EDGE: Town On Trial

by George G. Gilman

  She went out through the batwings and Crystal closed the big double doors and shot the bolts at top and bottom.

  ‘You want me to fix some supper?’ the blonde asked, still on the verge of tears.

  ‘That what you came back for? To clean up and cook?’

  ‘I’m renting a room here if you recall.’ She lifted the chimney and blew out the lamp Reesen had lit. ‘Doing the chores helps to pass the time.’

  ‘Recall the time passed well enough last night,’ he said.

  ‘You said you didn’t go with whores,’ she accused. ‘Yet when those men came in you talked of me like I was one. That hurt me, Edge.’

  ‘It killed them.’

  ‘Oh, damn you!’ she blurted, and the tears spilled and coursed down her cheeks. She rubbed at the runnels with the backs of her hands. ‘Why do you have to be so icy-cold all the time? Why can’t you speak a single kind word to people who care for you?’

  ‘Like I told you already, lady’ he answered and moved along the bar counter toward the doorway. ‘Actions speak louder than words. I figure you came back here for something other than cooking and cleaning. Door of my room won’t be locked.’

  She sobbed, blurted: ‘Oh, how I hate you for what you are!’ and sobbed again.

  ‘You’ve had the invite,’ he called down the stairs. ‘Up to you. Whether you come or cry off.’

  Chapter Nine

  THE HALF-BREED slept alone in the big double bed and came awake when the first rays of the new day’s sun shafted across Howling Coyote range and in through the window of his room. Awoke as always with total recall of where he was and why he was there. And on this bright Texas morning experienced an unfamiliar pang of regret while his mind dwelt for a few moments on the conversation with Crystal Dickens.

  Then he got out of bed and made a short survey of the deserted scene beyond the window before he washed up and shaved in cold water poured from the pitcher on the bureau.

  It was while he was dressing that his stomach growled its emptiness and he remembered that he had not had any supper the previous night - next was aware of the slight but appetizing aromas of boiling coffee and frying bacon which had triggered the response from his belly.

  The breakfast smells were much stronger out on the landing and then as he descended the stairway he noticed an absence of other, less pleasant aromas.

  ‘Excellent timing,’ Crystal Dickens said as she went by him at the foot of the stairs, carrying a food-laden tray from the kitchen and into the saloon. ‘I heard you up and about and thought you’d be hungry.’

  Sunlight and fresh morning air filled the saloon, where both the big doors and the batwings were fastened open and the windows gleamed with recent cleaning. But the blonde woman had not let it rest with the windows. The floor, walls, tables, chairs, bar counter, shelves, glasses and bottles, lamps and even the spittoons had received attention from her. And in her brushing, dusting and polishing she had eradicated every vestige of staleness from the place.

  Then had attended to herself so that she looked neater, fresher and prettier than he had ever seen her, the blue denim pants and check shirt she wore detracting not at all from her femininity in the way the fabric closely contoured the curves and hollows of her body.

  ‘You went to a lot of trouble to prove your point,’ he said as he sat at the table where she set down the tray.

  ‘What point is that, Mr. Edge?’ Her tone as she offloaded the tray of two plates and two cups and two sets of eating utensils was as bustling and impersonal as her manner.

  ‘That you only came back here to cook and clean.’ He started to eat.

  She sat down opposite him. ‘There may have been another reason, Mr. Edge. But I prefer to do what I want to do when I want to do it. This place was certainly in sore need of some tidying up and I felt in the mood to undertake it.’

  ‘I’m obliged.’

  ‘You don’t have to be. After the trial, you intend to move on don’t you?’

  ‘A trial or whatever.’

  Her composure was ruffled by anxiety which paid a brief visit to her brown eyes. Then she controlled it. ‘Whatever the outcome, you will not remain in Irving. So you will have no use for this place.’

  ‘Guess not.’

  ‘I’d like to buy it off you, Mr. Edge.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘What you paid.’

  ‘Seems fair.’

  ‘You agree?’ Now there was surprise in her eyes which showed no sign of last night’s weeping.

  ‘Sure.’

