Knuckles rapped on the door as it was pushed open.
‘Only me,’ Power announced. ‘Fay’s leavin’ town, Edge.’
‘Maybe absence will make the heart grow fonder,’ the half-breed muttered, turning from the window.
The Negro did not look so black today. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and his too-tight clothes were rumpled. The double-barreled shotgun seemed to be a part of him.
‘She spent the night with Clarence Engle in his room behind the telegraph office,’ Power added nervously. ‘You figure she found out somethin’ we don’t know? Maybe about the message Stanton sent last night after the meetin’?’
‘Sure didn’t get bored along with bed,’ Edge allowed, picking up his long top-coat as he crossed the room.
He left the Winchester and the rest of his gear and Power showed a wan grin.
‘I sure am glad you’re still around, Edge.’
‘It shows, feller.’
Last night, just before he left the room, the Negro had asked the half-breed to stay in town until the Warrens brought help. Edge’s affirmative answer had been: I owe you.’
Now Edge led the way down into the lobby. Blood, dried dark brown, stained the carpet on the lower stairs, the wall and the threshold of the saloon. Much brighter staining showed on the floor in the centre of the lobby, where the multi-colored paints had been spilled from Stanton’s palette. The half-breed followed his nose, tracking the smell of coffee into the saloon.
Power had spent the night in here, sitting in a chair at a table positioned so he could see every window, the closed doors which gave access from the street and the entrance from the lobby. He had smoked a lot, the stubs of cigarettes littering the floor around the chair. And, unless there had been a first bottle, had drunk sparingly from a bottle of rye whiskey.
‘Coffee’s on,’ the black man said, his mood brightening by the moment as he went behind the bar counter. ‘Fix ham and eggs if you’re hungry.’
‘Just coffee,’ Edge told him.
‘Comin’ right up,’ Power called, after ducking through an archway hung with a beaded curtain.
Edge sat in a chair across the table from the one Power had used and a few moments later the Negro re-appeared, carrying a coffee pot and two tin mugs. He tried to keep the grin in place as he sat down and poured the coffee, but he lost the battle.
‘Fay was right,’ he said at length, his tone melancholic. ‘Ain’t no one in this town with any backbone worth a damn. Me included. I spent the whole lousy night shakin’ in my shoes about what I did.’ The shotgun was on the table and he touched it lightly, almost fearfully. ‘One minute I’m holdin’ still for Stanton to paint my picture. Next I’m blastin’ Nugent to bits. And enjoyin’ it. About the only good thing can be said for me is that I ain’t blamin’ you for what I done.’
Edge sipped his coffee and Power swallowed hard without touching his.
‘I don’t like Fay leavin’ the way she did, Edge,’ the Negro hurried on, licking his lips. ‘She’s been whorin’ here at the Palace since the time when my Pa ran it. And I ain’t never seen her scared of nothin’ before. But somethin’ sure set her runnin’ scared this mornin’.’
‘Who’s Engle rooting for?’ Edge asked.
The Negro grimaced. ‘He’s got himself a prime piece of the old Big-B. Had enough of tappin’ that key down at the telegraph office.’
‘Where’s the wire go?’
‘Closest place is Laramie over to the north west. South to Cheyenne. Hogan and Nugent and the others came in from Laramie. Just a day’s ride away. Or a night’s.’
His bloodshot eyes moved to rake along the windows. Through them there was nothing to see except the empty street and the facades of the buildings on the other side.
Edge finished the coffee, nodded, and stood up.
‘Where you goin’?’ Fast and anxious.
‘Get a horse, feller.’
‘You ain’t leavin’?’
‘Told you, I owe you. Anyplace in town that sells horses?’
‘Harry Grant trades down at his livery. But he won’t be over anxious to do business with you, Edge.’
‘Then that’ll be his problem,’ the half-breed answered as he headed across to the doorway which gave directly on to the street.
He put on the thick, knee-length coat before he shot the bolts on the main door, swung it open and pushed through the bats-wings. The sun was completely clear of the eastern horizon now, but did not deliver on the warmth promised by its brightness. Edge did not button the coat as he stepped down from the sidewalk and crossed the intersection. The smell of wood smoke was now mixed in with the aromas of boiling coffee and cooking food.
