Edge sipped his beer. “They’re tough, they’re mean and they look like they can use the guns they carry. I never judge people by appearances. But for a hundred dollars I’m happy you have doubts.”
“I’m a businessman, Edge,” Case said as the animal trainer submitted to the urgings and altered his style of music. “I’ve learned that appearances can sometimes be deceptive. But after a little study and a few facts, a man can be judged. Take yourself for instance. You can handle yourself and you can be tougher and meaner and more vicious than all four of my guards put together when the occasion demands—if you’ll excuse me for saying so?”
“You’ll know when you get out of line,” the half-breed allowed wryly.
“But you’re broke and won’t even accept a free drink. To my mind, that makes you a man of principle. An honest man.”
Edge curled back his lips to show a sardonic smile. “I knew I had to have at least one redeeming feature, feller. What’s yours? Being rich don’t count. And being stupid sure don’t, either.”
Case looked as if he might flare into anger at the insult. Edge ignored him for a few moments, to watch an argument at another table. The young fire-eater was trying to dissuade the exotic dancer from getting up to give a free show. The girl was about eighteen, a good-looking redhead with a slender figure. She was the only female in the saloon and getting a lot of attention. The two local drunks and the fat Clarence French were the loudest in urging her to ignore her escort’s pleas. She looked a little drunk herself. Or perhaps it was just that she had dancing in her blood and the music was getting to her.
“Meaning what, Edge?” Case asked tautly.
“Meaning that it’s stupid to haul a million dollars worth of gold all over this kind of country,” the half-breed answered, still watching the girl as she tore free of the young man’s grasp. “And because of the job I’ve just taken, I’ve got to believe your show isn’t a fake.”
A loud cheer greeted the girl’s freedom. Of the watchers, only the young man and the bartender were less than happy as the girl glided smoothly into an open area between the tables. Alton looked anxious. The young man was angry.
“It’s no fake!” Case rasped, soft but emphatic. “Why I’m doing it is my business. Did I ask you questions?”
The girl had a dark skin, perhaps from the sun or maybe from heritage. Even darker eyes, which flashed with unadulterated enjoyment as she began to sway her body and move her limbs in time with the music.
Edge shrugged. “Forget I asked, feller.”
Case smiled. “Good. We understand each other. I ask you only to protect my gold and will not question the methods you adopt to achieve it.”
“First time you do, I’ll take what I’m owed. And you can find somebody else to guard you against the dangers of your own stupidity.”
Once more, Case’s anger rose close to breaking surface. But he held it in check. The half-breed had made up his mind and he was obviously not the kind of man to be swayed by words. He was just the kind of man for the job he had accepted. Even sitting, relaxed in the chair, sipping the beer and watching the sinewy, erotic motions of the girl’s body, the tall half-breed exuded a sense of latent evil and power, ever-ready to be unleashed at the slightest provocation.
“There’s going to be trouble,” Case said softly.
“I reckon,” Edge agreed.
Despite his non-demonstrative enjoyment of the girl’s sensuous dancing, he was not giving her his undivided attention. He was aware of the conflicting emotions which seemed to have a physical presence in the saloon’s atmosphere, heavy with the smells of cigar smoke, spilled liquor and burning kerosene.
“The young man is Walter Peat,” Case supplied. “The girl’s Arabella. Nobody knows her surname. He’d marry her tomorrow if she’d have him.”
“This carny’s full of crazy people,” Edge muttered and turned up the corners of his mouth in a quiet grin as he shot a sidelong glance at Case, and saw the dude was again having to struggle to hold back his anger. The half-breed didn’t like working for another man. When it was necessary, he made sure that the money bought only his labor: that all else stayed equal.
Arabella was having fun. She had a good body and was a good dancer. She knew it and enjoyed combining the two natural talents for the entertainment of men. And the more the all-male audience reacted, wearing their lust on deeply-colored, sweating faces, the greater became her delight in her own ability to arouse such passions. And the higher Walter Peat’s anger became.
“You ready to start work?” Case asked.
Edge finished his beer. “Sure thing.”
