EDGE: The Frightened Gun (Edge series Book 32)

by George G. Gilman

  ‘Grogan’s dead, Rose!’ Leech snarled. ‘I can see him from here!’

  ‘I got you covered, Billings!’ Jonas Cochran yelled, and pushed the barrel of a rifle through the batwings of the Sheepman. ‘So you tell–’

  ‘You crazy sonofabitch!’ the one-eyed man retorted, his confidence mounting by the moment. ‘Randy Leech and the women have clear shots at everyone on the street. Squeeze that trigger and there’ll be a massacre!’

  The fleshy-faced, bald-as-the-dead-Grogan saloon owner uttered a groan that augmented the frown of frustration which spread over his features.

  ‘Same thing’ll happen if you try anything foolish, sir,’ Billings said, lowering his voice to speak to the half-breed who stood behind him. But in the tense silence his words reached the ears of everyone who was on or around the mid-town intersection of Freedom. ‘You have my word–’ He raised his voice again: ‘– everyone has my word, that there will be no further violence providing you all accept that I am now in control of this town!’

  ‘But what about what he done to Barny Grogan, Abi?’Leech growled.

  ‘If Grogan had confided in me, he would not be dead,’ Billings snapped. Another lowering of his voice to address Edge, ‘What do you say?’

  The northern stretch of Main and the two streets at the sides of the Four Aces were becoming crowded with people. Drawn in from the grazing pastures and out of houses and business premises by the shotgun blast and the shouting. Questions had been asked and answered and now everyone was fully aware of just how dangerous the situation was in front of the hotel.

  ‘That I’ll kill any man – or woman – who points a gun at me and doesn’t use it.’

  For the first time since stepping in front of the half-breed, Billings turned his head to look at him. ‘You will not interfere with my plans for this town?’

  Fear, hatred, consternation, hope, contempt, despair, eagerness and indifference were all directed toward the impassive, dark-skinned, leather-textured face of Edge which showed above Billings’s shoulder. Many men in addition to Jonas Cochran had guns and were thus in positions to make a move against the Billings faction. But it was made tacitly apparent that no local man dare do so.

  ‘Why would I do that now, feller?’ Edge asked. And drew back his lips to show a cold grin. ‘For nothing? After I already turned down a part in your great design.’

  As aware as everyone else that, since Cochran’s play had been stopped, the outcome of the present situation depended upon what Edge did, Billings was unable to suppress a sigh or a smile of relief. Then after the half-breed had draped his coat over one arm and picked up his rifle with his free hand, Billings turned to face the street again and became grimly determined in look and tone of voice.

  ‘Very well, you people! I had not meant for this to happen the way it did! In front of woman and children! But however it has happened, I have achieved my aim! Which was to rid Freedom of the constrictions represented by Huey Gould! Now I know I have the support of more than Randy Leech and the ladies of the Four Aces! And if the rest of you people come round to my way of thinking, this town can prosper better than if a Mother Lode was struck in the hills! And everyone will benefit by it.’

  As he moved along the sidewalk of Main Street the half-breed could hear every word Billings spoke. But he listened without interest. Just as he was aware, with indifference, of the largely scornful attention which was directed at him from the townspeople who were shuffling tentatively closer to where the one-eyed man was shouting the details of his plan for Freedom, his enthusiasm growing by the moment.

  By the time Edge was out where the sidewalk ended at the blacksmiths shop and livery stable, the throng was behind him. And Billings’s oration reached him as an indistinct droning sound.

  Both the big doors were open and the heat from the forge fire was harsher than that of the eight o’clock sun. The mare was still in the stall and Edge paid scant attention to the set of shiny shoes which lay on the anvil as he crossed to take down his bedroll and saddle from the hook beside the stall. He had lashed his coat to the roll by the time footfalls ceased to sound out the street and Art Ely’s frame cast a long shadow across the floor.

  ‘If you got plans to leave town on that mare, you’re gonna have to change them, mister,’ the blacksmith growled.

  Edge slid the Winchester into the boot, straightened up and turned around. He pointed a long brown-skinned finger at the shoes on the anvil.

  ‘They made for my horse?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Guess I can fit them myself.’

  A nod. ‘I reckon you can do that, mister. If you got the same regard for a dumb animal as you do for your fellow men. Your mare’s got thrush comin’ on both hind hooves.’

