‘We all have our dislikes, feller,’ Edge said, and directed a spit out onto the street which was already becoming dusty under the drying rays of the sun. ‘One of mine is staying in the same place too long. You know when the circuit judge will be in town?’
‘Wes Wilde telegraphed San Antone last night. The judge oughta be on the noon stage tomorrow.’
‘Obliged,’ the half-breed muttered and moved along the stoop, stepped down off the end and then up onto that fronting the saloon. This as the batwings swung open and Crystal Dickens and Estelle Donnelly emerged: the older and much heavier woman attired in deep mourning, complete with an all-concealing veil hanging down across her face.
‘This place open to rent rooms?’ he asked.
‘That ain’t up to—’ Mrs. Donnelly started.
‘It’s been sold, Mr. Edge,’ Crystal cut in as the horses of the group from the ranch beat upon the planking of the bridge. ‘I’m just taking her over to the land office to attend to the papers.’
Then she gripped the fat woman’s upper arm and they both turned their backs to the half-breed: halted when the riders reined in their mounts and a man called:
‘Estelle!’
Edge looked at the group. There were six men astride horses in the settling dust. The three who had been playing cards with Dean Warford in the saloon last night. Two others, in their mid-twenties, who were dressed in the same workaday cowpuncher’s garb. And a tall, thin, grey-haired man of about sixty attired in a dark blue city suit, white lace-trimmed shirt, black bootlace tie, black-and-white riding boots and a white ten-gallon hat. He removed the hat when the two women turned to look at him, and out of the shade of its brim his face was seen to be handsomely distinguished, with a great deal of character stained and lined into the skin.
‘I was mighty sorry to hear about Rusty gettin’ killed, Estelle,’ he offered, and abandoned his mournful expression for a moment to scowl at his men. Who responded by removing their own hats. ‘He was a fine man and a good son to his Ma. It’s a terrible thing, him gettin’ gunned down in such a foolish manner.’
‘My son was murdered, Joe Love,’ Mrs. Donnelly answered coldly from behind her veil. ‘Shot like a dog by that no-account, no-good coward Warford!’
Hardness glittered in the tall rancher’s green eyes, but for the most part his expression matched his morose tone when he countered: ‘Now, now, Esteile. I can understand you being bitter. But let’s not prejudge this thing until justice has been seen to be done.’
Crystal made to move the woman along the stoop, but she wrenched free of the hold on her arm and whirled to snarl at Love: ‘That won’t never happen in this town with one of your hands on the receivin’ end, Joe Love! And I don’t intend to stay around and see nothin’. My son’s dead and our place has been sold. I’m gonna sign the papers, see Rusty go to his final restin’ place and then ride the eastbound stage outta Irving. That’s what I’m gonna do!’
She swung around again and set off along the stoop. Crystal was taken by surprise and had to hurry in her wake: did not catch up with her until the older woman started to turn the corner onto Lone Star Street.
‘The woman with Mrs. Donnelly is the one the trouble was about, Mr Love. And that there feller is the one we told you about.’
Love looked from the man who spoke to Edge as all of them put their hats back on their heads. Said:
‘Mornin’ to you, stranger. Only natural the lady is a little overwrought. Just tell the truth about what you saw last night and you got no worries.’
‘Been a long time since I worried about anything, feller,’ the half-breed answered.
Love surveyed him for just a second or so longer, then nodded as if he had reached a decision. And sighed as he shifted his steady gaze to Pepper.
‘Hell of a thing, Sam,’ he said ruefully. ‘Times I’ve told that young hot-head to count up to ten before doin’ anythin’ when he’s riled.’
‘Keep your own advice in mind, Joe,’ the hotelman advised. ‘If the kid’s guilty, he’s guilty.’
Anger paid a brief visit to the rancher’s hat-shaded face. And was seen again in the abrupt way he jerked on the reins and used his spurs to turn and move his horse forward. Was heard in his sarcastic tone of voice when he growled:
‘Point taken, Mr. Mayor.’