  She left her breakfast only partially eaten and stood up. ‘Good. Now that I won’t disturb you, I’ll start in to clean the rooms upstairs.’

  She turned away from him too quickly for Edge to detect any clue on her face to hint at her true feelings about his acceptance of the deal. But just before she went from sight through the doorway in back of the bar counter he saw a shudder of pent-up emotion ripple the flesh of her back under the shirt. And he finished his breakfast and smoked a cigarette without trying to guess what brand of emotion had triggered the physical response. While he listened to the rippling water of White Creek and the somehow angry banging sounds the woman made as she went about the upstairs cleaning chores.

  Then he went out to the stable, saddled his gelding and took the horse for an exercise ride. Away from the back lot of the saloon and the best part of three miles across the dusty semi-desert country to the south of the trail he had followed to reach Irving two nights ago. He galloped, cantered and trotted the animal, which responded eagerly to each demand, obviously delighted to be free of the confines of the stable. Then he veered his mount to the right, reached the trail and headed back to town at an easy walk, hat pulled down low at the front so that the wide brim shaded his eyes from the glare of the morning sun.

  It was eight by the clock in the window of Corwin the Druggist when he rode into the midtown area, and Moses was in process of opening up the drugstore, just as doors were being unlatched and window shutters taken down at the front of other business premises along Lone Star Street.

  ‘Reckon you got my note, mister,’ the black man called miserably. ‘Only done it for the best.’

  ‘No sweat, feller.’

  ‘I got more grave-diggin’ chores today. Oughta be able to pay back a couple of dollars come noon.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Jake Huber creaked wide the doors of his livery stable and seemed unpleasantly surprised to see the half-breed astride the gelding, turned quickly to go back inside, where Edge glimpsed the horses of two of the dead gunslingers and guessed the other two were also stabled there.

  The door of the law office was closed and sun glinting on the window was as effective as a blind from where the half-breed glanced toward it.

  People who had yesterday greeted Edge or cast furtive glances at him took pains not to meet his impassive, level gaze this morning. And neither did he sense their eyes at his back after he had ridden past them.

  What he did sense was the beginning of uneasiness. And if he felt any response to this, it was nothing more than a calm acknowledgement that he was no longer the major reason for the town’s apprehension. Maybe they resented him for the part he had played in priming a potentially explosive situation: but the main cause of their concern was the menacing situation as a whole.

  He turned the corner onto White Creek Road and saw close to a dozen horses were hitched to the rail out front of the saloon. And six more were tethered to three of the uprights supporting the awning of the hotel stoop. One of these was the big bay stallion Joseph Love had been riding yesterday. And as Edge dismounted and walked his horse along the line hitched to the saloon rail he saw that each was branded with a pictograph of a coyote in a howling attitude.

  The low buzz of conversation from within the saloon was briefly interrupted as he was spotted by the cow-punchers. But was in full swing again as he reached the alley between The Lucky Break and the hotel and Sheriff Wilde yelled:

  ‘Edge
!’

  The half-breed halted and waited for the lawman to reach him from where he had emerged from the courthouse opposite the bridge.

  ‘Just set up things for the trial. Should get started at noon if the eleven o’clock stage runs to schedule. Can rely on you and Miss Dickens being there?’

  ‘Just the one trial, sheriff?’

  There were sweat-stains under the armpits of Wilde’s cream-colored suit jacket and he patted at the moisture beads on his forehead with a black handkerchief. ‘Joe Love’s in the hotel with Warford and a couple more of his hands. Talking business with the two meat-canners from El Paso. I had a word with him before they got started. Hal Crowley hadn’t shown up before Joe and his boys left for town.’

  Edge spat into the dust of the alley-mouth.

  ‘I believe what he said, mister!’ Wilde rasped.

  ‘Fine,’ the half-breed responded evenly. ‘Need to go see if Crystal wants some help. Seems a trial’s good for the saloon business.’

  ‘You know better than that!’ the lawman snarled. ‘Word reached the Howlin’ Coyote about Estelle Donnelly hirin’ professional guns. That’s the reason why there are so many Love hands here.’

