EDGE: The Big Gold (Edge series Book 15)

by George G. Gilman

  The spontaneous flattery held the sour-faced woman in a surprised silence. Then the frontrunners of the angry crowd reached the restaurant, spreading in a tight-packed half circle around the parked wagon. They were noisy, until they became aware of the menacing nonchalance of the tall half-breed standing in the doorway, Winchester canted easily across his shoulder.

  “Oh dear, dear me!” Singh muttered, ducking behind Edge as he saw so many pairs of eyes watching him, their massed threat seeming to become more powerful as the noise faded.

  “It’s the wagon!” a woman yelled. “Look, you can see the bars where the canvas’s torn.”

  “Let’s see if it’s inside!” a man responded, and started to climb up on to the seat.

  “Make way there! Make way!”

  Edge saw the barrel-chested man with a shot of red hair atop a red face elbowing his way through from the rear of the crowd. He saw the silver badge on his check shirt.

  “Sheriff de Cruz,” Singh said fearfully.

  Edge flicked his wrist and extended his free hand. The Winchester fell forward and the action slapped against his cupped palm. He pumped a shell into the breech and squeezed the trigger. The bullet bit into the wagon seat, spitting splinters. The man climbing aboard vented a cry of alarm and fell back. Blood beaded from the centre of his cheek where a fragment of wood had punctured the skin.

  “Hold it right there!” de Cruz roared, bursting clear of the press and climbing up on to the sidewalk. He toted an old Henry repeater rifle. Its muzzle pointing skywards and he squeezed the trigger. The second shot silenced the buzz of talk started by the first. “What the hell’s happening?”

  “Guy blasted me, sheriff!” the superficially injured man accused, rubbing at his cheek with a dirty handkerchief.

  “I saw!” de Cruz growled, and swung towards Edge. The half-breed had adopted a relaxed pose again after pumping the action a second time. “What’s the idea?”

  “Wagon don’t belong to me, feller,” he answered. “But I’m taking care of it. Object to rubbernecks climbing all over it.”

  The lawman glanced at the wagon, and did a double-take at the lettering and pictures on the side. “Hey, that’s the black’s wagon!” Then he took another, longer look at Edge. “The one the carny people reckon was loaded with gold.”

  “And some of them said the sahib stole!” Singh said emphatically, stepping out from behind the half-breed. “Didn’t I say he bring it back?”

  “Take a look inside, sheriff!” the injured man demanded. “He won’t stop you.”

  Edge’s Winchester was across his shoulder again, but de Cruz held back from moving.

  “I aim to, mister,” the lawman growled, addressing the half-breed. “Some of these here folks have come a long way, and lost a day’s work to see this crazy big gold show. I gotta be sure they’re gonna get what they came for. And if they ain’t, I’m not gonna be held responsible for the consequences.”

  “Singh?” Edge said softly into the tense silence which trailed the sheriff’s ultimatum.

  “Yes, sahib?”

  “Can the sheriff take a look inside your wagon?”

  “Oh, goodness gracious, most certainly he can, sahib,” the little Nepalese replied quickly. “I wish for no trouble with lawman or anybody else. Oh dear, dear me, no.”

  “Go ahead,” Edge invited.

  “Was going to anyway,” de Cruz growled, and hauled himself up on to the seat.

  There was more shouting from down at the main intersection and Edge looked in that direction, across the heads of the expectant crowd. A group of the carny people had emerged from the no-longer besieged Pacific Winds Hotel and were running towards the large gathering in front of the restaurant. They were led by Roger Case and Jo Jo Lamont.

  The sheriff withdrew his head from peering into the wagon and emitted a disconcerted grunt. “I don’t see no gold, mister!” he said with menace.

  The murmuring of massed anger rose from the press of people again. The majority of the group which had come from the hotel halted and did a fast about-face to retrace their footsteps. After the others had returned to their sanctuary, only Case and Jo Jo remained in the open.

  “Ain’t no free show, feller,” Edge told the glowering lawman. “You pay your fifty cents at the proper time and place, and you’ll see the big gold.”

  “You got it, Edge?” Case yelled.

  Edge spat under the belly of the horse. “You hired me to do a job,” he replied. “Wouldn’t have taken it if I didn’t intend to do it.”