As he moved along the north sidewalk of the east section of cross street, he glanced at the sign boards above the solidly shut doorways of the business premises. Young’s Drugstore, next to the town meeting hall; Bailey’s Haircuts and Shaves; Democracy Clarion - editor and proprietor Thomas C. Waters; Margaret’s Millinery. Then the sidewalk ran out short of the big double doors at the front of the livery stable and the blacksmith’s forge beyond.
Somebody had closed the stable doors after the whore had taken out the stallion. As Edge creaked open one of them, a man with a gravel-voice said:
‘You come to steal another horse, mister?’
‘You figure to kill us?’ another man, with a reedy voice added. ‘Same as you did Hogan to get his geldin’.’
The gravel-voiced one wore a leather blacksmith’s apron, which probably meant he was Silas McQuigg. Edge guessed the other man was Harry Grant. He was dressed in faded brown dungarees.
‘You fellers are up early,’ Edge replied as he stepped into the rich smelling stable,
‘We got a business to run,’ McQuigg croaked. He was short, but powerfully built with big, calloused hands and a round, sour-looking face. In his late forties.
‘Always plenty to do around here,’ Grant said. He was in the same age group as his partner. Tall and thin, with a small beard, neatly trimmed. It grew grey although the hair on his head was jet black. There was a crafty look in his brown eyes.
Edge glanced around the neatly kept stable with its dozen stalls, ten of which were occupied. He wrinkled his nose against the smell of horse-wet straw and fresh droppings. Then showed his teeth in a mild smile. ‘In a stable, work’s always piling up, I guess.’
McQuigg continued to look sour and Grant’s eyes retained their crafty expression.
‘Need a horse,’ Edge said into the uneasy silence, moving across the stable. The two men remained standing by the pot-bellied stove on which a coffee pot had not yet started to bubble. ‘Not that one. Solid color makes for a stronger animal.’
He nodded towards the piebald which he had ridden in from the derelict way station last night.
‘Ain’t none for sale that ain’t spoken for, mister,’ Grant answered.
McQuigg parted his lips in a thin, cruel smile. ‘Ain’t exactly true, Harry. The bay mare you can have, mister. Thousand dollars.’
Grant sucked in a fast breath.
McQuigg continued to smile as Edge glanced at him, saw the stall he indicated, then ambled across to it. But then his expression became sourer than before when the half-breed moved into the stall and began to examine the mare. The brown-skinned hands ran expertly over the flanks and legs, then the belly. He lifted the tail, then moved to look at the teeth and eyes of the horse. There was a rope bridle on the mare and he took hold of this to lead the animal from the stall.
‘You drive a hard bargain, feller,’ Edge said lightly. ‘But you’ve got yourself a deal.’
‘Don’t be crazy!’ the blacksmith snarled, his flesh flushing with anger. ‘Even if you could afford a thousand bucks, you know there ain’t a work horse around worth anywhere near that much.’
Grant nodded vigorously.
The town clock started to chime seven. Between each ringing note the sounds of hooves and wagon wheels could be heard, reaching into town
from out along the north trail.
‘I know that, feller,’ Edge agreed. ‘And I guess Stanton’s smart enough to know it, too.’
Neither man was wearing a gunbelt. Fists clenched, McQuigg moved quickly from the stove to stand in the open doorway. Grant seemed about to follow him, then glanced at the half-breed and held back.
‘Gene Stanton wouldn’t give you the drippin’s of his nose, mister!’ the blacksmith growled. ‘You better put that nag back in the stall.’
Edge sighed. ‘Officer of the county killed my horse. Fixed it up with another officer of the county that my horse would be replaced. Charged to the county. Be obliged if you’d step aside now, feller. And maybe go do some dickering with the sheriff.’
The hoof beats and rolling wheels sounded in town now, slower, but louder as the noise was echoed between building facades. Then they halted, somewhere close to the mid-town intersection.
‘Must be the eight o’clock stage from Laramie, Silas,’ Grant said, the reediness of his voice emphasized by his fear of the situation. ‘Almost an hour early.’