Both men rose from the table. Arabella became a little more adventurous as the tempo of the music was stepped up. She stooped, clutched the hem of her long skirt and began to draw it upwards, unveiling her bare legs a sensuous inch at a time. She continued to writhe her body, wearing a triumphant smile as her audience clapped, stamped their feet and whistled and roared in ecstatic approval. Then, when one of the laughing drunks lunged off his chair and staggered towards her, she emitted a high-pitched peal of her own laughter and she skipped lightly away from him. She had the skirt up around her waist now, the dark-skinned slenderness of her long legs completely revealed from ankles to thighs.
The drunk pulled up short and then began a reeling turn, his lust-bright eyes blinking in the lamp light as he tried to spot the girl. He saw her, made another lunge and missed again. The enjoyment of the audience increased and their laughter rose. He heard the high-pitched trill of Arabella above all the other noise. He whirled, failed to see the girl, but raked his eyes over the gleeful faces of the audience. Rightly or wrongly, he became convinced that the men were laughing in scorn at his attempts to capture the wanton dancer.
“Quit it, Rube!” the bartender yelled above the new explosion of sound. “Everybody quieten down or I’ll close up the place.”
But nobody took any notice of the threat. Edge and Case headed for the batswings. The harmonica player continued to blare his music. Arabella responded to the sound with even wilder abandon. The audience roared. Rube’s expression became mean. His sense of being viewed with contempt had the effect of sobering him. He timed his move better now, and when he reached for the swirling, high-kicking girl, he made contact. His arms snaked around her from behind, his hands splaying and then closing to fasten over the small mounds of her breasts.
The dark-skinned man playing the mouth organ had his eyes closed, his mind lost in the frenetic world of his own music. Abruptly, Arabella vented a piercing scream. Whether from the pain of Rube’s grip or terror that she had lost her power over the men, it was difficult to tell. Then, even before the keening sound had faded, the music stopped. Was curtailed without warning, as Peat launched himself from his chair, one arm lashing out. His fist crashed into the side of the musician’s head. The man was toppled sideways off his chair. He smacked hard to the floor with a cry of mixed pain and alarm as his harmonica slipped from his fingers to scale across the room.
“Wait!” Arabella yelled, grimacing as the kneading fingers of the now grinning Rube probed into her flesh and he hugged her body to his.
But Peat had expended his rage in the single blow. His voice was cold and his expression was impassive as he spoke into the sudden silence that had descended upon the saloon in the wake of the scream. “You been hanging out the sign long enough, Ara!” he told her. “Now’s the time you gotta deliver.”
Then he swung away and strode to where Edge and Case had halted at the batswings.
“Yippppeee!” Rube exclaimed, and thudded a knee into the small of the girl’s back.
She groaned and arched her body. Rube stepped backwards and hauled at the girl, dragging her down to the floor.
“Stop it!” Alton shrieked. “Somebody do something.”
Clarence French sipped his beer and smiled. The rest of the audience were about evenly divided in approving or disapproving of the drunk’s actions as he sought to hold the struggling gi
rl. The men from the carny were among those who watched with eager anticipation.
“Go to it, feller!” Dana Breeze snarled. “Her boyfriend’s right. She’s been wavin’ it in front of the guys ever since we hit the trail with the carny. About time she did more than flash it.”
Peat had halted and was having second thoughts about his decision to abandon the girl to her fate.
“Women and gold,” Edge said softly. “Both can send a guy crazy.”
Anguish replaced the cold blackness in Peat’s eyes and he pivoted. “Let her alone!” he screamed.
Rube had a hand on Arabella’s skirt and was hauling on the fabric to expose her legs again. Fear had paralyzed the girl into rigid submission. The shouts of encouragement faded and all eyes swung towards the young man, whose high anger was causing him to shudder. He took a step forward, knocking over a chair. Breeze hadn’t only been playing poker. As he whirled to face the youngster, he almost overbalanced. He fumbled in drawing the six-gun from the tied-down holster. But it was clear, cocked and aimed at Peat before the young man could take another step. Gasps rippled from several throats. The animal trainer rose on to all fours and scuttled out of the firing line.
