EDGE: Death Deal (Edge series Book 35)

by George G. Gilman

  At this end of the valley, at least two thousand head of mixed breed cattle were grazing the pastures. Further away and land was sub-divided by neat fencing into ten-acre farmsteads. The fields were well tended and the houses of the tenant farmers looked to be in a good state of repair. Luxurious, maybe, compared with the kind of places the homesteaders of Indian Hill ran. But hovels relative to the Bar-W ranch house.

  "Impressive, isn't it?" the plain-faced woman said. The house was about a mile distant from where Edge and May Worthington sat their horses. And below them, so they had a bird's-eye view of the Colonic style mansion and its out-buildings constructed of white stone under green tile roofs. The buildings were sited in the center of an extensive stand of mixed timber which had been landscaped to form a garden of lawns and flowerbeds and ornamental pools.

  "Money always impresses me, ma'am," Edge answered.

  "And you're here to get some of it?" They started their horses forward, down the sloping trail that veered away from the creek.

  "Have some business to do with your father."

  "Concerning the abduction of my sister."

  "Right."

  "You're the man Cyrus Benteen spoke of. You were at the scene of the abduction. You didn't give your name."

  "Edge."

  "Just Edge? Nothing else?"

  "It's enough."

  "My father is not an easy man to do business with, Mr. Edge. He trusts nobody."

  He sensed that she was gazing fixedly at him and he looked at her. Saw there was curiosity in her green eyes—and something else. Which she displayed more blatantly as she held the level gaze of his narrowed eyes. A brand of wanton lust by a woman for a man.

  He revealed no response to this as he answered, "Easy-going people don't get this rich, ma'am."

  "You don't look to be rich."

  Edge dropped his cigarette to the trail. "Mostly have enough for my needs. Seldom have any wants."

  She grimaced. "Then you're a very lucky man."

  He didn't reply and after a few moments she shifted I her gaze away from him. And asked. "I don't suppose you'll tell me about Grace?"

  "You don't sound as if you care very much."

  "It's been said that I'm even harder than my father," she answered and there was something akin to pride in I her tone.

  They were on level ground now, closing with a point I on the trail where a gravel-surfaced spur veered off to-I ward the trees which now concealed the big house.

  "You like men so much you've got nothing left for your family, ma'am?"

  He expected an angry rebuttal. Instead, she laughed and it was an identical sound to the peals of laughter he had heard uttered by her younger sister at the bandit camp across the border before Grace Worthington real­ized what kind of trouble she was in. "I'm as transpar­ent as glass where that's concerned, aren't I?" She laughed again. "And it doesn't shock you, I like that."

  They turned onto the spur and the hooves of the horses crunched gravel.

  "But then, it would take an awful lot to shock a man like you, I guess?"

  They rode through the trees and then between the neatly trimmed lawns featured with symmetrical flower­beds and many-shaped pools. While the woman re­mained at ease with the silence—seemed to be enjoying the lack of responses from the half-breed. As they ap­proached a large half-circle of gravel which stretched from one corner to the other of the house facade, she | steered her horse to the side.

  "I'll instruct the help to do something about poor Larry Wylie, Mr. Edge. Father is going to be awfully mad about you shooting him."

  "Just one thing after another for him," the half-breed answered. "But I figure he's used to that."

  "I'll see you in a while, I hope," the plainer of the Worthington daughters said as she used the quirt to demand a canter from the big stallion and rode from sight through a gateway into a walled courtyard at the rear the house.

  This as Edge reined in his horse, swung down from the saddle and led the animal to a hitching-rail at the side of the mansion's column-flanked porch. He felt weary—apart from the brief rest on the saloon stoop the cold, early-morning hours he had not slept for mo than a day and a night—and this probably had much to do with his susceptibility to the odd feeling of unreality that suffused him.