‘Seems like you’re the one with business to do at the law office, mister,’ McQuigg muttered, advancing slowly on where Edge stood holding the rope bridle of the mare. ‘You get me and Harry cash on the line from Sheriff Stanton and then you can take the nag.’ The grin parted his lips again. ‘You know the askin’ price.’
‘Silas, he’s packin’ a gun!’ Grant warned.
There was an abrupt explosion of voices down near the intersection. Loud, but reaching the livery as no more than a babble as many men shouted at once.
Grant hurried across to the open doorway. McQuigg made to turn, as if to look at him for information. But he abruptly lunged at Edge, aiming his meaty shoulder to slam it into the half-breed’s chest. He clasped his hands together into a tight, single fist. And swung both arms upwards.
The blacksmith’s eyes had telegraphed the attack: had swiveled hard over in their sockets to keep Edge in view as he pretended an interest in Grant.
Edge side-stepped, away from the mare. The lunging shoulder of the blacksmith brushed his upper arm. And, as the half-breed snapped his head back, the double-handed fist clipped the front of his hat brim.
McQuigg’s own momentum carried him fast between the suddenly nervous mare and the momentarily immobile Edge. Edge swung around to track after the blacksmith.
‘I’ll go get Gene!’ Grant promised shrilly, and raced out of the livery.
McQuigg halted too early and was unbalanced. He was half-turned towards Edge when the half-breed pushed out a hand. His palm cupped the fleshy cheek and required little pressure to send the powerfully built man to the straw-scattered ground. The impact gushed a stream of hot air and a groan out of the blacksmith’s gaping mouth. Then:
‘No!’ he croaked, covering his face with his hands as Edge drew the straight razor from the neck pouch. The trembling fingers of the hands were splayed just enough so that McQuigg could see between them. It was too cold for the beads of moisture which squeezed through the fingers to be sweat. ‘Take the horse, please!’
‘Intend to,’ Edge said evenly, dropping into a crouch beside the quaking man.
‘Don’t kill me, please!’ He had lost his croaking tone and his voice was almost as shrill as that of Grant.
‘Relax, feller. Who did Stanton send for after the meeting last night?’
‘What?’ McQuigg took his hands away from his face. His eyes, glistening with the tears of earlier terror, were wide and staring, fixed upon the blade of the razor as Edge used it to pare a fingernail.
‘You ain’t deaf, feller. If you wants to act dumb, I can make it for real.’
The razor continued to peel away slivers of nail. The flat tone of the half-breed drew the blacksmith’s stare to his face. The basic lines of the expression were in calm repose. But the clear blue eyes, peering out through the narrowed lids, seemed to emanate the collective evil of the world.
‘The Kerwins,’ McQuigg answered in a muted shriek. ‘And them that ride with them.’
‘Tough bunch, uh?’
‘Ain’t no gang of outlaws tougher, it’s said. So best you take that mare and ride, mister.’
‘Power was wrong,’ Edge mused.
‘What?’ The big eyes blinked the man’s confusion.
‘At least one man in this town ready to fight for what’s his.’
McQuigg scowled. ‘And where did it get me against a man like you?’
‘On the losing side, feller.’
The hand holding the razor moved fast away from the free one: to the side and down. McQuigg groaned his terror as he saw the blade close to his eyes. Then attempted to push the back of his head into the dirt floor as his flesh was cut and blood spurted.
Just as Edge had experienced a foreboding of imminent death last night, so the blacksmith endured the same feelings now. But he closed his eyes. And did not open them to realize he was alive until he heard the half-breed cluck the mare into movement.
He saw the tall man and the big horse in dark silhouette against the sunlit street. He groaned his relief and pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead where two shallow cuts were beginning to sting, the slight pain stronger than the sensation of warm blood flowing from them.
As he folded up into a sitting posture, he brought the hand down in front of his face. Printed in slick crimson on his palm was a large X.
‘Why did you do that?’ he called out through the doorway to Edge, his voice deep and harsh again.
‘Don’t know much about politics and elections,’ the half-breed answered. ‘But any man willing to make a stand gets my vote.’
