EDGE: Town On Trial

by George G. Gilman

  The evil killer-glint had gone from the narrowed eyes under their hooded lids now: as he closed with the bar counter and swung lithely over its polished top.

  Nobody said a word and it was almost as if they were all holding their breath while the half-breed brought a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass from underneath and placed them on top of the counter. The stream made rushing sounds along its rocky bed. Then a rain squall beat at timber and glass. Edge came over the bar counter as smoothly as the first time, took a five-dollar bill from a hip pocket and laid it on the top.

  ‘A bummer I ain’t, ma’am,’ he said to the shocked Mrs. Donnelly. ‘I pay for what I have or if I can’t I don’t have it. You can make change after you’ve made the arrangements.’

  He picked up the bottle and glass and on his way to a table on the fringe of the light and dark of the saloon he extracted the cork with his teeth and spat it on the floor.

  Mrs. Donnelly covered her fleshy face with both hands as her obese frame was shaken by dry sobs.

  ‘You’re a cold-hearted sonofabitch, mister!’ the eldest of the card players accused sourly as Edge dropped into a chair and poured whiskey into the glass.

  ‘I am what I am, feller,’ the half-breed answered. ‘And it’s been a long time since I needed anybody to like it.’

  ‘What’s this all about?’ a man demanded from the doorway. The one who had greeted Edge from the threshold of the hotel. He came through the batwings closely followed by a kid of about eighteen.

  Those who remained out on the stoop, at the doorway and windows, were all women and girls.

  ‘Dean just blasted Rusty,’ one of the card players answered and drew a noisy response of gasps, shrieks and questions.

  ‘In self defence!’ Warford yelled. ‘I got witnesses!’

  ‘That’s right, Mr. Pepper!’

  ‘We seen it all! Rusty was gonna use his scatter-gun on Dean!’

  ‘Save it!’ Pepper snapped and waved a hand at his son. ‘Go get Wes Wilde, Joel.’ He went to the bar, leaned over it and grimaced at the sight of the bloody-faced Donnelly. ‘And Stan Barlow’ll be needed as well, Joel.’

  Edge finished his first drink with two swallows and then refilled the glass: nursed it at a sip at a time. This while activity increased, subsided, had a resurgence and then faded again in front of him.

  His response to the leveled gun of the angry young cowpuncher had been a stupid waste of time, feelings and bullets. Normally when a man pointed a gun at him for the first time it was necessary only to warn him not to do it again.

  And this aversion to looking down the muzzle of a gun had its roots in the truthful incident he had related to the people in the Red Dog saloon. He really had once had a kid brother - named Jamie - who he had maimed in a childhood game with a Starr rifle they both thought had no bullet in the breech.

  Jamie did not live for too many years after he was crippled. Was brutally tortured and then murdered by six men who served under the command of Josiah C. Hedges, Union cavalry lieutenant during the War Between the States. That was the given and family name of the man called Edge in his youth and through the years of the harsh and bloody civil war. For he did not become Edge until he had tracked down and taken his revenge against the former troopers who killed Jamie and burned the brothers’ farmstead on the Iowa prairie.

  He used war-taught skills to accomplish his mission of vengeance, which in peacetime placed him outside the law. And the mispronunciation of the name Hedges by a Mexican had given him an alias which he had clung to even after an incident in the city of New York for which he had been granted amnesty on the old killings.

  With the new name, he had not adopted a fresh identity: had merely reverted to the kind of man that he had become during the war. Which was not his intention when he rode westwards after the peace-signing at Appomattox Court House: for at that time it was his ambition to forget the harsh lessons of war and take up again the hard but peaceful life of a prairie farmer.

  But the horrifying death of Jamie and the burning of the family home had dashed such hopes. And once the killers of the boy were as dead as their victim, destiny set a course of violence which the man now called Edge was bound to follow.