Pepper grimaced in the wake of the riders, snatched the butt of the cheroot from his lips and hurled it angrily out into the dust stirred up by the hooves.
‘Feller that likes to have his own way, I figure,’ Edge said.
‘Makes two of you!’ Pepper snarled and whirled to enter his hotel.
The half-breed moved more slowly into the saloon, which still smelled faintly of liquor, tobacco smoke, sweat and exploded black powder from the night before.
And had to move halfway into the long room to find a table beyond the glaring sunlight which entered through the doorway and flanking windows. Where he sat and waited, listening to the flowing stream and needing to make a conscious effort to keep his mind from futile thoughts about the immediate future. Did this by recalling memories of that part of his past from which Crystal Dickens had sprung.
It had been a bad time in New York City. In terms of the violence that erupted around him, no worse than a lot of other times, maybe: but because he was out of his element in a landscape featured with towering buildings, traffic-choked streets and throngs of people instead of mountains and deserts and small towns like Irving, it seemed in retrospect like some kind of waking nightmare.
Just one good thing had emerged from his run-in with the crime bosses and their gangs who were fighting to control the city’s underworld. A pardon from Washington on a murder he had committed many years before in Kansas - when he was Josiah C. Hedges on the trail of the ex-troopers who killed Jamie. The only killing for which the law had posted wanted-flyers on him.
A government agent named Lincoln had offered him the amnesty as a reward for acting as the catalyst in the struggle between the opposing criminal factions. And this had been enough for him. He did not want the ten thousand dollars which one of the crime bosses had offered him - did more than offer. Paid into the bank account of a newspaper reporter named Mason Dickens who had tagged onto the half-breed in search of a story.
A woman’s footfalls clicking on the boarding of the stoop interrupted Edge’s train of thought and he looked up as Crystal Dickens turned into the saloon doorway and halted, in silhouette against the bright morning sunlight.
‘Fifty-fifty,’ she announced.
‘What’s that, lady?’
She came into the Red Dog and weaved between the intervening tables, petticoats rustling as they had the previous night. When she was in the shaded area, halted before the table where he sat, he could see her face in detail: the satisfied expression which was set firmly on her features. She was holding a folded piece of stiff, legal paper which she let fall on to the table.
‘Mrs. Donnelly accepted the offer I made for title of this place, Mr. Edge. Five thousand dollars for all of it: lock, stock and barrel. That’s the bill of sale. Made out in your name.’
‘I sometimes drink in saloons, lady,’ the half-breed said evenly. ‘At running one I don’t—’
‘Shut up for awhile and listen!’ she cut in on him. And drew out a chair and sat down opposite him. Now she expressed determination. ‘Mason and me weren’t close after he left our home in New England to go to New York. I used to make excuses for it in the old days. But then I came to realize it was because I was jealous of him. Going to the big city and doing what he wanted to do while I had to stay home and tend our mother. Who was always sick and got sicker after Mason left. Then Mason got killed and when she heard about it, it meant the end for mother.
‘Six weeks it took for her broken heart to finally stop. And then it was my chance to go to the city. But it didn’t turn out like I expected. Rotten jobs, stinking places to live in and rotten stinking men.’
‘Figured you didn’t do your trainin
g in some little Vermont town,’ Edge said.
She snorted. ‘Vermont folks are the same as Irving folks and New York folks,’ she rasped. ‘Way mother was, I didn’t get much of a chance to meet people in my home town. Here there hasn’t been the time. In New York, I just picked the wrong ones.’ She shook her head, her blonde hair catching stray beams of sunlight. ‘But I didn’t come here to talk about that, Mr. Edge. In New York I finally got around to straightening out Mason’s affairs. And I thought I’d struck a pot of gold when I found out he had ten thousand dollars plus interest in a bank. But after I got over being excited about it, I started to worry about how he came by so much. And I asked some questions.
‘Which led me to this man Lincoln. And he told me all about how and why Mason was killed and who was involved. You played a large part in what he told me, Mr. Edge. How it was Mason fastened onto you and not the other way around. And about the money being yours.
