EDGE: The Day Democracy Died

by George G. Gilman

  ‘I’m older than you, stranger,’ he said softly. ‘And slow from not needin’ to outgun a man for a long time. But everybody gets what’s comin’ to them - sometime, someplace.’

  Edge nodded. ‘Won’t give you any argument about that, feller.’

  Stanton turned on his heels to go back to the ground around the buckboard. As Edge led the mare across to the hitching rail outside the saloon entrance, he recognized the sandy-haired Jethro Lovejoy and the plump and homely Maggie Woodward in the group. The dog collar and cassock worn by a tall and thin, grey-faced man named him as Flint, the town parson. There were half a dozen other men Edge did not recognize but, from their look of substance and the anxious expressions on their faces, he guessed they were members of the town council or candidates for office.

  Harry Grant broke into an awkward run back towards his livery.

  Meek snapped at his two helpers to continue with the chore of moving the corpses.

  People began to appear on the streets in front of the small houses at the fringes of Democracy. Some on foot but many more on horseback or driving buckboards. A few headed for the mid-town area, but most moved out along the trails, apparently going to their sections of the confiscated Big-B spread.

  Edge hitched the mare and stepped across the sidewalk into the saloon. The many eyes directed at his back felt like a tangible pressure against his hard flesh.

  The Negro had cleared away the detritus of his night’s vigil and was behind the bar counter. ‘Man, I really thought the gent was gonna go for his gun, mister,’ he rasped, wiping a line of tense sweat from his top lip. ‘Cost him a lot not to.’

  ‘Saved him something, too,’ Edge answered. ‘His life. Who are the Kerwins?’

  He reached the bar and leaned a hip against it, so that he was facing the entrance from the lobby and sideways-on to the doorway from the street.

  Power swallowed hard. ‘Why?’

  The lean, dark brown face of the half-breed showed a cold smile. ‘Know who my friend is, feller. Like to know my enemies.’

  ‘The gent sent for the Kerwin gang?’

  ‘McQuigg was in no position to lie.’

  ‘Jesus! Nate, Cass and Tim Kerwin, mister! Meanest three sons any woman ever give birth to. You must’ve heard of them?’

  ‘Just now. Keep talking.’

  ‘On the run from over Kansas and Missouri way. Work alone or sometimes have up to twenty men ridin’ with them. Banks, railroads, stages … they’ll hit anywhere there’s big money to be took. Knew they was around this neck of the woods a while back. Heard they lit out for California, though.’

  ‘Seems they’ve been told there’s easy pickings in Democracy,’ Edge answered.

  ‘Then I reckon we’re finished,’ Power said miserably after a long pause. ‘Even if Dan Warren brings in help, ain’t nothin’ can go up against the Kerwin gang. Short of the US cavalry, maybe.’

  ‘Up to you, feller,’ Edge invited.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you’re finished, so is my job. Throw in with the majority and you won’t need protecting anymore.’

  Just for a moment, the handsome Negro seemed to be giving the point serious consideration. But then, outside on the intersection, a man said loudly:

  ‘Wise move, Gene! We’ll do nothing until your new deputies reach town!’

  Hatred gleamed in the red-rimmed eyes of the black man, and the silent snarl was made more potent as the lips curled back to display his teeth, very white in contrast with his dark skin.

  ‘Ain’t just me that needs protectin’ from what that fat-bellied Snyder is doin’ to this town, mister!’ The words were rasped between the clenched teeth. ‘Everyone here who ain’t thrown in with him needs it. Even if most of them don’t know it!’

  As footfalls sounded in the lobby, Edge gave a short nod and pushed away from the bar. He was halfway to the open double doors when a group of men halted to block his path.

  Frank Snyder was at the centre. He looked shorter and fatter when he was standing. About forty, he had a strong-looking face with a fine bone structure. Below his hat brim was a high forehead, deep-set, dark brown eyes, a pointed nose between slightly convex cheeks, a full mouth and a jutting jaw line. The cold of the morning air had put a little color into his pale complexion.

  It was almost a lean face, in comparison with his build. His shoulders were broad and his arms and legs had a puffy look. The frock coat he wore fitted him snugly, contouring breasts like those of a matronly woman and a belly that was unhealthily bulbous. He wheezed, rather than breathed.