  “I don’t see it aboard the wagon!” de Cruz growled, addressing Case.

  The dudishly dressed man took a backward step as all eyes swung towards him. Jo Jo looked confused.

  “But you’ve got it someplace, Edge?”

  The half-breed nodded. The sun touched the horizon and was suddenly a deeper shade of red. The color suffused the whole town.

  “Nearby?”

  “Close enough.”

  “When can it go on show?”

  “Soon as you like.”

  “Say an hour to set it up down on the site?”

  “Why not.” The half-breed shrugged and turned to reenter the restaurant.

  “That all right with you, sheriff?” he heard Case ask as he returned to his table at the rear of the room and sat down.

  “The folks have waited this long,” de Cruz muttered with ill-humor. “Guess another hour won’t make much difference. You just be sure to deliver, mister.”

  There was a ripple of angry agreement, and then a shuffling of feet as the crowd dispersed. Edge continued with his meal, watched by the happy Singh and the bewildered woman. Then footfalls sounded on the sidewalk and Case led Jo Jo into the restaurant.

  “Hell, Edge, I thought you was gone for sure,” the dude rasped, jerking a chair away from a table and flopping down into it.

  “Try to find me in the bottom of a bottle?” the half-breed asked, looking at the bloodshot eyes in the pale face and noticing the way Case’s hands trembled.

  “I was damn worried!” the owner of the gold snapped waspishly. “What was I to think, damn it? You take off hell-for-leather with the big gold. Then Peat and his girl go chasing off. Said they were going after you to help you, but they wouldn’t take me or Jo Jo along. Then, when the Nep—”

  “His name is Singh!” Edge cut in.

  “All right. All right. When he came back with just his tigers, I had some more crazy thoughts. Then we got here and the crowd turned ugly. I needed to get some comfort somehow.”

  Edge finished his steak and pushed his plate away. “Fine cooking, ma’am,” he complimented the sour-faced woman, who looked almost coy in response. Then he began to pick at his teeth with a match as he eyed Jo Jo. “Seems to me you were ready to help him in that department?”

  The girl flushed. “Mr. Case thinks he can use me to take the cash, that’s all. No strings attached.”

  “Maybe as a guard, too. The way you handle a rifle.”

  “I was brought up in Arizona Territory, Mr. Edge. Apache country. Everyone learns to shoot good down there, I can tell you.”

  “What the hell does it matter?” Case snarled, shooting to his feet from the chair. “Where’s the gold so we can put on the show before all hell breaks loose?”

  “How much for the food, ma’am?” the half-breed asked as he rose, putting on his hat and lifting the rifle.

  “Dollar even.”

  Edge dropped a bill on the table beside the plate and stood up. She took the money and the plate and went into the kitchen.

  “Do we have to haul it far?” Case asked anxiously, snatching a look at a pocket watch.

  Edge took a napkin from the table nearest the door as he went out, followed by the dude, the Nepalese and the girl. “End of the street, is all.”

  Bewilderment showed on the trio of faces as Edge climbed up on to the wagon seat and pulled aside the front flap of the canvas covering. The entire crowd had moved away and were divided between the
downtown saloons and the carny site, where some of the spielers were attracting an audience for their shows. Thus, only the four outside the restaurant saw the row of black bars exposed by the open flap.

  “The sheriff said you didn’t have it aboard!” Case snapped.

  “Only natural a sheriff wouldn’t take much notice of bars,” the half-breed answered. He spat again, this time on the napkin. Then he used the damp square of linen to rub at one of the bars. The thin coating of soot from the Silver City forge came off easily, to reveal the rich luster of gold beneath.

  “Goodness gracious me,” Singh gasped.

  “Wow!” Jo Jo exclaimed.

  “Why?” Case wanted to know.

  “Hoped to talk you out of doing any more shows,” Edge answered, allowing the flap to drop back into place and conceal the camouflaged golden cage. “Been easier to get the gold to someplace safe like this. But your audience has got a more powerful argument than I have.”

  Case licked his pale lips. “It’ll be the last show, Edge,” he said emphatically. “Even if I lose, I can’t stand the strain anymore.”