  ‘Who carried the word, feller?’

  ‘My boy Joel,’ Sam Pepper announced grimly as he emerged from the hotel, speaking through teeth clenched to a cheroot. ‘Because I told him to. Ain’t no point in holdin’ a trial unless it’s fair and free from duress. You ready to go select the jury, Wes?’

  ‘Sure, Sam.’

  The men’s lack of enthusiasm for the task sounded in their voices and was visible in their gait as they moved toward the meeting of Irving’s main street with White Creek Road.

  Edge led his horse out to the stable, unsaddled him, checked on the feed and water and when he emerged saw Moses heading for the cemetery in back of the chapel. The Negro was dressed in his old and ragged clothes and there was a shovel canted to his shoulder.

  ‘Hear tell business is real good now I ain’t tendin’ bar, mister,’ Moses said happily.

  ‘Yeah, the lady’s been cleaning up, feller,’ Edge answered.

  ‘Lady?’ Moses asked, perplexed.

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘All right, mister. But I sure ain’t forgettin’ about the money I owe you. Two bucks by noon, like I promised.’

  ‘Way things are shaping, you could be clear of debt by soon after that.’ The Negro showed perplexity again, until the half-breed explained: ‘Looks like there could be a boom in the grave digging business, Moses.’

  The black man was abruptly infected with the same brand of apprehension as Edge had seen in the faces of people on Lone Star Street and those of Wes Wilde and Sam Pepper. ‘I’ll tell you true, mister,’ he said. ‘I’m real anxious to pay off what I owe, but I’d rather raise the money some other way than digging holes in the cemetery.’

  ‘Guess so, feller,’ the half-breed drawled. ‘Nobody likes a dead-end job.’

  The kitchen he entered as Moses moved off, not chuckling this time, was as spick-and-span as the saloon had been at sunrise. And still was, despite the presence of the dozen or so customers who sat at tables or were aligned along the bar. To an extent, the Howling Coyote hands complemented the impression Crystal Dickens had made on the bar-room with her hard work. For although they were dressed in workclothes, their pants and shirts were freshly laundered and pressed. And all of them were washed up and shaven. And because of their neat and clean turn-out, the majority of the cow-punchers looked uncomfortably misplaced as they sipped frugally at their beers - no hard liquor was in evidence - and directed challenging glances at Edge when he showed behind the bar. Their eyes seeming to invite him to do or say something which they might claim as provocation to reveal they were not the dude ranch-hands they obviously considered they appeared to be.

  Just as when he had led his horse across the front of the saloon, the talk was momentarily halted. But then was taken up again; with beef, cattle drives to the north, old spreads they had worked and women they had known providing the subject matter for most of the conversations.

  ‘You know, Mr. Edge, I think I could really get to enjoy this line of work,’ Crystal Dickens said, her tone of voice and her expression showing relief after the brief period of tension had elapsed without trouble.

  ‘Everyone ought to do what they like,’ he answered, conscious of being watched surreptitiously. And tracking down the interested parties to a table at the rear of the saloon: the trio of men who had witnessed the shooting of Rusty Donnelly by Dean Warford. They were not talking. Instead, shifting their eyes to stare morosely down into their untouched glasses of beer when the half-breed looked toward them.

  ‘I think everything’s going to be all right,’ the blonde said, lowering her voice to ensure that the four men standing to the bar could not overhear her. There are fifteen men from the ranch here, not counting Love and Warford. All of them armed.’

  Edge had noted the Winchester rifles in the boots hung from the saddles on the horses out front. And seen that every man in the saloon wore a handgun in a holster.

  Then there’s the sheriff and however many people he can deputize,’ Crystal went on eagerly. ‘Mrs. Donnelly would have to hire a whole army of men to risk—’

  ‘Your average cowpuncher,’ Edge cut in quietly, ‘only ever fires a gun into the air to keep a herd on the move. And the only living thing he ever hurts is a steer when he ropes and brands him.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ she came back, her enthusiasm only slightly diminished. ‘They look really tough to me.’

  She raked her admiring eyes over the customers.