  He had first become aware of this sensation of be: in a kind of waking dream when he had looked do from the head of the valley on to the totally unexpected scene spread before him. He was in the Territory Arizona, just one hill away from a grim and destitute settlement where the people had to scratch for a survival living from the arid and unproductive soil. A yet here it was as if a great stretch of Oregon had be miraculously lifted from its roots and set down in the surrounding near-wilderness. Then, to compound the strangeness of the setting, there was the Worthington house which would have seemed unremarkable in the Virginias or the Carolinas but which was complete out of context in the south-west. Finally, to set the se on the hallucinatory quality which had insinuated itself into the mind of the normally unimaginative half-breed there was the woman. Who seemed to care nothing about the fate of her abducted sister, was unaffected the sudden and violent death and had made it as plain as her face that she was available if he wanted her.

  "Shit," he growled softly as he stepped up onto the porch and yanked on a velvet rope that rang a bell inside the house. "You've caught a touch of money-fever is all."

  The porch, the columns and the brass-studded door were all white, brilliantly so in the early morning sun light. And as he waited for the bell to be answered, he was conscious of his dusty clothing and his unwashed and unshaven face.

  The man who opened the door snapped, "How the frig did you get here?"

  What he wore was a perfect match with the garb of Wylie and Warren, complete to the deputy's badge on the left pocket of his shirt. He did not have a Winches­ter.

  Edge spat between the two pillars on the right of the porch and used the arrogant toughness of the man to lever himself back to harsh reality.

  "I killed a man," he growled. And drew, cocked and leveled the Colt. "He looked a lot like you, feller. If it's the way it has to be, I'm ready to supply the local mor­tician with a matching pair."

  "You can't—" the neatly dressed deputy started.

  He held his ground as the half-breed stepped across the threshold, as his eyes, showing surprise rather than fear, shifted from the gun aimed at his belly to the glit­tering gaze of Edge. So he failed to see the intruder's left hand bunch into a fist, but felt the punch impact with his abdomen, as a rush of air from his throat cur­tailed his protest. Then he doubled over and groaned in response to a blow from the Colt muzzle against the nape of his neck. And collapsed to the threshold.

  "Seems I can," Edge muttered, sliding the gun back into the holster as he stepped over the unconscious form of the deputy.

  "Ralph, who is it?" a man called, sounding as if he had a short temper on a shorter leash.

  The half-breed glanced around the large, two-storey-high entrance hall which had oil paintings hung on the walls, thick carpet spread on the floor and a double, curved staircase rising to a balcony at the rear. Many doors led off it and the impatient man was in a room to the right, where the door was ajar.

  Edge could not close the front door without moving Ralph and he wasted neither time nor effort before an­gling across the hall, his footfalls making hardly any sound on the rich pile carpet. Close to the partially open doorway he had to swing around a large, winged chair where Ralph had been seated, the upholstery still showing the indentation of his butt and an old Tucson newspaper draped over an arm.

  "Ralph, I asked you a question, damnit!"

  "Name's Edge, Mr. Worthington." The half-breed swung the door gently open as he supplied the informa­tion, stepped into the room and closed it behind him. "Ralph's temporarily indisposed. Not like another of your hands, feller. Wylie's dead. You're a hard man to get to see."

  Kane Worthington was shocked by the unexpected appearance
of Edge and by the words he spoke with a total lack of any emotion. And the man seated behind the big oak desk was not used to being surprised—seemed for stretched seconds to be diminished in stature by his unfamiliar state of experiencing utter helpless­ness. But he fought it and had his composure firmly back in place just a moment before a trembling fit was about to shake his very fiber. And just his hands shook, as he snatched them off the desk top and dropped them out of sight.

  He was in his early fifties, close to six feet tall and with a well-built frame on the verge of running from solid flesh to fat. He still had a lot of hair atop his squarish head, which had for the most part grayed from its original auburn color. The flesh of his handsome face was deeply lined and stained dark brown by the elements. His eyes were of the same pale shade of green as those of his daughters.

  He wore the pants of a suit, a matching vest, a white shirt and a string tie. The clothing was crumpled and his face was haggard with weariness.

  "You're a dead man, Edge!" Worthington rasped through teeth clenched to a pipe-stem. "You'll be tried, convicted and hanged for murder!"