  On occasion during the early years of following the violent trails laid out for him, he sought to spit in the eye of his ruling fates. To settle down, alone or with a woman, in some place where there seemed a chance of establishing a life for himself that might have some resemblance to the kind he had envisaged on the Iowa farmstead. But always his plans were ruined and his hopes were dashed: in a welter of flying bullets, drifting gunsmoke and spraying blood. Until regret, remorse and grief had taken on the sourness of self-pity, at which time he surrendered to his destiny. And became a drifter across the varied landscape of the states and territories of his native country and the northern regions of his father’s homeland. Moving as need or the mood took him, living by a self-imposed code that demanded he accepted nothing from any man unless he paid a fair price: and looking for trouble only when he was engaged in a line of work that attracted it.

  Like recently, in and around the Territory of Arizona-Mexico border-town of Indian Hill where he had seen an opportunity to boost his bankroll from a kidnapping that was none of his business. He went into that with his eyes open and therefore could have no complaint - and could lay no blame upon his ruling fates - about the way it turned out.

  But arriving at the outwardly peaceful Texas town of Irving, coming into a saloon for a drink and getting mixed up in a killing . . . Shit, that was another matter. And he needed the shots of rye whiskey in the peace of his own company to keep from the futile mental exercise of cursing the twist of fate that had led him to the Red Dog saloon at the moment when fresh violence erupted. While at the same time he could congratulate himself for shooting at an inanimate empty gun instead of blasting a shot into the drunken hothead who had aimed it at him. And be thankful this latest turn of events had not riled him enough so that he failed to realize - the way Warford had - that the gun was empty.

  ‘All right, stranger. Now we get to you. What’s your account of what happened here this evenin’?’

  Edge looked up from the fourth glass of whiskey which he was holding in both brown-skinned hands resting on the table. And saw the man who spoke to him was about fifty, with a medium height and build: sporting a neatly-trimmed moustache and beard that was black mottled with grey. The face above the hirsute growth was dark-stained and deeply lined by the outdoor life, with a nose that was too large and dark eyes that were spaced too close together. He was dressed in a cream-colored suit, the jacket unbuttoned so that the half-breed could see the five-pointed metal star pinned to the left side of his check shirt-front. He wore a gun with fancy butt-plates in a holster which hung low and loose from the right side of his gunbelt. The rig looked as brand new as the white Stetson which he held with both hands by the brim, rotating it slowly in front of his belly.

  The half-breed had seen Sheriff Wilde earlier. Along with Stan Barlow, the undertaker, three other men and two women. And had heard, but not listened to, the lawman’s questioning of the witnesses. While the women comforted Mrs. Donnelly and Barlow oversaw the removal of the body. Now, as he leaned to the side to look beyond the sheriff, he saw that the blonde was back at the table she had left earlier and Warford and his friends were again seated where they had been before the trouble started. Everyone else had left the Red Dog and those who remained were watching Edge intently while they awaited his answer. Outside, the rain was falling steadily: hitting the walls and roof of the saloon hard enough to cover the sounds of the fast-flowing stream.

  ‘Asked you a question, mister,’ Wilde said insistently.

  ‘Give a truthful answer and you got nothin’ to fear.’

  Scorn showed for just part of a second in the half-breed’s narrowed eyes as he glanced up at the grim-set face of the lawman. Then he raised his glass and emptied it at a swallow: began to roll a cigarette as he said:

>   ‘Warford figured to play some other game but cards. The lady made it plain she wanted no part of it. Bartender warned him off. And got killed for his trouble.’

  ‘It was self-defense, I tell you!’ Warford yelled, the tone of his voice and the speed with which he spoke far removed from the manner in which Edge had given his answer to Wilde’s question. ‘I was just tryin’ to be friendly to the lady! Rusty grabbed that damned old scatter-gun of his and I had to—’

  ‘Save it, Dean!’ the sheriff flung over his shoulder. ‘For the trial. I figure I’m gonna have to arrest you.’

  ‘But I keep—’ Warford started again.

  And this time was interrupted by Mrs. Donnelly who accused bitterly: ‘He could have prevented it!’ as she emerged from the doorway in back of the bar. Pointed a trembling finger at Edge as he struck a match and lit the freshly-made cigarette. ‘A man that can shoot a gun as good as he can, he could’ve done somethin’ to keep it from happenin’.’