  Edge grimaced and turned back to the stall. He lifted the latch and opened the stall door. Even as he dropped onto his haunches he knew Ely had spoken the truth. For, despite the other strong smells in the stable, the stench of infection from the animal’s inner hooves reached his nostrils. Speaking soft words of reassurance and gently running a hand over the animal’s thigh, he raised first one hoof and then the other. Then his grimace deepened into the lines of his lean face as he saw the puss-filled areas on both frogs which were giving off the sickening odor.

  ‘Town got a veterinarian, feller?’ he asked as he came erect and closed the stall.

  A nod. ‘Sherman Hayes. But he went south awhile ago. Expected back on the stage this mornin’. I’ve cleaned up the frogs and I’ll keep them clean until Sherman gets here. But I reckon it’ll be a number of days before you can ride that animal again. She’s a real fine horse, no mistake. Must’ve been painin’ her a time.’

  Edge knew it and could understand why a man like Ely, who worked with horses, was finding it hard to conceal his resentment.

  ‘Sure,’ the half-breed muttered, remembering briefly how he had been so preoccupied for so long with the simple pleasures of having a horse to ride under the enormous sky after the constriction of New York City. Then, all vagueness gone, ‘It’s a good horse. Will be again when she’s fit. I’m willing to trade for any animal that is fit.’

  He raked-his slitted eyes over the other six stalls that were occupied.

  ‘Two of them are mine and I ain’t doin’ no tradin’!’ Ely said grimly. ‘Another pair’s the kid’s who come into town ahead of you last night. You can ask Jonas Cochran about the black geldin’. Or Busby Tuttle if he’ll do a swap with his piebald mare. But the way things are shapin’ in this town, mister, I don’t reckon any body’ll want to be stuck with a lame horse.’

  ‘Obliged for the information about the stage coming through this morning, feller,’ Edge said, stooping to lift his gear.

  ‘What about your horse?’ Ely asked, dismay in his voice and expression as the half-breed came towards him.

  ‘Figure I’m leaving the animal in good hands.’

  ‘I don’t want nothin’ from you, mister!’ Ely snapped as Edge stepped out on to the sunlit street. Which was still crowded with people on the intersection in front of the Four Aces. But there were no guns in menacing sight now. And no one was shouting. Instead, there was a low-keyed, disconsolate murmur as the citizens of Freedom stood in small groups, discussing the violence of the morning and its implications.

  ‘Then have this Hayes feller shoot her when he gets back to town,’ the half-breed replied evenly as he started back up the street.

  The elderly blacksmith hurried to get alongside Edge and the two of them were level as they stepped up on to the sidewalk.

  ‘Figure that’s your way with everythin’ you got no more use for, mister. Get rid of it. Everythin’ and everybody.’

  ‘Ain’t never been one for collecting junk,’ Edge allowed, his voice still evenly pitched in contrast with his blatant disdain.

  And Ely realised his attitude was leaving the half-breed untouched. ‘There’s junk and junk,’ he muttered. ‘And the sort we got runnin’ this town now is the trash sort.’

/>   ‘So get rid of it, feller.’

  Ely spat into the street and then pressed his top teeth hard against his lower gums. ‘Just like that, uh?’

  Edge pursed his lips as he came to a halt in front of the stage-line depot and telegraph office. And nodded to the many small groups of anxiously whispering people on the intersection. ‘There’s a whole bunch of fellers with guns in the crowd. Just needs one of them to draw and kill Billings. Same way one of his boys blasted Gould. Well known fact that if you cut off the head of a sidewinder, you got nothing to fear from his rattle.’

  ‘Easy to say,’ Ely growled.

  ‘And do,’ Edge answered, shifting his narrow-eyed gaze to the still open window above the entrance of the Four Aces. Where the one-eyed Billings stood, smiling wistfully as he peered out over the people below him, absently raking slime from his left nostril. A piece at a time, which he rolled between his thumb and forefinger, then flicked off to the right, daydreaming of the future and totally oblivious to the present.

  ‘What?’ the blacksmith asked, puzzled. Then saw the direction of the half-breed’s inscrutable gaze and looked up at the window himself.

