‘Seems you, Vic, and you, Barney, are fixin’ to horn in on my job.’ Sheriff Schabar growled the protest as he halted on the threshold of his office. The direction of the lawman’s steady gaze told Edge that the old-timer was Vic and the eighteen-year-old kid was Barney. The latter had already reached the side of the hearse and was reaching up to offer help to Emma. ‘And you ain’t goin’ nowhere for a while, stranger.’
Edge had started to lead the gelding around the hearse, intent upon taking him to the Bonnington Livery which was next door to the hotel. He halted and eyed Schabar levelly across the backs of the hearse team.
‘You talking to me, feller?’ he asked as Emma accepted Barney’s hand and lowered herself to the ground, careful to hold the split skirt together.
‘What do you think?’
Schabar was in his mid-forties. He was as near six feet tall as made no difference and had the well-developed build of a man who had done other things beside keep the peace in a quiet town. But he had done that for long enough to gain a padding of fat. It was thick at his belly and it weighed down the cheeks of his florid, small-eyed and wide-mouthed face. He was neatly dressed in a freshly laundered check shirt and wool pants. The thin, slicked down black hair on his head was unprotected. There was a holstered Remington on one hip and a sheathed knife on the other. But without the weapons - or the tin star on his chest - he would still have given the appearance of a bad man to tangle with.
‘I think I’ll stable my horse and check into the hotel, feller,’ the half-breed answered.
‘No objection to any of that,’ Schabar offered. Then injected some flint into his dark eyes and his lazy voice. ‘After I’ve heard what happened to our priest and mortician.’
Edge nodded. ‘He died.’
He clucked to the gelding and tugged on the reins.
‘Mister!’ Schabar roared.
Gasps pitched low from many throats. The half-breed continued to lead his horse at a measured pace, his back to the lawman and the majority of bystanders.
‘A warning, feller,’ he said evenly. ‘If you pull that gun on me, use it. I got this thing about pointing guns. And I got another thing - about not telling folks twice.’
‘Sheriff Schabar!’ Emma rasped. ‘I can tell you all you need to know.’
‘Hey!’ Vic exclaimed his inevitable prelude to a comment. ‘Donovan near enough got his head blowed off.’
‘It could be catchin’,’ Schabar growled, then moderated his tone. ‘Come inside, Miss Diamond.’ Then, gruffly. ‘Vic, take the priest and his property over to his place. Barney, keep an eye on the stranger and let me know if he tries to leave town. Somebody go and get Doc Adamson. He’s out deliverin’ the new Ellis kid.’
‘Hey, Donovan’s way beyond doctorin’!’ the old-timer answered as he clambered up on to the hearse seat. ‘Head near enough blowed off.’
‘We need a certificate that he’s dead, for Christsake!’ the lawman snorted as he ushered Emma into his office.
Vic’s mouth was hard to see through his straggly moustache and beard, which was a rich brown color in contrast with his silver gray hair. But he was able to spit through the growth. ‘Donovan ain’t gonna be no deader just ‘cause a sawbones signs a hunk of paper,’ he mumbled as he urged the hearse team into movement.
Some of the bystanders returned to what they had been doing, exchanging low, excited conversation. A few inched towards the law office, resentful of the closed door. All cast curious, apprehensive glances towards Edge as he stopped the gelding outside the livery. Except for the smartly attired Barney, who ambled along to the batwing entrance of the hotel and surveyed his charge with officious suspicion.
‘I’ll take care of him for you, mister. Real good. Two dollars a day and whatever he eats.’
The leather-aproned, shiny-faced liveryman stepped out of his premises and showed his new customer a broad grin. He had tobacco-browned teeth and smelled of horse manure.
The half-breed nodded and slid his Winchester from the boot. ‘He ain’t a big eater so the check better not be more than three bucks a day.’
The grin faltered when it did not draw a like response. ‘Sounds about right, mister. I’ll bring your gear into the hotel.’
‘Busy?’
‘What?’
‘Busy day, feller?’
The liveryman shook his head. ‘No, sir. You’re the first.’
‘Obliged.’