  She began to sob again, as two women came from the doorway behind her and tried to urge her to return with them into the privacy of the back room.

  ‘Now, now, Estelle,’ the sheriff urged. ‘It ain’t no good any of us talkin’ about what might have been. What’s done is done and the clocks can’t be turned back so it can be done some other way.’

  He swung away from Edge and sighed as he went to the table where the four men were seated.

  ‘Wes . . .’ Warford started, sober and hungover now: his green eyes pained.

  ‘Gonna have to lock you in a cell, Dean,’ Wilde said ruefully. ‘And you ain’t gonna give me any trouble, are you? These other boys, they’ll ride out to tell Joe Love what happened and he’ll do all he can for you.’

  ‘Sure, Dean,’ one of Warford’s buddies agreed cheerfully. ‘You ain’t gotta thing to worry about. Mr. Love’ll have you out quicker than blinkin’.’

  ‘Ain’t that the rotten truth,’ Estelle Donnelly groaned, exhausted by grief and unable to inject into her voice the depth of contempt that glittered in her flesh-crowded, red-rimmed eyes. ‘While my son is bein’ eaten by the worms in the ground, his cowardly killer’ll have life and freedom bought and paid for with Love greenbacks!’

  ‘No, Estelle, there’ll be a fair trial in front of the circuit judge and—’

  Wilde curtailed his angry denial, for Mrs. Donnelly had swung around and thrust between the two other women to go through the doorway - who glanced with frantic helplessness around the saloon before they went after her.

  ‘All right, Wes,’ Dean Warford allowed, obviously feeling easier in his mind now. ‘I’ll come with you.’ He even smiled. ‘By the sound of that weather out there, I figure I’m lucky I just have to step around the corner. Instead of riding all the way to the ranch.’

  ‘We’ll get right on out there, Dean,’ the eldest of the group promised as they all rose to their feet. ‘Mr. Love’ll want that. Wouldn’t want you to spend a minute longer than necessary in the gaolhouse.’

  ‘Thanks, boys,’ Warford answered, his mood improving by the moment: the good humor shared by his friends.

  Which was at odds with that of Wilde, who was still grim-faced while he continued to smart from the fat woman’s accusation that in this town, justice went to the highest bidder. Then he sought to offload some of his ire on the half-breed and the blonde woman when he halted on his way to the batwings in the wake of the quartet of cowpunchers. And looked over his shoulder to share a glare between them as he ordered:

  ‘Necessary for you two people to stay in Irving. To give evidence at the trial.’

  ‘Her especially!’ Warford added from the held-open batwings, his voice and face revealing a spiteful anger that was vastly more forceful than Wilde’s. ‘Hadn’t been for her flauntin’ her ass in here, there wouldn’t have been no trouble!’

  ‘For the trial, Dean,’ the sheriff reminded. ‘Save it for the proper time.’ Then, looking back into the saloon again from the threshold: ‘Better have your names. For the record.’

  ‘Dickens,’ the woman answered. ‘Crystal Dickens.’

  The half-breed looked at her rather than the lawman through the smoke coiling from his cigarette as he said: ‘Edge. Just Edge.’

  And saw her head snap around so that her eyes met his: he impassive and she expressing a degree of surprise that came close to incredulity.

  The batwings clattered closed, booted feet stepped down off the stoop, horses were mounted, and parting words were yelled above the beat of hooves on muddy ground.

  ‘You ever been in New York City, mister?’ the blonde asked when there was just the falling rain to disturb the stillness.

  ‘Mase never said he was married,’ Edge answered. ‘And you’re too young to have been his mother.’

  She rose, picking up the carpetbag and her hat. ‘Mason and I were brother and sister. I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘Seem to recall I had to keep telling almost everyone in New York that I didn’t come from Texas.’

  She halted at his table and set the bag down on top of it. ‘I came west is all, Mr. Edge. It was a crazy thing to do, but I felt I had to attempt it. Trying to find a man in this enormous country. But this does belong to you.’

  She reached into the bag and brought out a neatly wrapped-and-tied package. Which she placed beside the bottle and empty glass. The package was about nine inches by six by three.