“Oh, dear, dear me!” he muttered in a strange sing-song English accent. He snatched up his mouth organ as if it was the most precious thing he possessed.
Breeze’s body swayed, but the Remington stayed firmly aimed at Peat. “You said it right the first time, Walt,” he rasped.
“Breeze!” Case barked. “Holster that gun!”
A sneer spread across the hard-eyed face of the guard. “Don’t you give me orders on my night off, Mr. goddamn Roger goddamn rich Case,” he snarled. “The dame’s been askin’ for it, and she’s gonna get it. From every man who can raise what it takes.”
As he swung to address the dude, the Remington swung with him. Both his gaze and the gun muzzle travelled in a too great an arc, brushing over Edge. Breeze made his sneer heavier with contempt. “You, too, mister!” he slurred. I’d really get a belt out of blasting you for sticking your oar in where it’s not wanted.”
“I really think this thing has gone far enough,” Clarence French announced pompously, for once not looking happy.
“Don’t figure to stick anything in anywhere,” the half-breed replied softly, tightening his left-handed grip around the Winchester.
“I sure as hell do!” Rube yelled, his hands fumbling at Arabella’s underwear.
“Walter!” the girl shrieked.
“Oh, dear, dear me!” the animal trainer muttered, gulping.
“That’s real fine,” Breeze said, tearing his wild stare away from Edge’s cool gaze. The Remington swung away, too. “Hold it, Walt!” he demanded, covering the youngster just as Peat was about to respond once more to Arabella’s plea.
“Please, stop it, somebody!” the bartender implored, his eyes wide behind the spectacle lenses.
Edge’s left arm swung, thudding the stock of the rifle against his shoulder. His right hand flashed up, pumped the action, and his index finger caressed the trigger.
“Breeze!” Clarence French exclaimed.
But the hard-eyed guard had only time to turn his head. He was still square-on to Walter Peat, the Remington aimed at the youngster, when the rifle exploded the loudest sound yet in the saloon.
“Oh, dear, dear me!” the animal trainer shrieked, and went flat to the floor again.
Others joined him, while French was among those who leaped upright in reaction to the shot. Alton screamed and plunged into a crouch behind the protection of his bar counter. Dana Breeze had no time to scream or start any voluntary movement. The .44 caliber bullet rifled into one of the guard’s hard eyes. The angle of entry was acute. The lead bored behind the bridge of the man’s nose, gouged through the rear of the other eyeball and burst clear at the far side of his head. Blood gushed from the exploded eye, cascaded down his nose and sprayed from the exit wound. His other eye became scarlet as he crashed backwards over a table. The Remington slipped from his nerveless fingers and the table collapsed beneath him. Coins and playing cards, a bottle and four glasses scattered across the floor. The bullet broke a bottle on a shelf behind the bar and imbedded itself in the woodwork. For stretched seconds, as the pool of blood around the dead man’s head grew wider, the distant crashing of ocean breakers was the only sound to disturb the taut stillness of the saloon.
Then there was a fast series of metallic noises as Edge worked the action of the Winchester. The expended shell was ejected and a fresh one thudded into the breech. “Warned him this afternoon,” the half-breed said coldly. “Not to point a gun at me. Only tell anyone anything the once.”
Rube was petrified by the explosion of violence. Was probably unaware of what was happening as Arabella tore free of his abruptly weak hands and scrambled upright, adjusting her clothing. Clarence French looked angry. The bartender rose into sight, a sick expression on his face. Case gave a low whistle. Almost everybody was looking at Edge as the half-breed lowered the rifle and eased the hammer to the rest.
But not the girl. She vented a dry sob and lunged towards Peat. Not the youngster, either. He side-stepped to evade her outstretched arms, then plunged past her.
“Wait!”
Her cry drew everyone’s attention to a new centre of interest. Rube was the last to react, and by that time Walter Peat had lurched to a halt in front of him. Rube was still kneeling on the floor. Peat stooped, dragging a hand out of his shirt pocket. The hand went to his mouth and he bent lower. His other hand dragged along the floor and a match flared.