  ‘The name is Snyder, sir,’ he greeted, the lines of a scowl cut into his flesh. ‘Frank Snyder. Known locally as Frank and Honest Snyder. Because that is precisely what I am.’

  The dead-eyed Stanton and grey Reverend Flint stood on one side of Snyder. Jethro Love joy and a stocky, rat-faced man flanked him on the other side. The sheriff was grim, the others anxious.

  ‘I’ve read the ads, feller,’ Edge answered.

  ‘My campaign posters and banners, sir. In connection with tomorrow’s election, which is no concern of yours. But you have chosen to make it your concern. Violently throwing in your lot with an opposition to me which is not beneath bank robbery and murder to gain its ends.’

  His dark eyes switched from Edge to Power and back again.

  ‘Mr. Edge,’ the Reverend Flint said quickly. ‘And you, Conrad. You should know that the entire present town council is joined with Mr. Snyder and his party in being behind the sheriff in this matter.’

  Lovejoy and the rat-faced man nodded their agreement.

  ‘As I said last night,’ the mayor augmented, ‘we cannot condone violence. We would rather stand down than win by gettin’ blood on our hands.’

  ‘But violence has been thrust upon us!’ Snyder said pompously. ‘And I give you fair warning it will be combated with like.’

  ‘We already heard the gent’s sent for the Kerwin gang,’ Power growled.

  The news and the tone of voice in which it was given brought a fleeting smile to Snyder’s face. Then the scowl was back. ‘And I can confirm that. Also, I can reveal something in addition. That, when these gentlemen arrive in town, they will be deputized. Any lawbreakers still in Democracy will be arrested. Any that have already left or who elect to leave in the interim will be hunted down and brought back. All will face trial and punishment.’ He stared into the impassive face of the half-breed. ‘You have the word of Frank and Honest Snyder on that, sir!’

  ‘Seems to me I’ve had a lot of words from you, feller,’ Edge drawled as Snyder moved into the saloon and was trailed by the others to a table.

  ‘A politician’s failing, sir,’ the fat man admitted with smiling ruefulness as he sat down. ‘We tend to talk too much.’

  The others sat at the same table.

  ‘A bottle and five glasses, Conrad!’ Stanton demanded.

  ‘It might be interesting to know your political views, sir,’ Snyder posed.

  ‘They’re all right,’ Edge supplied as the Negro banged a bottle of whiskey and some glasses on to a tin tray.

  ‘That’s all?’ Snyder asked.

  ‘I got nothing left to say,’ the half-breed replied, continuing towards the lobby.

  ‘Whiskey for the big wheels of Democracy!’ Power growled, coming out from behind the bar counter, the laden tray balanced on one hand.

  ‘You got a big mouth, black man!’ Stanton snapped, then curled his lips back to show a cruel smile. ‘I’ll remember to paint it open when I do the picture of you on the end of a rope. Guess you’ll be holdin’ real still for me then.’

  ‘Ignore him, Gene!’ Snyder said sharply, then moderated his tone.’ Let’s get down to the coalition talk.’

  Up in his room, Edge gathered his gear together and carried it out and downstairs. He went on to the street through the hotel’s main entrance.

  It was gone eight now, but no warmer than it had been at dawn. The stage pulled away from in front of the depot, r
olling across the intersection and heading south down Main Street towards the start of the trail to Cheyenne. The driver, shotgun and passengers peered down at the half-breed with unconcealed curiosity. All the stores were open and doing steady business. But women with shopping baskets over their arms and men loading buckboards and saddlebags with supplies pointedly avoided looking at Edge as he saddled the bay mare and lashed his bedroll on behind.

  Nobody spoke to him until he had led the animal down an alley between the hotel and Snyder’s dry goods store, and into a stable there. One stall was already occupied, by a big, white gelding.

  ‘That’s the gent’s horse,’ Conrad Power said from the entrance. ‘Stanton’s been a resident guest at the Palace for as long as I can remember. This here’s Mai Tillson.’