‘I’d had enough of New York by then. And there was nothing for me to go back home for. So I decided to come out west and look for you.’
‘Like you said last night, crazy,’ he growled as he dug out the makings and started to roll a cigarette.
She shook her head. ‘Not so crazy, mister. As I told you, the money in the bank made interest. And I planned to keep looking for as long as the interest allowed. Then if I hadn’t found you, I planned to use the money as if it were my own.’
Edge lit the cigarette and used the dead match to push the bill of sale a few inches toward her. ‘Like I said lady, Lincoln was mistaken. The money belonged to a man named Boss Black. He wanted me to do a job for him and I wanted no part of it. Way it turned out, I killed—’
‘I said for you to shut up and—’
‘I’ve heard enough,’ he told her, his level tone at odds with her shrill anger. ‘You came out west on a bum steer. If having the money gives you a conscience, go back east and track down the heirs of Boss Black. They’re the ones the money rightfully belongs to.’
She stood up so sharply her chair rocked back and leaned against one at a nearby table. ‘Like hell I will, mister!’ she snarled. ‘I’ve been on the move for more than six months, riding trains and stages from one hick town to another. Asking in saloons, ballrooms, railroad depots, way stations, ranches and some other places if anyone had heard of you. And it hasn’t been easy, mister! More times than not, men like that Warford kid gave me hard times. And I’m not about to go through anything like that again. I’ve found you and now you tell me it was all for nothing. Well, I’m not prepared to accept that, mister.
‘I did what I did in good faith. In another few weeks the interest would have run out and I would have got to keep the whole ten thousand. Without any pangs of conscience. But coincidence caused us to meet up last night. And I was ready to give you what I honestly believed to be your just dues.
‘You didn’t want it. Which I find real hard to understand of a man like you. But all right. You’ll sure as hell have half of it, one way or another. Call it half the finder’s fee. Call it what the hell you like. Burn this place down or ride off and leave it for squatters to come in and take over. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve paid you for a favor you did the family. According to Mr. Lincoln. And I don’t think he was mistaken about how you looked out for Mason. Good day, Mr. Edge.’
She flounced out of the saloon, then did an about turn to re-appear in the doorway and add quickly:
‘I don’t go to the bed of any man who crooks his finger at me, mister! I came to yours because you and Mason were friends! We weren’t close but he was my brother and you looked out for him when he needed someone to do that! And I didn’t want money for the use of my body! I figured I deserved payment for the trouble I took! But not that much! I’m happy with half!’
‘Why be?’ he asked evenly. ‘You’re better than half the woman I thought you were when I first saw you.’
‘What you think doesn’t matter to me,’ she answered. ‘My conscience is clear.’
‘Enjoy the money, lady.’
‘I intend to, mister.’
‘And you know where to find me.’
‘Why on earth should I want to do that?’
He smiled at her silhouetted form in the doorway. ‘In case your conscience - or anything else - wants a little prick.’
Chapter Five
THE MAN called Edge did not usually drink hard liquor before midday, but this morning he made an exception. Took the half-finished bottle of whiskey from a saddlebag and went behind the bar counter to get a shot glass. He poured a slug from the bottle, looked down at it for a moment, raised it in the manner of a toast as he raked his eyes around the saloon, then threw the rye against the back of his throat.
There had been the farmstead in Iowa which he and Jamie had inherited jointly from their parents. And the small shack and piece of land in the Dakotas which he had purchased when he married Beth. Now for the third time in his life he had title to something he could not ride, wear or use to kill people. And after so many years of being free of such an encumbrance, his new situation would take some coming to terms with.
But morning-drinking would not help him do this, he decided, and he recorked the bottle. Left it and the glass on the bartop and went to survey the extent of what he owned. Owned, anyway, according to the bill of sale the woman gave him. But if he chose to stick to his principles concerning the true ownership of the money, then the Red Dog saloon with its mean living-quarters at the rear and the six crudely furnished rooms for rent on the upper floor did not belong to him. And Crystal Dickens had suggested two of many courses he could take if he felt so strongly about accepting this undeserved reward.