  Edge smiled coldly. ‘Easy as Abi see.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘You can shoe a horse, but you ain’t no good at makin’ the shoes, mister,’ Art Ely growled. ‘Take me and a lot of men in this town could draw a gun – but we couldn’t kill anybody.’ His dark, weak and wary looking eyes found the half-breed’s lean face and then moved quickly away. ‘And I ain’t sayin’ we can’t aim straight, you know what I mean?’

  ‘I know what you mean, Mr Ely,’ Willard Gayton put in as he emerged on to the threshold of the stage-line depot, the grimness in his face and voice seeming to age him far beyond his immature years. ‘And it could just be that you won’t have to worry about Billings for very much longer, sir.’

  Jamie used to look much older than he was when he had a powerful emotion gnawing at his insides.

  ‘Easy kid,’ Edge drawled. ‘You need more than hate for a man to kill him. If he can see you coming.’

  ‘Go on about your business, you people!’ Billings shouted down from the hotel window as he finished mining in his nose and emerged from his reverie. ‘And think about the kind of men who’ve decided to see things my way.’

  Inside the hotel bar room, Rose Pride shouted an order and the negro musician began to thump out a familiar tune on his piano keyboard.

  The crowd started to disperse from the intersection. But even before this happened, certain aspects of life in Freedom had recommenced. The bodies of Huey Gould and Barny Grogan had been carried along First Street to the undertaking parlour. The children had been hurried to their schoolhouse. Randy Leech had discarded the shotgun and now stood in the open doorway of the law office, his hands draped over the jutting butts of a pair of matching Frontier Colts, wearing a five-pointed star on his vest front and a proprietarily grin on his face.

  ‘I’m takin’ it easy, Mr Edge,’ the youngster answered tensely. ‘Until Abbie gets here I ain’t even sure I’m aimin’ my hate at the right man. If I am, then I’ll start to worry about how straight I can shoot.’

  ‘What the hell you talkin’ about boy?’ Ely asked, his tone and attitude lacking in interest as he saw a man beckoning to him from the street.

  The man was the chin-whiskered gunsmith who had been in a group with the bug-eyed Tuttle and four other men who had the look of merchants rather than sheep raisers. The rest had moved into the Sheepman Saloon and it was obvious that the gunsmith was eager for Ely to join them.

  ‘Nothin’,’ Clayton answered quickly, and seemed to regret what he had said – thoughts spoken aloud which should have remained secret.

  ‘And that’s just what you’re gonna do, boy!’ the blacksmith said sternly. ‘We don’t want no wet-behind-the-ears kid gettin’ himself killed on our account!’

  Anger flared across the youthful features of Clayton. He seemed ready to yell a retort at Ely, but shot a glance across the broad street at the grinning Leech and rasped with controlled fury, ‘You attend to your affairs and I’ll take care of my own!’

  The blacksmith replied in an identical tone before he swung down from the sidewalk and stalked across the street. ‘I don’t know what business you’re talkin’ about, boy! But bear this in mind – any innocent folks get hurt as a result of what you do, you’ll wind up fuel in my forge!’

  ‘He expect me to take that threat seriously?’ Clayton muttered. ‘Gutless old fool.’

  ‘Most fellers’ll do what they say if they’re fired up enough kid,’ the half-breed drawled, shifting his slitted eyes from the bulky frame of Ely to the short and skinny youngster in the doorway. ‘If you don’t take him seriously, could just be you’ll end up as light relief.’

  Clayton seemed on the point of pursuing the subject in the same tone as before. But then he shrugged his slim shoulders. ‘You got time for a cup of coffee, Mr Edge?’

  ‘I got until stage time.’

  The boy grinned. ‘I just checked. Due in at 10.30. With a thirty-minute turnaround. Appreciate some advice.’

  ‘Don’t do it,’ Edge said, moving along the sidewalk and turning in through the restaurant doorway.

  Ramon was on his way to the bead-curtained arch, carrying a mop and a pail. He had washed Grogan’s blood off the floor and scattered fresh sawdust over the wet patch. The much larger splash of crimson had been left to congeal into a brown crust on the street in front of the law office, an awesome reminder to the citizens of Freedom that a cold-blooded killer now wore the five pointed star in their town.

  ‘Two coffees,’ the half-breed told the Mexican, who looked at him and broke out in a sweat.