  “Lose what?” Jo Jo asked, intrigued.

  Case shook his head. “That’s my business!”

  Singh eyed the wagon despondently. “Gold cage no use to put my beautiful tigers in. Will not hold them if they become no longer amenable. Gold bars bend, I am thinking.”

  “You’re still on eight dollars a day,” the half-breed reminded him as he climbed down to the sidewalk.

  “Goodness gracious, yes,” the Nepalese exclaimed, grinning happily again.

  Jo Jo was blushing under the scrutiny of Roger Case, who raked her from head to toe and back again with anxious eyes as he chewed on his nails. Then he grunted and grinned.

  “I’ve got an idea!” he rasped.

  “From you, that’s got to be bad,” Edge said wryly.

  “What is as good to look at as gold?” the dude demanded, ignoring the sarcasm.

  “Tigers, I think,” Singh replied.

  “No!” Case snapped. “Women. Combine the two and it’s perfect. You won’t be taking money at the front of the tent, Miss Lamont.”

  “I won’t?”

  “No, you’ll be inside, as part of the show. In the costume you wore when you worked with Turk. Scanty. You displaying your charms in the cage. A pairing of the two things men want most out of life.” He snapped his fingers. “Wait.” He pointed one finger at Singh. “And you. You will play music.”

  “For extra to my eight dollars, sahib?”

  Case ignored the request for a raise. “Miss Lamont will dance.”

  The girl swallowed hard. “I don’t know,” she said hesitantly.

  Case was already climbing aboard the wagon. Singh went up on to the seat beside him. The girl stood on the sidewalk, looking nervously around her. She gulped again.

  “What do you think, Mr. Edge?” she asked.

  “Come on, Miss Lamont,” Case urged, ignoring everything else as he became increasingly excited about his idea. “Time is running out.”

  “He’s right,” the half-breed agreed.

  “Then you think I ought to—”

  Edge nodded. “Go go, Jo Jo.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  EDGE watched Case’s new show and reflected that Mrs. Blackhouse would not have approved. Not many of the women who lived in Yellowtown and out in the surrounding countryside approved either. They showed their disdain by boycotting the big wedge tent with the new sign outside the entrance: SEE JO JO LAMONT DANCE IN THE GOLDEN CAGE WORTH $ 1,000,000. ADMISSION $1.

  Case did not lose by the boycott, and not simply because he had doubled his charge. For he did a great deal of repeat business, as men emerged at the conclusion of one performance and then joined the back of the line to see another. Also, Case was in favor with his fellow showmen for the first time since joining the carny. For the women and children, denied the opportunity of seeing the big gold, went instead to the other tents flanking the midway on the beach. As the sun plunged to a crimson death in the ocean and a star-sprinkled, brightly moonlit night descended on the Oregon coast, the whole carny bustled. The rubber man, the bearded lady, the red-nosed clown, the fortune teller and every other sideshow did boom business.

  But no audience was more appreciative than that which cheered, whistled and applauded throughout and at the conclusion of each show by Jo Jo Lamont. Edge watched two of the ten minute shows, standing at the rear of the crowd, just inside the tent entrance. The little Nepalese, still clothed in a loincloth and tiger skin, squatted on the roof of the cage, which still rested on the wagon with its cover removed and tailgate and sides dropped. The kerosene lamps had been carefully placed, one at each corner of the cage, which had been wiped clean of the soot. Placed so that they caused the golden bars to glow with a rich sheen and, equally important, shone to good effect on Jo Jo Lamont’s writhing flesh.

  And there was a lot of her flesh for the light to shine on. Of her own accord, or perhaps upon the insistence of Roger Case, the girl was even more scantily clad than when she had been the human target for Turk’s knives. She wore no hose in the cage, and had undertaken some rapid alterations to the red and blue tunic: cutting away the midsection and turning over hems so that she was clothed only in a strip of blue encircling her hips and an equally Spartan strip of red cradling her full breasts., Thus, as she flung her body about in frenetic movement to match the pace of Singh’s up-tempo harmonica music, there was little of her body not on view to the delighted eyes of the all-male audience.