Then, as he opened the rear door and surveyed the garbage-littered back lot of the building, he growled: ‘What the hell.’
And a man countered: ‘I ain’t trespassin’, mister. I used to work here. You the new owner? You still want me?’
He emerged from a derelict out-building which bordered the south side of the saloon’s back lot, dividing it from that of the hotel. A Negro in his sixties, short and skinny with sharp features and sad eyes. With a half-circle of grey hair around the back of his skull and a heavy covering of bristles on his lower face. Dressed in much patched denim pants and a ragged shirt. Carrying a battered hat in one hand and a shovel in the other. He looked frightened.
‘As it happens, I wasn’t meaning you, feller,’ Edge told him. ‘Thinking aloud.’
The Negro showed his relief with an eager smile. ‘Name’s Moses, mister. Like the baby in the rushes in the Bible. I done the cleanin’ and heavy liftin’ and the fixin’ up of what went wrong for Mr. Donnelly and his Ma. Dollar a day is what I was paid, and allowed to sleep in this old stable. If you want me to keep on doin’ like I used to, I will, mister. I did the cleanin’ up this mornin’. And I painted and fixed the for sale sign.’
‘You ever serve drinks, feller?’
A vigorous shake of the head. ‘No, sir. Can tell you’re a stranger in this part of the country. Folks around here, they wouldn’t take kindly to no black man pourin’ their liquor and handlin’ the glasses they drank outta.’
‘Then those that think that way will have to go thirsty, Moses,’ Edge told him. ‘I’ll pay two dollars a day and you’ll tend bar as well as everything else.’
The increase in pay excited the black man, but his mood was soured by anxiety. ‘I’m real glad you asked me, mister. But if nobody comes here to drink, how you gonna make the place pay?’
‘Just do the job, feller. But don’t count on it lasting too long. First thing I want is for you to take down the for sale notice. Then paint out the Red Dog sign.’
‘You gonna give the place a new name, mister?’
Edge took out a dime, tossed it and glanced down at where it fell in the dust. ‘Heads. Paint up The Lucky Break, feller.’
‘What would it have been if the coin came down tails, mister?’
‘The Unlucky Break,’ the half-breed answered as he m
ade to turn back into the kitchen of the saloon.
‘Mister? I’d like to do somethin’ else before I start in for you?’
‘You can wash up and shave,’ Edge told him and dug out some crumpled bills from the change Sam Pepper had given him. A five and five ones, which he screwed into a ball and tossed toward the Negro, who caught the money in his hat. ‘And go to the store and buy some decent clothes, uh?’
‘That’s a lot of days’ work, mister,’ the Negro said morosely after glancing into his hat.
‘House uniform,’ Edge told him. ‘The house buys it.’
Suddenly the black man’s eyes looked so sad that he seemed to be on the point of tears. ‘Mister, ain’t no one ever—’
‘Just make sure you don’t cry in other people’s beer, feller.’
‘It kinda makes it hard for me to ask what I was gonna.’
‘Ask.’
‘Mr. Donnelly and his Ma, they was pretty good to me. None better in this town. I reckoned I’d go dig the grave for him.’
‘Local folks won’t mind you doing that?’
Moses showed a bitterly sardonic grin. ‘Lotsa folks think that diggin’s all a spade’s fit for, mister.’
Edge matched the other man’s expression as he drawled: ‘Figure it’ll come as a real shock to them when they find out this saloon ain’t got a color bar.’
He heard Moses chuckling as the black man went around the end of the falling-down stable toward the cemetery out back of the chapel. And he went through the kitchen and parlor to the saloon. Which was as empty of customers as when he had left it. But something had changed - on the bartop beside the whiskey bottle and glass was Crystal Dickens’ carpetbag.
He crossed to the batwings and pushed through them to step out onto the stoop. Smelled burning tobacco and glanced to his right: saw Sam Pepper in the doorway of the hotel, smoking another cheroot.
EDGE: Town On Trial Page 4