Edge swung away from the man and canted the Winchester to his shoulder as he stepped up on to the hotel stoop. He towered a full head above the youthful Barney, who remained firmly on the threshold of the Bonnington.
‘You plan to stay in town?’ the kid asked. Like his pale gray eyes, his voice betrayed no hint of nervousness. ‘When I’m given a job, I take it real seriously.’
‘Way it should be,’ Edge replied evenly.
‘Knock it off, Barney!’ a man called from inside the building. ‘You ain’t impressin’ nobody!’
Edge looked over Barney’s head of bushy blond hair. The first floor front of the Bonnington was given over to the saloon area. There was a horseshoe-shaped bar with two elderly tenders behind it. Tables and chairs were liberally scattered over the rest of the space. The stairway canted up an end wall to a gallery. There was no dais for entertainment. Neither were there any gaming tables. The place was dusty, but not run down.
The man who called the warning to Barney was one of the quartet who had acted as pallbearers at the burial out on the Rio Grande bank. The four were the only customers, drinking beer and playing dominoes at a table under the gallery. Cowhands once, maybe: but their presence in Dream Creek meant they were equally willing to work with sheep. A lot of punchers were not.
‘You’re impressing me, kid,’ the half-breed corrected after he had made his hooded-eyed survey of the saloon.
The light of a hard smile entered Barney’s eyes and he swung to the side to leave the way clear for Edge. ‘That’s good, mister. ‘Cause I can take care of myself when the stuff hits the fan. Get me?’
Edge took a step forward, then swung fast from the waist. The man who had given the warning groaned. Barney caught his breath and streaked a hand under his jacket. The half-breed’s free hand was faster. It rose from his side and then shot forward, the long, brown fingers forming into a claw. The fingers closed over Barney’s lapels and bunched them together, trapping the lad’s hand between his wrist and the top button of the coat. There was frustration rather than fear in the pale gray eyes as the kid struggled to get his gun out. As his other hand sprang up to claw at Edge’s wrist, the half-breed reached around Barney and calmly leaned his Winchester against the held-open door.
‘I got you.’
‘He talks big is all!’ another of the domino-playing hands pleaded.
‘That’s how you impress me, kid,’ Edge rasped at the struggling Barney.
‘I got a job to do!’ the youngster croaked. ‘The sheriff ain’t gonna like this.’
‘Sheriff had sense enough not to talk himself into it, kid. Let go of the gun.’
‘So you can beat me up?’ Barney taunted. He met the steady gaze from the ice-blue eyes of the half-breed. But still he was not afraid. Then he caught his breath again. When Edge’s right hand was drawn back, Barney expected to feel a bunched fist smash into his face. Instead, the hand went from sight for an instant, reaching under the thick black hair at the nape of the half-breed’s neck. When the hand showed, it was wrapped around the wooden handle of an open razor drawn from a neck pouch. Barney’s pent-up breath was expelled in a subdued scream of terror. When the blade was rested on his flesh, at one end of his narrow moustache, the sound was curtailed. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
‘Jesus, mister, he don’t deserve that.’ This from one of the bartenders.
‘I dropped it, I dropped it!’ Barney croaked.
Edge responded with a curt nod and loosened his grip on the jacket lapels. A small .32 Tranter six-shot revolver slipped from under the coat and bo
unced off Barney’s shoe to the floor.
‘There, mister! ‘
‘Obliged,’ Edge said. Then, deliberately, he angled the razor blade into the flesh and drew it sideways.
The finely honed steel peeled off a thin sliver of skin from one side of Barney’s mouth to the other, removing the embryo moustache. A flick of the razor arced the displaced skin out from the saloon on to the dusty street. A bright smear of blood showed beneath Barney’s nose, and oozed down over his trembling lips.
‘That’s the closest shave you’re ever likely to get kid,’ Edge muttered as he released the youngster, picked up his rifle and stepped away. ‘Without dying.’
He swung and walked towards the bar. Barney staggered to the nearest table and dropped heavily on to a chair. He dabbed at his face with a handkerchief and stared in disbelief at the crimson staining on the white linen.
‘I dropped the damn gun!’ he yelled at the half-breed’s back. ‘You didn’t have to do this to me!’