  Jo Jo was not so elegant as Arabella had been, but elegance had no place in this show. She was a near-naked woman moving through a hundred variations of erotic actions designed to excite the men watching her. The frantic music and the glistening bars were additional stimulants. And, most sexually intoxicating of all, it was blatantly obvious that Jo Jo was enjoying the show as much as any man watching her.

  “Going well, uh Edge?” the beaming Case said as the half-breed stepped out of the tent ahead of the delighted audience at the conclusion of the second performance. “Not such a bad idea after all?”

  Edge nodded. “Years ahead of its time, I reckon.”

  He waited until the last man had emerged from the’ tent and Case began to collect the admission money from the new audience. Coins and bills were eagerly handed over and dropped by the dude into the tin box on the table at which he sat.

  “Mind telling me what it’s all about now, feller?”

  Case continued to nod his thanks to each man who gave him a dollar. “Investment. Return on capital. High finance. I’m just a simple businessman.”

  Edge leaned forward to peer into the cash box, stuffed almost full with money. “Not so simple, I guess.”

  “That’s all for now, folks,” Case called, and released a rope which dropped the flap over the tent entrance. The line halted reluctantly and Singh started to play his mouth organ, beginning in a low key and then building up to the climax. The audience roared its approval. “You’ve altered your opinion of me, Edge?” He turned to look at the half-breed now, and broadened his smile to a beaming grin.

  Edge responded with a quiet smile that curled back his lips but did not reach his hooded eyes. “Guess a smart feller can do crazy things sometimes,” he allowed. “Especially where money’s concerned. I could have been doing something easy like felling redwoods. But the finance wouldn’t have been so high.”

  He hefted the Winchester and started along the side of the tent. As he turned the rear corner, a trio of young boys— no more than twelve—sprang away from a split in the canvas. The towering figure of the lean half-breed held them rooted to the spot by fear.

  “Gee, mister!” one of them blurted out.

  “Beat it,” Edge told them softly.

  They whirled, and were halted again, by the sight of a broad, stumpy woman.

  “Mom!”

  “Home!” she yelled at them. “This minute.” Then she looked at Edge and sniffed. “At lea
st one of you people cares about the corrupting of young minds,” she said stiffly.

  “Ain’t that, ma’am,” he told her. “But they want to see the show, they got to pay the same as everyone else.”

  “Well, I never!” she snorted, swinging around to shepherd her sons away.

  “Wouldn’t appeal to you,” Edge said to her retreating figure.

  The crack of gunfire was like an unexpected thunderclap from a brilliantly blue sky. At least a dozen guns, Edge guessed, as he whirled towards the corner of the tent. Rifles fired on the street close by. At the beach end, where the carny midway was set up. The sounds of people enjoying themselves faltered. A second fusillade exploded and almost every sound was silenced. Except for the harmonica music from within the tent.

  “Stop the friggin’ music!” a man bellowed.

  “Quit it, nigger!” a man inside the tent demanded.

  The music stopped. “Oh dear, dear me,” Singh muttered.

  “This is a friggin’ stick up!”

  Edge halted at the corner and peered along the side of the tent. Once more, not that it mattered tonight, Case had claimed the prime position for his show. The tent was pitched at the very end of the street, just where the hard-packed dirt with its covering of loose sand gave way to the beach. Thus, the half-breed had a clear view of the brightly-lit downtown section, as far as the nearest intersection. Beyond this, Yellowtown had closed up for the night and the empty street was lit only by silvered moonlight. But the moon was sufficiently bright for the narrowed eyes of Edge to see a familiar shape. A buggy drawn by a white horse was moving slowly along the street towards the lighted strip. The driver was not yet discernible against the dark interior of the buggy. But he knew it was the fat Clarence French who held the reins.

  “We blast anybody and everybody who don’t friggin’ well do what we friggin’ well tell you!”

  The fat man was not shouting the orders. This voice came from the wrong direction, and did not have French’s cultured tones. The man was shouting from a rooftop on the south side of the street. Edge looked up at him and, like everybody else among the tents, saw the man was not alone. He was standing, silhouetted against the night sky, aiming a rifle from the shoulder. Eight other men were up there in identical stances. Edge swung his gaze to the opposite side of the street and counted six other figures skylined on a roof top.