  The schoolteacher stepped into view at the doorway. Like every other present or would-be town councilor Edge had so far seen, Tillson was advanced into middle age. He was beyond fifty-five, slightly-built, with stooped shoulders and thinning brown hair. From the way the sallow skin hung in folds on his face and at his throat, he had obviously once been a fleshy man who had slimmed down.

  ‘I am not a hero, Mr. Edge,’ he said sadly. ‘But neither am I a fool to be taken in by Frank Snyder’s empty promises of Democracy as a land of milk and honey.’

  ‘I told him it ain’t political with you, mister,’ Power said. ‘And that you don’t owe him anythin’.’

  ‘School starts soon,’ Tillson muttered, glancing nervously around the yard between the rear of the hotel and the stable. ‘If there’s anything I can do, I’ll be there.’

  He scuttled away.

  ‘One more friend,’ the Negro pointed out. ‘They’re few and far between - until Dan Warren gets back to town.’

  ‘He got a gun?’ Edge asked as he emerged from the stable, carrying his rifle.

  A shake of the head. ‘The gent and his helpers collected them all up and locked them in one of the cells of the law office.’

  ‘Except that cannon of yours, uh?’

  A pale imitation of Power’s familiar grin showed on the dark face. ‘Wasn’t nobody knew I had that piece under the counter, mister. Until last night. And it ain’t there now.’ He became anxious again. ‘Where you goin’?’

  He hurried to catch up with Edge in the alley shade between the hotel and the store.

  ‘Have myself a shave. Figure you’ll be okay until Stanton’s new help arrives.’

  ‘No doubt about that, mister. Lovejoy and the others are only throwin’ in with Snyder if things get done legal. Won’t nothin’ happen until after the Kerwins and their gang are deputized.’

  They emerged on to the street and Edge was again totally ignored by the citizens of Democracy going about their business.

  ‘Look at the crazy bastards!’ Power snarled softly, raking the intersection and the four streets leading off it with angry eyes. ‘Like stinkin’ sheep waitin’ to be fleeced soon as Snyder gets this place in his pocket! In hock up to their necks to Larry Swan! Happy for the fat man that he’s livin’ it up in style out at the Warren ranch house! Lookin’ no further than the lousy town picnic Synder plans to spring for soon as the election’s over! Honest, decent folks for years. Until the fat man sweet-talked them with all his frank and honest bullshit!’

  Edge listened impassively to the soft-spoken, bitter tirade. Then, after a heavily-laden flatbed wagon had rolled past, he canted the Winchester to his left shoulder and moved out to cross the street. The hard-packed mud of the street broke up under the iron rims of the wheels and dust rose.

  ‘Makes you wonder if the likes of these folks are worth fightin’ for, don’t it?’ the Negro called after him, loud enough for many passers-by to hear him.

  ‘Who asked you, nigger?’ the wagon driver snarled as he steered his team around the corner on to the north section of Main Street.

  ‘We’re nothin’ to you!’ a somberly-clad old woman shrieked as she came out of the dry goods store. ‘All you care about is hangin’ on to that hotel of yours!’

  ‘Won’t no one own nothin’ they ain’t worked for after Frank Snyder takes office!’ a young man added.

  Edge stepped up on to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. An elderly man in a white apron stepped out of the doorway of Young’s Drugstore. ‘The old order’s passing, son,’ he said sadly. ‘Reason we’re throwing in with Snyder.’

  A man in the same mid-sixties age group stuck his head out of a second-storey window of the newspaper office on the other side of the barber’s shop. ‘It’s the will of the people, young feller,’ he called down, his tone and expression as melancholy as those of the druggist.

  Edge glanced back across the street, to where Conrad Power continued to glower his disgust at the town, while the grim faces of Snyder and his supporters could be seen behind a saloon window.

  ‘Way things are shaping,’ he muttered, ‘be wise for everyone in this town to think about his will.’

  As he pushed open the door of the barber’s shop, a bell jangled. The place was empty and no one appeared in response to the bell. He lowered himself into the centre of three chairs and rested the rifle across the high arms as he leaned his head against the padding.

  In the mirror, his face showed a pensive expression. The sunlight which streamed in through the window showed up every line deep cut into the dark brown flesh. The semi-circular ones beneath his brooding, hooded eyes: those which ran across his forehead, dipped only slightly at the centre; the others which curved away from the sides of his mouth, some to swing down to his jaw and some sweeping up over his faintly hollow cheeks.

