EDGE: Death Deal (Edge series Book 35)

by George G. Gilman

Quine went to the runabout while the other deputies crossed to where their horses waited at a hitching rail outside the fire-blackened remains of what had once been a two-storey building.

  "I always endeavor to do everything the right way, sir," Worthington told Edge. "But sometimes I find that my hand is forced."

  "I made a comment, not a criticism, feller."

  Worthington shot a sidelong look at Edge which suggested he was not quite sure whether or not to believe him. Then he cleared his throat. "This has been an ugly incident, sir. But it could have been much worse. I want to thank you. If you had not intervened, I would have killed Sheriff Meyers, you know."

  "What I figured."

  "You saw the kind of temper I have—when I at­tacked my elder daughter."

  "Yeah."

  "Was it she who tried to kill you? Back at the house this afternoon? It would not surprise me to hear that she tried to take revenge for the manner in which you scorned her."

  "Figure that's my business, feller."

  The rancher snatched the pipe from his mouth with an angry movement of his big hand. But then doused the fire of a new anger. "I heard there was shooting up| on Indian Hill, Mr. Edge. After you had left to see aman named Roy Dibble. There have been rumors on the Bar-W that Dibble is one of the men May consorts with."

  "Your men are waiting to leave, feller."

  Worthington glanced at the mounted deputies and at his runabout with Ralph Quine in the driver's seat holding the reins. "My men are paid well to await my bidding and to do it. You'll ride with us to the Bar-W and we'll discuss the matter of my elder daughter further."

  He made to swing away from Edge, but halted the action when he realized the half-breed was not going to comply.

  "Two thousand dollars, sir," he reminded harshly. "Which I ain't asking for until after you get your younger daughter back. You bring it here tomorrow and put it in the bank. And you give me the fifty thou­sand to take to the Mexican. At sunup. There's noth­ing else to talk about." He started across the street.

  "You're crazy if you think I'll trust a man like you!" Kane Worthington snarled after him.

  "Just say the word, sir!" Quine pleaded eagerly.

  And when Edge halted and glanced along the street he saw that the mounted men as well as the one aboard the runabout had shifted their hands to holstered guns. Then the half-breed, uncocked Winchester still canted casually to his left shoulder, turned his head further to rake his narrowed eyes to the tense rancher in front of the bank.

  "I ain't had nothing but a plate of beans in my belly all day, feller. So you want me to say it?"

  Confusion over the cryptic comment drove back the rage that threatened to influence Worthington's re­sponse to Quine's request.

  "Plan to eat now," Edge added. "Just say Grace."

  He turned his back on Worthington, Quine and the mounted deputies and started along the street toward the corner around which he had left the gelding. And did not allow his thin lips to part in an ice-cold grin until he heard the rancher's footfalls—going away from him. Next came the clop of hooves and the creak of timber as saddle horses and the cut-under rig were turned and headed out of Indian Hill to the west.

  Before this, he was aware of the dangerous possibil­ity that he had misjudged the hard-bitten rancher with ambition for limitless power. For such a man, suscepti­ble as he was to mindless rages, might well have been prepared—for a fatal second—to place his pride above the life or death of his younger daughter.

  "You're living on borrowed time, mister. That look on his face just now, he was within a heartbeat of tellin' his gunslingers to blast you."

  It was the gaunt-faced man with a beard who had been with the other Indian Hill merchants in the saloon earlier. And he spoke as he emerged from the doorway of a darkened grocery store.

  "It's been a long time since my life has been anything but a loan, feller," Edge answered evenly as he rounded the corner and whistled for the gelding.

  Somewhere up on the slope north of town another horse was on the move, hooves beating at the ground the cadence of a canter. But the moon was obscured clouds and while the half-breed watched for a few moments, the horse never passed in front of any of sparsely scattered squares of light that marked the windows of occupied homesteads. So he had to rely on hearing to tell him the direction in which the horse was moving. East. He knew that an hour or so ago, May Worthington's stallion was the only horse on Indian Hill.