“No, Walt!” the girl implored.
“Oh, goodness gracious me!” the animal trainer exclaimed, and covered his face with his hands.
Rube’s need was greater, but he had neither the time nor the strength to protect himself. Walt hissed out his breath and flicked the match in front of his mouth. A great, searing streak of orange and blue flame speared out from his lips. Rube screamed and fell backwards. His hair was ablaze and smoke puffed from his eyebrows. He got his hands to his face now, to claw at the agonizing flesh as he twitched and rolled on the floor. Peat went down on to his haunches and tossed more chemical at his mouth. He struck a second match and breathed another stream of fire, searing it across the backs of the screaming Rube’s hands.
Then Arabella reached her partner, grasped his shoulders and yanked him away. The sounds of agony from Rube reached a crescendo as he rolled and writhed, alternately beating at his flaming hair and clawing at his blistered flesh. Spilled whiskey added fuel to the flames, until French lunged forward. The fat man hurled beer over the flaring head. Other men were ejected from their shocked immobility and took the cue. The flames surrendered to the cascade of beer and hissed out.
The animal trainer sprang to his feet and sprinted for the doors. “Pardon me, sahibs!” he called, bobbing his head deferentially to Edge and Case as he approached them. “This no place for honorable high-born Nepalese boy.”
“You fellers are getting everywhere,” the half-breed muttered as he stepped aside to let the man reach the batswings.
Mrs. Blackhouse, hurriedly dressed and with night cream pasted to her cheeks, gave a cry of alarm as the flung open doors almost knocked her off her feet. “I knew it, I knew it!” she shrieked. “I told you! Let this riff-raff into town and there’d be trouble!”
She didn’t venture inside, but stood on the sidewalk, her hands curled over the top of the batswings, holding the doors firmly closed. Edge canted the Winchester across his shoulder as he turned towards the exit.
“Like to leave, lady,” he said softly.
“You!” the guardian of Seascape’s morals accused, recognizing the half-breed after her shocked eyes had taken in the sight of the dead man and the terribly injured one. “I should have known you’d be involved!”
“Get Doc Elkins, ma’am!” somebody pleaded. “Rube Whitaker’s hurt pretty bad.”
“Better do like the man says,” Edge urged, moving t
owards the batswings, with Case hard on his heels. “Unless you want the feller to suffer. On account of he was the hothead that started the trouble.”
The woman backed away from the doorway, releasing her grip. “Which you doubtless had a large part in!” she said with heavy contempt.
Edge pushed out through the batswings and saw a large crowd had gathered on the street, drawn by the shot and the screams. “Me?” he said, showed his teeth in a narrow-eyed, cold grin, then pursed his lips and spat into the dust beyond the sidewalk. “I was just in the saloon shooting the Breeze.”
CHAPTER FOUR
NOBODY had taken care of Edge’s horse. The stallion was still hitched to the rail outside the saloon, but he looked content and rested. Unworried by the explosion of violence that had recently erupted. The half-breed did not normally keep a horse for long. This stallion had been his mount for longer than usual and was familiar with sudden bursts of gunfire and the venting of agonies which often ensued.
“We’re camped south of town,” Case explained, and for the first time he revealed that the events in the saloon had got to him. There was a tremor in his voice. And he set a fast pace along the street, as if anxious to retreat from the curious stares of the crowd.
Edge, with the rifle still resting across his shoulder, stayed on the ground and led the horse in the wake of Case. It wasn’t far to the camp. As they turned into a side street between the church and the law office, Edge noted that all sign of the carny had been eradicated from where the trail ran into the end of town.
“Moving out tomorrow?” he asked.
The side street was a short one, lined by frame houses. Where it ended, a logging trail cut into the timber. Firelight flickered from somewhere deep in the woods.
“A few hours is all a town the size of this is worth,” Case replied, his nerves under control again. “If we had reached here this morning we’d have been gone by noon. But some damn Rogue River Indians spooked the horses at dawn. Took us three hours to round them up after they scattered.”
EDGE: The Big Gold (Edge series Book 15) Page 4