  ‘They are tough,’ the half-breed allowed, rolling his second cigarette of the day. ‘They have to be to do their job. And they know how to do those jobs. Different line of work to the trade Curly and his partners were in.’

  Crystal frowned, then brightened. ‘Those men are being buried this morning, in case you’ve forgotten.’

  Edge nodded. They got careless, lady. Any more of their kind ride in, they’ll expect to find the first four. When they don’t, they’ll learn by the mistakes the dead men made.’

  Now the woman sought to bolster her flagging morale with a harshness of tone that emphasized her actual disbelief in the words she rasped. ‘Well, I think you’re wrong. I think that if more of the kind who were in here last night come to town, they won’t dare to cause trouble.’

  ‘And Dean Warford will walk out of the courthouse a free man.’

  ‘If he does, then it’ll be because a jury brought in a verdict of not guilty. And I’ll go along with that because there’s nothing I can do about it.’

  She stared up into the pale blue slits of his eyes, her own challenging him to fault her reasoning. Edge said nothing, merely shifted his gaze away from her face to rake it over the bunch of Howling Coyote men before looking impassively back at her again.

  She expressed defiance. And shook her head. ‘I don’t believe a jury would be intimidated by these men. You’ve just said they haven’t got what it takes to harm hardened gunmen. So they’re hardly likely to . . . why, they’re neighbors and probably some of them are friends of the men who’ll be on the jury.’

  ‘Easy, lady,’ Edge murmured as her face grew flushed and her tone became harsh again. ‘You got this started. For nothing as far as I’m concerned. What happens in this town and who makes it happen doesn’t matter to me. I’m only here to give evidence at the trial. I don’t live here anymore.’

  ‘But you do,’ she protested. ‘Until I pay you, you still own this place.’

  ‘Riders comin’, boys!’ a man who had risen from a table and gone to look out over the batwings announced.

  ‘I already sold it to you,’ Edge told the woman as the rest of the customers went to check on what the cowpuncher at the doorway had reported. ‘Over breakfast.’

  ‘But I said I’d give you what you paid for it. Five thousand dollars. It’s not mine until I’ve—’

&
nbsp; ‘What I paid for it was nothing, lady,’ he corrected. ‘And I agreed for you to have it for the same.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Lady!’ Edge growled. ‘I told you right at the start the money in your brother’s bank account was never mine.’

  He pushed past her, went out through the end of the bar and to the nearest window. To watch, along with the Howling Coyote hands, a bunch of six or so riders approaching Irving on the east trail. They were still a long way off and could be seen as no more than a dark patch against the dust-cloud that was formed of motes kicked up by the cantering hooves of their mounts.

  ‘Somebody better go tell Mr. Love we got company comin’,’ a cowpuncher said flatly.

  And the man who had first seen the riders went out through the batwings and along the stoop toward the hotel. This as Crystal Dickens moved up alongside Edge. Close enough for him to feel the spasm on his arm as her shoulder trembled.

  ‘Dear God, why did I have to find out about the money in Mason’s account,’ she murmured. ‘Or stayed in the east and enjoyed it. Already six men have died because of it.’

  ‘Sure did turn out this time that honesty wasn’t the best policy,’ the half-breed answered as he dropped his cigarette and stepped on it with a boot heel. And added: ‘Make that seven, lady.’

  This as the bunch of cowpunchers in the doorway vented their surprise with gasps and low-voiced curses.

  ‘What is it?’ the woman demanded, squinting in the sunlight shafting through the newly cleaned window.

  ‘Somebody else’s number just came up,’ Edge supplied, raking his eyes away from the suddenly halted group of riders to locate the last vestiges of a puff of white muzzle-smoke before the vapor disappeared against the backdrop of rolling countryside north of the trail.

  ‘You mean ... oh no!’

  She covered her ears against distant gunfire and screwed her eyes tight closed to blot out the indistinct view of what was happening on the trail.

  Another long-range shot had been exploded from the hills and a horse had gone down: was left where it lay as riders urged their mounts into gallops, exploding rifle shots wildly in the general direction from which the opening gunfire had come.