Chapter Seven
The depot of the Wyoming-Nebraska-Colorado Stage Line was on the north-west corner of the intersection. As Edge led the big mare along the cross street, taking note of the smooth and easy way she walked and how she held her head high, he saw that Grant had been right about the stage arriving early.
The battered Concord with four weary-looking and travel-stained horses in the traces was parked outside the depot. Disembarked passengers were inside the depot, looking out through the doorway and windows as three canvas shrouded bodies were off-loaded from the roof of the coach. They were being transferred to a glass-sided hearse with the legend A. Meek Tasteful Funerals painted under the glass panels in flowing script.
Across the intersection, another vehicle was parked, outside the angled entrance of the hotel. This was a buckboard drawn by just a pair of horses. Up on the seat sat a short, very fat man dressed in a frock coat and high hat. He was the main centre of attention, for the buckboard was surrounded by a large group of people, many of them talking to him at once. He was confused and angry: until Sheriff Stanton broke from the group and started across the intersection. Harry Grant trailed the lawman for a few yards, but then drew back. All eyes swung towards Stanton, then raked along the street to locate the advancing half-breed. Even the chore of off-loading the shrouded corpses from the stage to the hearse was interrupted.
‘You’re just plain, friggin’ mean!’ the injured McQuigg snarled as he emerged from the livery, mopping at his bloodied forehead with a kerchief. ‘You didn’t have to mark me this way! I was down and finished.’
Edge did not look back as he moved slowly towards Stanton, who had halted at the centre of the intersection. ‘You’re still alive, feller,’ he answered, just loud enough for the blacksmith to hear him. ‘Tried to stop me getting what I was owed. Anyone asks you why you got that mark, you tell them that. Kind of a warning to all. Oh yeah, you can also spread it around I got this thing about having a gun aimed at me.’
Stanton was not wearing a top-coat against the bright cold of the morning. He was dressed in his neat city suit, but the tailored line of his jacket was spoiled by the gunbelt and holster he wore today. As Edge reached the end of the cross street, the lawman unbuttoned the jacket and hooked the thumb of his right hand over the front of the gunbelt, so that his palm was only six inches
from the ivory butt of a well-kept Beaumont-Adams .45.
‘What’s wrong with Silas McQuigg, stranger?’ Stanton demanded, his eyes looking deader and greener than ever as he surveyed the half-breed with the icy calmness of a skilled gunfighter.
The two separate groups of watchers behind him to left and right seemed to be holding their breath.
In contrast to the sheriff’s ramrod stiff stance, Edge appeared negligently nonchalant as he held the rope bridle in his left hand and allowed his right to hang limply at his side. He pursed his lips and turned his head unhurriedly to look back along the street at the blacksmith. McQuigg was still standing outside the livery doorway, tentatively dabbing at his cut forehead.
Thinks he’s hard done by,’ the half-breed answered, returning his apparently arrogantly indifferent attention to Stanton. ‘Feeling a little cross.’
‘You okay, Silas?’ Grant yelled.
‘On top of the friggin’ world!’ the blacksmith bellowed with heavy sarcasm. ‘You watch that sneaky bastard, Gene!’
He whirled and stormed back into the livery.
‘He’s right, Gene,’ the fat man on the buckboard called. ‘A dead hero is no use for the cause we’re fighting for.’
‘Don’t call him, Gene,’ the man supervising the handling of the corpses warned. ‘Not when you’ve got help coming.’
Meek was attired suitably for his profession. His boots, the coat that reached to his ankles, his necktie and his derby hat were all solid black. His shirt was a crisp and starched white. He was sixty years old with a shriveled face from which his lips protruded and his bright eyes shone. The gold rings, each with a different colored stone in the settings, which he wore on every finger of both hands, were at odds with his otherwise somber appearance.
Conrad Power and Fay Reeves had both spoken of Gene Stanton’s pride. It had suffered a bad blow last night and the lawman could not conceal a grimace of disgust as he raised his right hand from the belt to refasten the buttons of his jacket.
EDGE: The Day Democracy Died Page 7