  After he had slid the Winchester back into the boot and led the gelding out onto the broader street, he saw that the Arizona Star had become the center of attraction in town. The grocery store owner was just go' between the batwing doors and the gray-faced Beck was among the dozen or so other men heading for the saloon.

  Edge was aware of surreptitious ill-feeling direct toward him as he moved along the street, from the men converging on the saloon and from unseen people in the flanking buildings. The womenfolk, perhaps.

  The half-breed reached the hitching rail and horse trough out front of the Arizona Star just as a middle aged man with a clutch of warts on his jaw stepped out onto the stoop.

  "Is there a livery and a place where a man can eat in this town?" Edge asked.

  The man looked nervously around, as if he was afraid to be seen talking with the tall, lean strange "Not regular places anymore," he said in a whispering tone. "But Seth Barrow will take care of your horse. And Curtis Crowther who runs this saloon sometimes cooks for customers. I don't know though."

  He scurried through the batwings like a frightened rabbit bolting for its hole. And, as Edge tied the reins to the rail, he heard the man announce,

  "I think he's comin' inside, you men."

  The words cut across and curtailed the buzz of talk which had filled the spartanly furnished and meagerly stocked saloon. Then Seth Barrow broke the silence in­side as Edge's boot heel rapped on the stoop boarding.

  "As owner of this place, you got the right not to serve no one you don't want to, Curtis!"

  "Seems to me," the half-breed said as he halted on the threshold and slid his glinting-eyed gaze over the score or so faces turned toward him, "that nobody in this town can afford to turn away business."

  "We'd rather starve than take money that's been through Kane Worthington's hands, mister!" Barrow growled. And threw what was left of a glass of whisky down his throat, then gazed ruefully into the empty glass.

  "It shows," Edge drawled, shifting his narrowed eyes over the saloon again, pointedly surveying the squalor of the place and the many signs of impoverishment which the men showed in the state of their clothing and even the lines of their dejected faces. And he wrinkled his nostrils as he added, "This whole damn town stinks of defeat."

  "You just helped Kane Worthington strike the final blow against us," Becker said bitterly.

  "Damn right you did," the rat-faced Curtis Crowther agreed in the same tone, and received nods in response to the words. "It weren't no picnic, mister, but we was holdin' out against that bastard while he was usin' the old ways. But ain't no way we can fight hired gunslingers."

  "Mr. Worthington was forced to adopt those meth­ods," Cyrus Benteen snapped as he stepped up onto the

  stoop and pushed past Edge to enter the saloon. "Any man worth his salt would have done the same to protect his flesh and blood."

  "You're about as welcome here as the stranger, Benteen," Crowther growled. "You're as much a Worthington man as he is. Way you've been makin' money on every sale local folks was forced to make to the Bar-W."

  Again there were nods and grunts of agreement from the men lounging against the bar or slumped in chairs at the tables. But a space was cleared for him at the counter and when the lawyer placed a dollar down and asked for two shots of whisky, Crowther supplied the order.

  "Join me, Mr. Edge," Benteen invited with a gesture of his short arm. "And perhaps help me to make these people see sense."

  "I got a horse needs taking care of, feller," the half-breed answered. "And I pay
my own way."

  "Shit, take care of the man's mount, Seth," the; rodent-faced bartender growled. "We got enough troubles without invitin' no more."

  "You take care of his friggin' horse!" the old-timer snarled.

  "So keep that empty glass and keep wishin' there was; liquor in it," Crowther countered wearily.

  Barrow hesitated only a moment before he rose from the table and, head bent, ambled toward the door, muttering under his breath.

  "Feed, water and a place to bed down is all," Edge said as the dungaree-clad old man moved around him at the doorway.

  "Every man has his price," the grocery store owner said bitterly.

  This after the old-timer had gone outside and raised his voice to mutter, "It won't be no pleasure, mister."

  "And weaknesses," Benteen put in as Edge entered the saloon and the gap to either side of the lawyer wid­ened.

  The half-breed placed a dollar of his own on the bar-top before he raised the glass Benteen had left alone and took the shot of rye at a single swallow. "Like to eat," he said.

  "Don't we all," Crowther answered.