‘Beer,’ Edge told one of the bartenders. He ran each side of the bloodied blade down the angle of the bar and replaced the razor in the sheath that was held at the nape of his neck by a beaded thong.
‘That was pretty mean, mister,’ the shorter of the bartenders growled as he set down a foam-topped glass of beer.
‘Sure was!’ one of the hands agreed sourly. ‘Barney just talks up he’s a big man.’
‘Obliged,’ the half-breed told the bartender, and swallowed a great gulp of the cold beer. He showed a quiet grin of enjoyment as the dust of the long trip was washed from his throat.
‘Ain’t no one takes him serious,’ the other bartender added.
‘Shuddup, you bastards!’ Barney shrieked, reaching down to scoop up his Tranter. He glared around at the pitying faces of his sympathizers and thrust the gun back into his shoulder rig. ‘I still ain’t scared of him. I’m stayin’ right here to see he don’t leave town. Just like the sheriff told me. I take my work serious!’
Edge finished the rest of the beer at a single swallow. ‘Like a room.’
The man who had served him the beer reached under the bar and produced a key. There was heavy contempt in his age-glazed eyes. ‘Price of the beer will go on the bill, mister.’
‘And I’m here to make sure he don’t leave without paying you, Seth!’ Barney warned as the half-breed headed between the scattering of tables towards the foot of the stairway.
‘Knock it off, Barney!’ the beefiest hand advised harshly. ‘You already tangled with him over nothin’. And what did it get you, you crazy kid!’
‘It proved I got guts, that’s what!’ Barney retorted savagely. ‘Somethin’ nobody in this town’d ever believe before.’
‘Yeah, and he give you the scar to prove it, lunkhead!’ Seth growled.
‘Right, feller,’ Edge called down from the gallery as Barney stared hatefully up towards him. ‘Everyone can see you’re a cut above the rest.’
Chapter Four
THE half-breed had stayed in hotels that were both better and worse than the Bonnington. But few that were quieter. Which made the place representative of the town. Dream Creek - named for the shallow stream that meandered down from the grazing land, crossed the Pecos Trail and ran parallel with Lone Star Street before its final course to the Rio Grande -returned to a state of placid lethargy after the tall, taciturn, lean-faced stranger went to his room.
Strong feelings were expressed between people meeting on the street or gathering in the places of business. Sadness for the violent death of Father Donovan. Sympathy for Emma Diamond who had obviously suffered a severe shock. Anger at Edge for what he had done to the tough talking but harmless Barney Castle. And an all-engulfing resentment at the trouble which strangers had caused to spill over into Dream Creek. But, strong as these feelings ran, they were kept low-keyed.
All who lived in town, and those who came in from the scattered farms to learn the news, had experienced his or her share of trouble in the past. They were sheep people in the cattle land of Texas who, in this border strip, had found a peaceful haven to go about their business without constant harassment from range-hungry beef-raisers. Now the threat of violence was looming over them once more and they were anxious not to instigate it into reality by their own actions,
So, as the gloom of evening spread in from the east, seeming to speed the setting sun over the rim of the western horizon, the people in Dream Creek talked and wondered and hoped their fears would not be realized.
As the day drew to a close and night took a first, tentative grip on the town and surrounding country, Edge slept on the narrow bed in the tiny back room on the hotel’s second floor. He slept with his boots off and his hat tipped forward over his face: and with the Winchester on the floor, his right arm draped over the side of the bed, relaxed hand folded around the frame.
It was a sleep that was both restful and shallow: restoring expended energy to a weary body while a part of his mind remained actively alert. Twice he almost resurfaced to total waking: both times occasioned by the sound of footfalls on the gallery outside his room door. First, a man approached and halted. Edge’s hand tightened its grip on the Winchester. Something heavy was dropped to the floor.
‘Your gear, sir!’ the liveryman called.
The hammer in the half-breed’s mind which would have tripped him into full alertness, total recall and instant action, was returned to rest.
Later, he heard the lighter tread of a woman nearing his door. But she went on by, and entered the next room. He was aware of a voice. Speaking softly, but recognizable as Emma Diamond. The words she spoke did not penetrate the thin party wall. Their tone did, and suggested the woman was praying. But choking sobs stemmed the flow. It took her a long time to control her emotions.
