Edge: A Town Called Hate (Edge series Book 13)

by George G. Gilman

  Sticky, but clean, he left the room carrying the Winchester and not locking the door for there was nothing on the other side to steal. A series of regular banging sounds reached towards him as he moved along the hallway and the noise swelled as he started down the stairs. The stairway canted across the rear wall of the saloon. The bar counter ran the length of a side wall with a scattering of tables and chairs spread in front of it. Open double doors in the opposite wall gave on to the restaurant.

  It was from the saloon that the banging came as Cyrus McNally hammered boards into position over the broken window. It was the big room’s only window and the doors had been wedged open to allow in a trickle of humid air. Not light, for the saloon was well provided for by kerosene lamps hung from ceiling and walls. The pallid, painfully thin old man completed the chore with a sigh and shuffled across towards the bar counter as Edge stepped down into the saloon. McNally went through a gap at the far end of the counter and discarded the hammer and spare nails on his shuffling journey to where Edge stood with a foot hooked over the brass rail.

  “Whiskey, sir?” the old man croaked, his lips trembling and his watery eyes apprehensive.

  “I tried that and it didn’t work,” Edge replied evenly. “Beer.”

  The pump was a few feet along the counter and McNally’s hands shook as he worked the lever and held the glass beneath the pipe. His eyes flicked away from what he was doing to Edge, and back again. The half-breed was aware of the man’s nervousness but ignored it for a few moments as he recalled the blurred days and nights when he had sought solace for the loss of Elizabeth by trying to heal the emotional wound with alcohol. The decision to attempt such a solution had been completely alien to his nature. But his act of aiding - rather than killing - a young couple who had cheated him to raise the money to get married had been even more out of character.* (* See Edge: The Biggest Bounty.)

  He had been lucky. For once, fate had been benevolent. He had carried his recollections of the soon-to-be-married couple into a small town in the heart of Wyoming Territory. A town where there was no hint of trouble to trigger the latent violence that lurked in every fiber of his being. In that town, haunted by thoughts of the couple, his mind thrust forward memories of how Elizabeth had lived and died: memories he had been fooled into believing were as irrecoverably buried as her body. But they were not buried, so he had attempted to drown them.

  After it was over, they told him he had spent eight days in the twilight realm of drunkenness where the difference between waking and sleeping was marked by the slumped or upright posture of a man’s body. Eight days during which any of the countless enemies he had made could have killed him as if he were a defenseless baby.

  “Your drink, sir,” the old man said as he set down the foaming glass in front of Edge. “Mark it on your bill?”

  “Obliged, but I pay as I go” the half-breed replied absently dropping a handful of coins on the counter top.

  And when the eight day drunk was over and Edge started the long, aimless ride that had brought him to Hate, he could feel content with only one aspect of the wasted days. Never again would he leave himself vulnerable in such a way - or in any other way. Elizabeth? Whiskey had solved nothing in relation to curing the hurt of losing her which was still imbedded deep inside of him. The ache was duller, maybe. But that was due to the passage of time. When a longer time had passed, the anguish would lessen even more. It had worked for him before.

  “Pardon me, sir?”

  Edge was sipping the beer. It was fresh and cool from the cask stored in the basement. “Yeah?”

  “You give my boy some money.” The old man blurted out the words fast, as if afraid of their effect and hopeful that speed would lessen it.

  “I ain’t all bad,” Edge replied, cracking his lips in a grin that showed his even teeth very white against his dark complexion.

  “No offence but...” The old man took a hand from his vest pocket and dropped a half dollar piece on the pile of change. He took ten cents back from the money, attention concentrated upon what he was doing so that he did not have to meet the half-breed’s quizzical gaze.

  “For the beer,” McNally went on as footfalls sounded on the threshold of the saloon. He leaned to the side to look around Edge and smiled, glad to have another customer. “Evening, reverend.”

  “When somebody gives me money, I’m not offended” Edge said recalling the younger McNally’s joy at receiving the tip. “But I guess Billy’s feeling pretty sore.”

  The preacher pressed his prominent belly against the bar six feet to Edge’s left. He still wore his clerical garb but had left the prayer book at home. McNally set down a shot glass in front of his new customer and filled it to the brim with whiskey. He left the bottle.

  “Something I should have told you about Billy” McNally said when he had finished the serving chore.

  “That he was at the end of the line when they handed out minds,” Edge suggested.

  “That,” McNally allowed hurriedly. “But I guess a man can figure that for himself. Just by talking to Billy for a minute. No, I should have warned you about giving him money. See, soon as he gets any - don’t matter how little it is - he sets off walking to another town. Even if it’s just a couple of pennies, he reckons it for a stake. Got no money sense, like. Just knows he needs a stake to start living someplace else.”

  Edge finished his beer. “If he wants to do that, he ain’t so simple as he looks,” he said wryly nodding to the glass to order another beer.