  Edge added a five dollar bill to the single. "Some­thing hot, with meat. And I'll know if you've spit in it."

  Crowther grimaced, moved along the bar and leaned through an archway hung with strings of beads to yell, "Blanche, bring out a plate of whatever you're cookin' for supper."

  Then he returned to where Edge stood and separated the two bills, took just the single to push into a pouch at the front of his apron.

  "Cover the liquor and grub both, mister. Folks in In­dian Hill ain't never caught the cheatin' habit off of Kane Worthington."

  "Here!" a woman shouted, and just her hand and arm were visible when she thrust a plate of steaming beef steak, grits and black eyed peas through the bead curtain.

  Crowther took a knife and fork from under the bar counter and handed the food and utensils to Edge. "Enjoy," he said grudgingly.

  "Obliged," the half-breed answered and moved to an unoccupied table in a corner of the saloon.

  "You sure did a turnabout over him, Curtis," the bearded owner of the grocery store complained.

  Crowther spat and the saliva scored a hit into the spittoon in back of the bar counter. "Chuck made a dumb move out there against Worthington and the Bar-W guns. Took a lot of spunk, but it was dumb. Way I see it, he'd have been shot and killed for sure if this guy hadn't've winged him. And I like Chuck."

  "That's right," Benteen added. "That is precisely right. Everyone who has any regard for the sheriff should be grateful to Mr. Edge."

  "I'll go along with that," Becker put in.

  "The sheriff didn't seem any too pleased about it," the man with warts on his jaw pointed out.

  "Foolish pride," Benteen explained, and banged his glass on the bar-top to call for a refill. "Sheriff Meyers had been forced by the spiteful natures of certain mem­bers of this community to take a stand in a fight he could not possibly hope to win. It is to his credit that he considered it his duty as peace officer here to take up such a position. And understandable that he resents the fact he was removed from the horns of his dilemma by the actions of an outsider."

  Many pairs of eyes shifted to look at Edge as if a response was expected from him. But the half-breed appeared to be unaware of this attention, seemed not even to be listening to the talk as he finished cutting the tender steak and began to fork food into his mouth.

  "Forget about Chuck standin' up to be counted when he was needed," one of the storekeepers who had been in the Arizona Star earlier growled. "I don't guess the stranger is gonna tell us why he done what he done to get the sheriff off the hook. I don't like bein' told I got a spiteful nature by no fancy-talkin' lawyer that buys his liquor with Worthington money."

  There was a quality of enmity in the grunts and mut­tered words of agreement this time. But the short, tubby Benteen showed no sign of being frightened by the men.

  "I draw my salary from the legal company for which I work," he countered. "And I can assure you gentle­men it was not my wish to uproot myself and my wife from our home in Tuscon to come down here and han­dle the Bar-W affairs locally. I have no bias one way or the other. Merely opinions. And I will say here and now that as a private individual I do not approve of the way Kane Worthington set out to ruin this town after he failed to gain ownership of it. But I have a job to do and I did it—ensuring that all sales and transfer were within the law."

  "Nothin' legal about what that sonofabitch did at the bank," the grocery store owner growled.

  "No, there wasn't, Mr. Ford," Benteen allowed re­gretfully. "But I can understand why he did it. Which is my point. And which you gentlemen seem determined not to acknowledge. He did not do it for the same rea­son that usually motivates his actions. Good God, place yourself in his position for a moment. If it was your daughter being held prisoner by those murdering Mexi­can bandits, would not any one of you take any desper­ate measure open to you in order to get her back?"

  "He could've had the money without robbin' the bank," Ford answered.

  "By selling you the primest land in the territory for pittance?" Benteen countered. "He's spent his entire life working toward making the Bar-W what it is today."

  "Wouldn't have taken him but a few minutes of plea­sure to make Grace," the man with warts on his jaw growled. "But any man worth a light would value a daughter higher than a few acres of dirt with a river runnin' across it."

  This time the noisy wave of agreement that washed through the saloon did affect Cyrus Benteen. He looked exasperated and then exhausted, cast a weary-eyed gaze over the grim-faced men who showed not a trace of contrition or the slightest sign that they ever would for anything at any time.