After that the half-breed resumed his dreamless sleep undisturbed until he awoke naturally.
Moonlight shafted in through the curtainless window. It was open and the smell of cooking food rose from below and wafted into the room. The aroma made him hungry for a meal that was not dried or canned or stale. But first he hauled in his gear from outside and found some soap. With it, he was able to get a degree of lather from the bowl of dusty water on the lopsided bureau under the window. He stripped to the waist and washed. A hand drawn across his jaw erupted a rasping sound from the tough bristles, but he gave eating a higher priority than shaving. So he dressed, canted the Winchester to his right shoulder and left the room to go down into the saloon.
A strong smell of stale liquor and a layer of blue tobacco smoke clinging to the raftered ceiling revealed that business had been good. But not anymore. Just one table was occupied, close to the top curve of the horseshoe-shaped bar. Barney Castle sat on one side, a strip of bloodstained sticking plaster along his top lip. He was eating a dish of stew. Opposite him, Emma Diamond seemed to be in a melancholy trance as she stared into space and constantly stirred a full but no longer steaming mug of coffee. She was wearing a gray dress patterned on similar lines to the mourning gown.
The kid lost his appetite when he saw Edge descending the stairway. He said something to Emma, but did not get through to her until he touched her hand. She snatched it away from him as if he had hurt her. Then turned her head to look towards Edge. The disgust expressed by her green eyes was strongly overshadowed by the hatred of Barney’s gaze.
‘Be obliged for a bowl of the stew, feller,’ the half-breed called to Seth, who was the only bartender on duty now.
‘Sure,’ Seth growled, as if he wished he could offer a different kind of response. ‘But I’d be obliged if you didn’t start no more trouble.’
‘Starting it isn’t my way, feller. Finish it when I have to.’
The bartender shuffled out through a beaded archway behind the bar as Edge sat at a table and leaned his Winchester against his chair.
‘I think it is terrible,’ Emma said. ‘What you did to Barney.’
‘Don’t fret, Miss Diamond,’ the kid urged, made to reach out and touch he
r hand again, but drew back. His tone toughened. ‘I can take care of what concerns me.’
She appeared not to hear him. She returned to stirring her cold coffee. “It further demonstrates what kind of a brute and a coward you are.’
‘Coward?’ Barney said eagerly, his gaze darting between the woman and the half-breed. ‘What does that mean, Miss Diamond? What really happened this mornin’?’
‘Hey, that’s right, young ’un!’ the bearded Vic yelled as he pushed in through the batwings, closed now against a dust-raising night wind that had sprung out of the mountains to the north. ‘You ask the lady that. ’Cause Sheriff Schabar sure ain’t gonna satisfy no curiosity. Got somethin’ to do with them six hard eggs that was through here, I’m bettin’.’
He was ignored as he crossed to the bar, polishing the lenses of his glasses and then hurriedly replacing them on his nose.
‘What d’you mean, Miss Diamond?’ Barney demanded.
Vic banged a fist on the bar top. ‘Hey, let me have a beer! Thirsty work, diggin’ Donovan’s grave.’
For a while, Emma seemed lost in her trancelike state again. Then, while continuing to stir the coffee, she replied to the query. Her voice was flat and totally lacking in emotion. But this somehow had the effect of coating each word with ugly venom.
‘He just stood and watched. He had a grandstand view, he said.’
‘Hey, of what?’ Vic urged.
‘Shuddup, you old fool!’ Barney ordered. His hard eyes flicked to Emma’s bowed head, then swung to stare fixedly at Edge.
‘The men came. They dug up my father’s body. And one of them . . . one of them attacked me. Father Donovan tried to intervene. To stop the . . . the attack. He was shot down.’
‘Here’s your stew, mister,’ Seth growled as he pushed through the beads and banged the bowl down on to the bar top.
‘Shuddup!’ Barney yelled, the veins standing out like throbbing worms at his temples and neck. Violet worms against the crimson of his skin.
EDGE: Ashes And Dust (Edge series Book 19) Page 4