  ‘It does?’ he asked.

  ‘Your blood money. Ten thousand dollars of it.’ Then her tone altered from slightly censorious to sourly sarcastic when she added: ‘And I hope it buys you a lot of happiness.’

  This as she jerked the hat on her head, picked up the bag and swung around to stride toward the doorway, hips swaying and petticoats rustling under the flared skirt of her dress.

  Edge poured himself another drink, raised the glass and said: ‘I’ll drink to that,’ as the batwings flapped in the wake of the woman’s passing.

  And he was in the process of swallowing the whiskey when her face appeared above the tops of the doors and she blurted:

  ‘You don’t have to thank me for all the trouble I went to!’

  ‘I didn’t,’ he answered.

  ‘It costs nothing to say thank you!’

  ‘Talk’s cheap, lady,’ he countered as he rose from the chair: picked up the bottle with one hand and the package with the other. ‘Seems I can afford a lot better than that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t touch a cent of that money.’

  ‘Red cent, lady.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said it was blood money.’

  ‘And so it is. And if you think I’d lower myself to do more than pass the time of day with the kind of man you are, you are very much mistaken.’

  ‘It was passing the time of night I was thinking of,’ Edge answered and showed a quiet grin along his mouth-line as he went toward the doorway. ‘And it’s not my principles I’m asking you to embrace.’

  Chapter Three

  AN HOUR later, the half-breed lay almost naked under a sheet and blanket on a double bed in a front upper-storey room of the Irving House Hotel: freshly bathed and shaved and with a meal of cold cuts and beans easing comfortingly through his digestive system.

  As Sam Pepper had earlier promised, it was a clean bed in a clean room. No frills, unless the net curtain at the window could be classed as such. For the rest there was just the bed, a table beside it, a bureau, a chair and a clothes closet. All standing on a bare floor. No pictures on the walls. A kerosene lamp with a ceramic base on the table.

  Crystal Dickens entered the hotel just a few seconds ahead of Edge, but had collected her key, run up the stairs and her room door slammed as he reached the desk at the rear of the spartanly furnished lobby. Where the lanky, sandy-haired, wan-faced Joel Pepper was on duty.

  ‘Your horse is all took care of down at Mr. Huberts place, sir,’ the boy greeted, a little nervously. ‘Pa ain’t here right now. But he said to give you room seven. It’s a good room and�
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  ‘A single?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Like a double. And a bath. And something to eat.’

  ‘We got a house rule, sir. We don’t rent—’

  Edge reached a hand into the long hair at the nape of his neck and the Pepper boy broke off with a gasp as he saw the blade of a straight razor jutting from the man’s fist. But the half-breed used the razor only to slit open a corner of the paper-wrapped package before he slid it back into the pouch that was held at the nape of his neck by a beaded thong.

  ‘And I got a lot of money, kid. And you got a girl. And just maybe I’ve got company coming.’

  He laid two ten-dollar bills on the desk top.

  4I really shouldn’t, sir.’ He licked his lips and eyed the money eagerly.

  ‘You play organ for the church choir, kid. Figure that’ll buy you a place in heaven. But nobody’s perfect. Sin a little.’

  Joel swallowed hard, reached under the desk and placed down a key. Picked up the money as he urged: ‘But I was out back when you came in, mister. You just took a key. By the time I fixed your tub, it was too late to move you out.’

  ‘As a musician, you’re a fine liar, kid.’

  So now the half-breed relished the comfort of the spacious bed: not smoking or drinking - simply gazing up at the ceiling of the darkened room and listening to the rain falling on the hotel. Thinking about Crystal Dickens.

  She was close to thirty. About five six tall and had a figure that looked like it might get overly full-blown if she did not take pains to guard against it. Her darkish blonde hair was worn long and flowed down and over her shoulders in a series of waves. And framed a face that was heart-shaped and not hard to look at in the set of her full lips, pert nose, big brown eyes and dimpled cheeks. Her complexion was a little pale, but it was clear of blemishes: and she knew just how much paint and powder to use to make the most of her natural good looks.