  Many were inscribed by the ageing process of the passing years. But far more were the result of the bitterness and suffering experienced during those years: the scars carried by a face from which a frown, a scowl or a snarl was seldom absent.

  Perhaps there had been a brush with death or an experience of evil - his own life preserved at the expense of another - for every line visible on the reflected image of his face. Or maybe the lines had been formed early and merely been deepened by the violence of passing time.

  Would there be new scars if he survived whatever was in store for him in Democracy? Or would those that existed be sunk deeper into the weathered flesh?

  Then again, maybe he would emerge physically unscathed. As a reward - or, at least, a token acknowledgement - for the first unselfish stand he had taken in a very long time.

  For he had come to the troubled town of Democracy with a prime motive that was totally altruistic. The excuse of clearing himself with Stanton about the shoot-out at the way station was immaterial - was a lie. And his determination to pay back the debt he owed Conrad Power was a side issue.

  He had come because he felt sympathy for Dan and Laura Warren. Knowing only the vaguest details of their trouble, he had gunned down two lawmen, basing his trust in the Warrens on their trust in him. He had been a complete stranger to them, yet Dan Warren had confessed the bank robbery and admitted there was seventy-five thousand dollars in the suitcase.

  No, it had not been sympathy. Edge’s capacity to feel such an emotion had been negated long ago. Rather, an affinity which was far stronger than sympathy could ever be. Powerful enough for him to commit himself to the extent of killing Hogan and Danvers before he confirmed that his trust of the Warrens was justified.

  There was nothing new in the half-breed acting first and asking questions afterwards. Except to the extent that, since the opening days of the war, he had never done so unless he stood to gain: materially or otherwise. He had never done anything unless for this reason.

  Yet here he sat, in the stove-heated barber’s shop of a town that meant nothing to him, waiting to put his life on the line. Not for money, nor revenge, nor even for a cause that was the motivating factor of many others who were involved.

  He was there simply because a man had looked into the face that was reflected in the mirror and had seen something behind the surface shell of hardness and evil. Someth
ing he had considered worthwhile - worthy of trust.

  The bell above the door jangled again.

  And Edge smiled wryly at his reflection. So maybe he was in Democracy for his own ends. To find out something about himself he did not know.

  ‘You got a damn nerve, mister!’ the rat-faced man who had been in the saloon whined. ‘Comin’ in here to my place. Of all the cheek...’

  ‘My nerve I’ll take care of myself, feller,’ Edge told him. ‘I got two cheeks and a jaw. Be obliged if you’d attend to the bristles on them.’

  Jay Bailey raked anxious eyes out over the street, but saw nothing or nobody there to help him. So he closed the door, took his white smock from the peg beside it and approached the half-breed. His hands shook and his small, bright eyes darted everywhere without looking at Edge as he draped his customer’s shoulders with a cloth and got some hot water from the stove.

  ‘A man like you should support the ideals that Frank Snyder and the rest of us are workin’ for,’ he said at length, as he stropped the razor on a leather. ‘Fair shares for all. You don’t look like you ever got much of a share of anythin’.’

  ‘Most times I had enough, feller,’ Edge answered. ‘When I wanted more, I worked for it.’

  ‘And others always had more,’ Bailey countered quickly, warming to his subject as he began to lather the lean face. ‘Most of ’em not havin’ to work for what they had.’

  ‘What other people have ain’t none of my business, feller. How come the stage called at the abandoned way station?’

  Bailey grimaced at this reminder of sudden and violent death. ‘Indian trouble, mister. Bunch of drunken Sioux braves tried to stop the stage. Just a half dozen of ’em, too liquored up to shoot straight. The old stage stop was the only cover around. The white folks saw off ’em redskins pretty quick. Nicked a couple, it seems. Found the dead deputies.’

  He started to use the razor on Edge’s bristles and the half-breed enjoyed the luxury of somebody else shaving him. Jay Bailey was good at his job.

  ‘Hired guns with badges, the way I heard it,’ Edge answered after the barber had finished removing the bristles from his throat.