  His shirt and vest-front were marked by smears of gray tobacco ash, and brown juice had stained his bris­tled jaw. He looked like a man who had been up all night.

  "Man's supposed to be innocent until proved guilty, feller," the half-breed answered as he crossed to the desk.

  The room was a study, furnished as expensively as the entrance hall. The wood of the furniture was all dark oak, the upholstery was of polished brown leather and the carpet looked like a high-priced import from the Orient. The books in the floor-to-ceiling, glass-fronted cases which lined every wall had a brand-new, unopened appearance.

  Worthington felt composed enough to bring his hands into view—clenched them into big fists as he rested them on the desk top. Then he raised them and slammed them hard down as he glared angrily up into the glittering slits of the intruder's eyes.

  "Don't you answer me back in my own house, you crook!" he snarled. He made to rise from his chair, and winced as his stiffened joints protested the move. Then he gasped as Edge leaned across the desk, placed a clawed hand to the top of his head and shoved him hard—to jolt him back down into his chair.

  "Listen, feller," the half-breed rasped, his lips hardly moving as he remained bent over the desk, his face no more than six inches from that of Worthington, and his eyes narrowed almost entirely closed against the bright sunlight that shafted into the smoke-layered room from the three tall windows in back of where the older man sat. "I've gone to a lot of trouble on account of the Worthington family. I've ridden a lot of miles, lost a lot of sleep and twice I could've been killed. And I don't invite that kind of trouble unless there's a reward at the end of it. So you owe me, feller. And I aim to collect. But you got a choice. You can pay me or I can take. Taking'll cause me more trouble and I figure that's worth a bonus. Won't cost you any more cash though. I’ll just beat the hell out of you. Which, the way I'm feeling now, will be worth more than anything every cent you have could buy me."

  There was a chair at either front corner of the desk and Edge straightened up, backed to the one on the left and turned it slightly before he dropped wearily into it. From its new position could see Worthington, the three windows and the door by just swinging his eyes along their narrowed sockets.

  Kane Worthington had not been afraid of Edge. After an initial grimace of pain as he was thudded back into his chair, he had held the cold, glittering gaze steadily without revealing any hint of his feeling about the physical attack and rasping threat of worse to come. Now, his hand steady, he removed the pipe from his teeth and knocked out smoking ash into a porcelain dish already heaped with the remains of many smokes.

  "Cyrus Benteen is a fool," he said levelly. "And be­cause of that, I owe you an apology, Mr. Edge."

  "A man can't feed himself and his horse on apolo­gies, feller. You owe me two thousand dollars. A Mexi­can who calls himself Satanas wants fifty thousand."

  Worthington grimaced twice—once as each figure was mentioned. Then seemed to ignore what had been said as he continued, "Benteen told me you were a run-of-the-mill saddlebum with a lot of greed but no guts. That you stood by and watched the stage held up and only showed any interest when you were told I was rich."

  Edge sighed. "He told you the truth about what hap­pened. I don't give a shit about what he thinks of me. For two thousand I'll deliver the ransom money and buy your daughter back from the Mexicans."

  Knuckles rapped on the door. "Father, is Edge with—"

  A gasp curtailed what May Worthington was calling and the door was flung open. And Ralph lunged into the room, came to a swaying halt with his hand fisted around his holstered Colt when he saw his boss and the half-breed seated quietly at the desk.

  "Boss, I was—" Ralph began, anger and confusion struggling for command of his features while, in back of him, the plain-faced woman smiled her enjoyment of the situation.

  "You were lucky, deputy," her father cut in grimly. "Your incompetence cost you a couple of bruises maybe. I understand Larry Wylie paid with his life."

  "I've sent Joel and Noah to bring in Wylie's body, Father," May said.

  "Get back to your post, Ralph," Kane Worthington ordered. "May, have the kitchen bring some coffee. Ex­cept when it comes, I do not wish to be disturbed."

  The deputy, now showing blatant resentment, backed out of the room. But May stepped inside, tight-lipped then rasping, "He can go to the kitchen. I want to hear about Grace."

