him, spotted the half-breed at the hotel entrance, drew not an iota of comfort from this and whirled to hurry out of sight along the hallway.
‘I told Art Ely to have your horse ready first thing in the mornin’, stranger.’
The morose-looking, mournful-toned, black-clad Sheriff Gould was coming up the broad steps to the stoop as Edge pushed out through the batwings. Beyond his tall, lean figure, the main street of Freedom was deserted, the glint of moonlight on dark windows seeming to emphasise the biting chill of the night. Light but no noise spilled from the Sheepman Saloon and down on the residential stretch of the street a few of the house windows showed lights.
‘Obliged,’ Edge replied as the batwings flapped closed behind him and his eyes, bleaker and colder than the night, shifted their unblinking gaze from the darkened facade of the restaurant to the unfriendly face of the lawman.
‘Favor for the folks of Freedom, not you,’ the sheriff growled. ‘Your kind ain’t welcome here.’
‘What kind is that?’
‘The kind that lives by the gun.’
There was a shuffle of feet on boarding behind Edge and the doors of the Four Aces swung open ahead of the men who had reached a decision to leave after the free round of drinks.
‘That ain’t fair, Huey,’ a short, round-faced, bug-eyed man of about fifty muttered. ‘Hadn’t been for the stranger, it would’ve been Art we’d be buryin’ tomorrow instead of that no-good Chris Wilkes.’
EDGE: The Frightened Gun (Edge series Book 32) Page 4