  McNally hurried to get the order, less apprehensive of approaching Edge now that the explanation had been accepted so calmly. He had lived a long life, but he had no wish to have it foreshortened by this tall stranger who seemed to emanate an aura of latent violence from the centre of his coldly calm being.

  “This isn’t such a bad town if you live by the rules,” the preacher said conversationally as fresh beer gushed into the glass.

  Edge turned slightly, to lean a hip against the bar, fixing a level gaze upon the pink face above the starched white collar. “About those rules?” he said quietly.

  The preacher blinked, obviously regretting the impulse to speak with Edge. “Yes?”

  “Hi, Mr. McNally; preacher.” This from a woman who strolled into the saloon, her voice bright and her walk bouncy.

  “Evening, Miss Dorrie,” McNally responded to the greeting.

  Edge glanced at the woman, beginning his cursory examination at the polished toes of her black riding boots and finishing it at the crown of her jet black hair. In between he saw the promise of long legs hidden by the boots and a green skirt that fell to just above her ankles: a heavy-breasted, narrow-waisted torso tightly encased in a white blouse; and a pretty, snub-nosed, blue-eyed full-mouth face. When his narrowed eyes met her wide ones Edge displayed blank indifference. The woman’s expression conveyed cool appraisal.

  Edge looked back at the preacher and some of the bounce went out of Dorrie’s deportment as she swayed to a table and sat down. A look akin to a glower of rejection marred her prettiness.

  “A bottle of imported champagne Mr. McNally,” she called and her change of mood was also detectable in her voice.

  “Like McNally could have told me about his boy,” Edge said to the preacher.

  The fat man took the rest of his drink at a swallow and poured another. The bartender set down the beer and moved quickly to supply the woman’s order.

  “You could have told me a couple of things,” the half-breed continued in the same easy tone. He used his knee to nudge the Winchester resting against the bar front. “Like the rule about not letting Corners’ sensitive eyes see one of these. And about Hate being a dirty word in this town.”

  The pink of the preacher’s complexion had become concentrated into small red patches at the centers of his cheeks.

  “Would it have made any difference to a man like you?” the woman asked, her tone taunting.

  Edge looked at her again. For a little longer this time. He fixe
d her age somewhere in the late twenties. She had grown up with a great deal of arrogance and a lot of style. She was in the man’s world of a saloon and yet appeared neither out of place not whorishly in her element as she watched the nervous McNally work loose the cork from the champagne bottle.

  “Who asked you to butt in?” the half-breed rasped.

  She flinched at the tone, but maintained the steady challenge in her wide eyes. “You’ve talked the preacher man into a bad scare, mister,” she replied as the cork exploded and champagne gushed. She raised the glass for McNally to fill it. “This is a healthy town. People grow real old before they die. Unless they’re stupid enough to cross Luke Corners and he’s in a hanging mood.”

  A group of four men entered the saloon and hesitated sensing the nervousness of McNally and the preacher; the brittle tension between the half-breed and the woman. But then they decided they were committed and they moved up to the bar counter - as far away from Edge as they could get. McNally went to attend to their needs as fast as his ancient legs would carry him.

  “So?” Edge asked, addressing the preacher.

  The man flapped open his mouth to reply, but the words wouldn’t come. There was a lot of sweat coursing down his face and some droplets splashed from his upper to his lower lip. His tongue darted out to lick away the salty moisture.

  “A real bad scare,” Edge allowed, swinging his gaze back towards the woman.

  Dorrie liked to be proved right and smiled her pleasure as she sipped champagne. “Uncle Luke doesn’t pay for preaching, mister. He says good deeds are better than good words. And he’s generous when it comes to keeping the smell of the dead out of this town. The preacher boxes them as well as burying them. And, like I said, it’s a long time between natural deaths.”

  As Edge turned his slitted eyes back towards the preacher, the man reached for his shot glass, and knocked it over with a trembling hand. Attention was riveted upon Edge. Every man in the saloon could recall how the half-breed had exploded from apparent casual repose into violent action.

  “Explains why you almost burst your breeches with excitement when the Corners’ muscle pulled out the guns,” Edge said evenly.

  The preacher gulped, and freed his vocal chords. “Someone has to bury the dead,” he croaked.

  “Sure,” Edge replied trying his new beer. He showed his teeth in the cold grin that did not reach his eyes. “Natural progression I guess. Set them up to get hung, cut them down and bury them. Quite an undertaking.”

  “I didn’t...” the preacher began as two more customers came into the saloon. Then he decided not to push his luck with excuses. He delved under his cassock, pulled out a bill and slapped it on the bar: turned, and avoiding a clash of eyes with anybody in the saloon, hurried to the doorway and went out.

  There were a few moments of silence in the over-heated kerosene and whiskey-fetid atmosphere of the big room. Then the boots of the newcomers scuffed against the floorboards, the men heading for the table where Dorrie sat.

  “Thanks for not causing no trouble, sir,” McNally said in a hushed whisper.

  But his voice carried to the table where the two men were about to sit down.

  “Ain’t insulting a lady trouble Mr. McNally?” Dorrie demanded.