  She slammed the door in Ralph's face.

  Her father snarled, "You'll do like I damn well tell you, girl!"

  "Or you'll spank me?" she taunted, striding across the room and dropping into the chair at the desk Edge had left vacant. She smelled of fresh morning air, horse sweat and stable. In pleasant contrast to the stale to­bacco smoke and the rancid odor of the half-breed's unwashed body and clothing. Determination showed on her features again, "I want to know about Grace."

  Now her father became taunting in his tone and ex­pression as he sneered, "Sisterly love all of a sudden, girl?"

  Edge was looking out of one of the tall windows at a flat-bed wagon heading down the gravel driveway with two men up on the seat. He vented a grunt of impa­tience and when the father and daughter looked at him, said, "Do you love her fifty-two thousand dollars worth or not, Mr. Worthington?"

  The woman shook her head. "That's not the ques­tion, Edge. Question is, how much does he value his pride."

  "Didn't ask you a damn thing, lady," Edge growled.

  Worthington thudded just one fist on the desk top this time. And sighed deeply as he quelled his anger for May so that he could speak levelly to the half-breed. "I'm willing to pay every cent I have if that's what it takes to get Grace away from those kidnapping bas­tards." Then unconsciously imitated a characteristic gesture of Satanas by clicking his thumb and little fin­ger. "But I won't pay one cent just like that."

  Edge nodded and got to his feet. And this move sprang deep concern into the eyes of the man across the desk. "I guess there's still a place in that near ghost town where I can bed down for a few hours?"

  Now Worthington was curious as he nodded.

  "It's been a long night after a long day and I need to sleep a while," the half-breed went on. "The money has to be at a place about four hours' ride from here by noon tomorrow. Why you pay the money makes no dif­ference to me. Just need to know if you're going to pay. When you've decided that, you let me know. And you have the money ready in good time. Won't need my part of it until after the deal has been made with the Mexicans."

  "You don't have to stay in town," May said quickly. "There are plenty of spare rooms in this place."

  "The girl's right," her father added. "And you'll be far more comfortable here in the house than anywhere at Indian Hill."

  Edge halted halfway to the door, not liking the idea of staying in this rich house where money had so ob­viously failed to buy happiness, but relishing
even less the prospect of riding back to the grim town beyond the hill at the head of the valley.

  "You'll have my horse taken care of?"

  "Of course," Kane Worthington assured. "We have fine stables here."

  Edge nodded. "Show me where I sleep and have someone wake me at noon."

  "I'll do it," May offered, getting hurriedly to her feet.

  "We'll talk when you've rested," her father told Edge as the half-breed reached the door and opened it, his voice suddenly very thick with a bone-deep weariness of his own. "I have a great deal to do."

  May made to leave the room ahead of Edge, but he stepped across the threshold first, as Ralph rose from the armchair and glared menacingly at him.

  "Your manners leave much to be desired, sir!" the woman accused acidly.

  "Like this family, lady," he countered as she closed the door.

  A young and slimly pretty Negress came across the hall, carrying a silver tray set with a silver coffee pot and bone china cups, saucers, milk jug and sugar bowl. She was suddenly frightened and looked helplessly at May and Ralph when Edge blocked her path and took the pot and a cup from the tray.

  "Obliged," he told the girl.

  "It's all right, Rose," May Worthington said. "This gentleman is not familiar with our ways. Please fetch another pot for Mr. Kane." She pointed to the stairway. "The guest rooms are on the upper floor, Mr. Edge."

  "He's staying here?" Ralph growled as the Negress turned to head back for the kitchen.

  "Yes. His horse is out front. Take it around to the stables."

  "I ain't a—" Ralph started.

  May stamped her foot. "You're one of the help and you'll do as you're told!" she snapped.

  Red-faced with the anger of humiliation, Ralph whirled and strode toward the front door, muttering un­der his breath. He slammed the door behind him as May took fast, mincing steps—speed hampered by the narrowness of her skirt—to catch up with Edge who was almost at the top of the stairs. She turned left to lead him along a broad landing off the railed balcony.