  Stretched seconds of silence elapsed, and then the half-breed at the corner table rattled his fork down on the empty plate.

  "Mr. Edge." Benteen said quickly. "Don't you have anything to say?"

  The half-breed got to his feet. "The lady called Blanche is a fine cook."

  The lawyer squeezed his eyes tightly closed. "Please. You intervened to stem trouble out on the street. These men aren't met up in here to drown their sorrows. There must be some way to convince them not to retal­iate against Worthington. That poor, unfortunate young girl who was taken by the Mexicans…"

  "She's a Worthington, ain't she," Seth Barrow growled as he re-entered the saloon. "Same as that plain-face May. Both of them as hard-nosed and high­handed as their pa. Stands to reason, them being fa­thered by that bastard. Why, I bet that Grace is givin' Satanas and his boys a rougher time than they're givin' her. Tough as old bootleather, them Worthington women are."

  Cyrus Benteen directed a tacit plea to Edge as the half-breed made for the door and the old-timer went to the bar, hand out-stretched for the drink that had been promised him.

  "I couldn't know about Grace," Edge said flatly and curled back his lips in a wry grin. "But I sure saw May's hide get tanned."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE high cloud which had earlier veiled the moon was spread across the entire sky as the half-breed emerged from the saloon and halted briefly on the stoop to roll and light a cigarette. So there was not even the pinprick of a single star to be seen glinting against the great black dome of the heavens.

  As he moved along the main and then turned onto the side street which angled north from the eastern end of the town, he sensed the same watching eyes as be­fore. And was aware of anxiety in the minds of the watchers. But the people in the houses and the stores spared little time for Edge after they realized he was leaving town and returned their nervous attention to the front of the Arizona Star with the two wedges of yellow lamplight falling out across the stoop and half the street from the breath-misted windows and the open doorway.

  There were no lights showing at the windows of the homesteads on Indian Hill as Edge climbed the trail— for the work-weary farmers and their women were all in bed—endeavoring to trade through sleep the exhaus­tion of the old day for
a renewed store of energy to meet the next. All except Roy Dibble. He was not in his one-room house at the northern fringe of the scattering of dirt farms. And his guest of the afternoon had also left.

  In the light of a flaring match, Edge closed the door which had been left open, moved to the bed and stretched out on it. He removed only his hat, and set this down on the floor instead of tipping it over his face. For the darkness beyond the window was almost as solid as that inside the room.

  He reflected briefly upon the contrast between his sleeping quarters of the morning and those where he rested now. But only in the context of what a man had to be to achieve the disparate standards. Not merely to be rich or poor. Beyond this the countless problems and anxieties which the lifestyles forced upon such men—to the extent that their day-to-day lives were mapped out by the need to preserve what they had and to extend it. And in this there was little difference between Kane Worthington and Roy Dibble. Or even the other home­steaders on the hill or the people of the town at the foot of the slope.

  For all of them had hopes and dreams, aims and am­bitions, possessions and reputations. Which bred latent fear of losing what they had and kept them constantly hungry for that which they did not yet have.

  While he lay in the dark, cold house—waiting for sleep and a caller—the man named Edge relished his own peace of mind now that he had come to accept the kind of life which his ruling fates had forced upon him.

  In the distant past he had fought against such accep­tance as he tried time after time to establish himself at a level somewhere between that of Roy Dibble and Kane Worthington. But events had conspired against him and eventually he had given up. But he had not smelled on himself the stink of defeat he had spoken of to the men in the Arizona Star earlier. For, in truth, it had been a victory. Because he had survived and had preserved his freedom—and came to realize that life and liberty were all he desired.

  The trimmings and trappings he accepted and rel­ished as and when they presented themselves, or just as often rejected. As he had done tonight, when he turned down the luxury of the Bar-W ranch house in favor of the Arizona Star and Roy Dibble's homestead. While he waited, not indebted to any man, to collect the two thousand dollars which would enable him to eat and to feed his horse until the money ran out.