  ‘Si señor,’ Ramon replied hoarsely, and pushed quickly through the strings of beads.

  ‘Don’t do what?’ Clayton demanded anxiously.

  Edge dropped his gear to the floor and sat in the same chair he had occupied earlier. What was left of the breakfast he shared with Billings had been cleared from the table. As the boy lowered himself into the chair the one-eyed man had used, the half-breed answered: ‘Try to kill Billings.’

  The youthful features became set in a grim expression. ‘I got to. If he’s the one.’

  Edge raised his shoulders a fraction of an inch. ‘No sweat, kid. Advice costs nothing. Never is any obligation to take it.’

  ‘You don’t know the full story.’

  ‘But I figure I’m going to hear it?’

  Now the youngster became sullen. ‘If you ain’t even willin’ to listen to–’

  Edge shook his head. ‘I got the time to spare and you’re paying for the coffee, kid. And I never take anything for nothing.’

  Ramon re-entered the restaurant with the order and the abruptly eager Clayton had difficulty in containing himself until the nervous Mexican had withdrawn into the back. The place was as filthy as before, but the appetising smells of baking bread, cooking chili and brewing coffee continued to permeate the hot atmosphere. And Edge found it easy to be reminded of the kitchen of the Iowa farmhouse on long ago Mondays – his mother’s baking days. Jamie had never liked chili, which had been a favourite of his father and older brother.

  ‘It was fifteen years ago,’ Willard Clayton said, his voice low, pulling a part of the half-breed’s mind back from a more distant past. ‘Just before the start of the war. I was only four years old. Abbie was fourteen. We used to travel with Pa. All over. Wherever he went with his magic show. It was in St Louis Pa was shot down by a man with only one eye. At a poker game. The one-eyed man was cheatin’ and when Pa accused him, he pulled a gun and shot him. But we was strangers there and the one-eyed man, he had a lot of friends. And it was told to the law that Pa was the one that was the cheat.’

  The boy paused and watched as Edge licked the gummed strip of a cigarette paper then struck a match.

  ‘Seem to recall that last evening you told me your father spent years teaching you how to do magic tricks, kid,’ th
e half-breed pointed out.

  Clayton looked pained. ‘In a way, he did. He used to invent new things all the time and write them down in a big ledger. When he was murdered, I wasn’t old enough to understand what was goin’ on. And nobody told me nothin’ except that Pa had died. Abbie and me, we was sent to our Pa’s sister in Atlanta. But Abbie, she run away and what with the war gettin’ started, nobody could find her. She found me, though. After the Yankees burned Atlanta and Aunt Esme was killed. She came for me and took me to New Orleans, where she worked in a dancehall.’

  As he unfolded the story, Willard Clayton’s face showed an increasingly embittered expression; his mind obviously recalling more recent memories in stark detail.

  ‘I lived with her there until two years ago, Mr Edge. And I went to school and in my spare time I learned all Pa’s tricks. Then Abbie told me how Pa had been murdered and she took me to St Louis to show me his grave in Potter’s Field. And I knew then I had to find the man who killed him and make him pay. Which was what Abbie wanted, too. And not only because we needed to take revenge for Pa being killed and branded a card cheat. Apart from that, the one-eyed man had caused Abbie to end up a dancehall girl. And I’d spent six miserable years with an aunt I hated and I never had the college education Pa had always planned for me.’

  Clayton broke off again, and stared intently through the drifting tobacco smoke at the unresponsive face of Edge. ‘One life ended and two more ruined,’ the boy rasped. ‘A man who caused that, he deserves what’s comin’ to him, I reckon.’

  Across at the Four Aces, the piano player was taking a break. There was still noise in the hotel bar room, but it was all low key. So that the regular thuds of spades biting into earth as two more graves were dug could be clearly heard.

  ‘Men have died for a lot less, kid,’ the half-breed allowed.

  Clayton grunted his satisfaction with this. ‘We didn’t have much to go on. It had happened thirteen years before and there had been a war since then. But it seemed like a good omen when we found Pa’s old wagon rottin’ in a warehouse. So we done it up and tried to find out more than Abbie already knew about the man who killed Pa. But we didn’t have no luck and we started out to look for him only knowin’ he was one-eyed and called himself Jack Smith. Except that Abbie had seen him once so knew what he looked like a long time ago.’