  Edge was looking into the face of the old bartender. He saw the expression of heartfelt relief wiped away by the familiar look of apprehension.

  “That drifter insulted you?” a man asked.

  Edge turned to rest his back against the bar. His left hand hung close to the muzzle of the leaning Winchester. His right was hooked loosely around the holster tied down to his right thigh. His hooded eyes shifted from one of the men at the table to the other. The lamplight reflected on their tin stars. The deputy with the black hair was the one who had looked after Corners’ hat and gun during the trial. The blond lawman was one of those who had held Ezra Hyams captive. It was he who had spoken the challenging words, apparently after brushing his lips across the cheek of the suddenly incensed woman. Rage flickered in his dark eyes, on the point of flaring.

  “What happened?” he demanded, staring at Edge but addressing the question to Dorrie.

  Edge spoke into the short, tense silence. “Same as now, feller.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” the deputy snarled.

  Everyone was sweating. The fire of his anger made his face more sheened than any other. He was sitting very erect in the chair, muscles tensed to spring him out of it.

  “He told me to butt out, George,” Dorrie supplied huffily. “As soon as I opened my mouth. Is that any way to talk to a lady?”

  “No way,” Edge agreed. “My mistake, Miss Dorrie.”

  Confusion showed in the faces of the two lawmen and the woman. Edge heard a ripple of scornful sounds from the throats of the four men at the end of the bar.

  “I should think so!” the woman murmured with a triumphant smile.

  “Thing is,” Edge continued. “I didn’t know you were a lady. Figured you for a latrine digger, what with the stink of all that crap you stir.”

  George thrust upright from his chair and it fell backwards. The sound as it hit the floor cut across a series of gasps.

  “Don’t draw on him, George!” the second deputy yelled, his fearful gaze glued to the tall form of the half-breed.

  “Shut up, Ernie!” George snarled but halted the movement of his hand towards his gun. “Ain’t no bastard goin’ to get away with smart-talkin’ my girl.”

  Edge waited impassively, hooded eyes fastened upon George. But on the periphery of his vision he could see the worried Ernie and the enraged Dorrie.

  “I’m gonna take out my iron and drop it on the floor,” George said, softly and slowly, to puncture the pause. “Then if you don’t blast me I’m gonna beat the hell out of you.”

  Dorrie’s anger was waft away by a rising excitement.

  “Outside please, Mr. Bradbury!” McNally pleaded. “You know Mr. Corners holds me responsible for damage.”

  “I’ll pay for breakages,” George Bradbury replied, continuing to hold Edge’s level stare as he slowly eased the gun from the holster. He held the butt lightly between thumb and forefinger and as soon as the barrel was clear, he released his grip. The Colt fell heavily and bounced once.

  “His estate will pay,” Edge said, moving away from the bar as a new group of customers came in through the doorway. He went to the side slightly, so that he could glance at the saloon entrance without losing sight of Bradbury. Six men. No deputies. They looked bewildered at the set up which greeted them, but then recognized the two men who were the centre of the riveted interest. They showed half-concealed pleasure as they moved towards the bar in a wide half circle, staying clear of the closing forms of Bradbury and Edge. “Watch the Winchester for me, Cyrus,” the half-breed added. “Rifle must be a valuable piece of property in Hate.”

  His use of the forbidden name created no stir now since there was already a good reason for the fight.

  As Edge had moved to the side, so had Bradbury, shuffling away from the table where his fellow-deputy still sat beside the excited woman. Dorrie was chewing at her nails. Edge halted the circling motion long before he put his back towards Ernie. He stopped in a position from which he could centre his attention on Bradbury but also see the couple at the table, the doorway and the men at the bar. He saw McNally’s skinny arm snake over the counter and hoist up the Winchester. The rifle disappeared from sight.

  “Ain’t fair!” Ernie said sharply. “George ain’t armed. You’ve got a gun in that holster, mister.”

  “Same as you,” Edge answered.

  “I ain’t involved.”

  “Keep it that way and live longer,” the half-breed had time to reply before Bradbury lunged at him.

  He was more than two inches shorter than Edge’s six-three but looked to weigh about the same. But he came nowhere close to matching the half-breed for agility. He charged across the six feet of floor space, chin tucked down again
st his broad chest, left fist raised in a guard attitude and right arm thrust out in front of him. The bunched fist at the end of the leading arm looked big and hard. Edge feigned to the left then leaned suddenly to the right. Bradbury veered to the first direction but didn’t have the time to correct his mistake.

  As his attacker stopped in his tracks with a grunt and starting to swing a roundhouse, Edge folded his long body into a crouch. He clasped both hands into a single fist and launched them forward. His shoulders were on a level with Bradbury’s stomach as the deputy turned. Edge aimed the two-handed punch lower and smashed his clasped knuckles into the bulge of the man’s crotch. Bradbury screamed and staggered back, doubling his body and dropping both hands to clutch at the source of his agony.

  Edge sprang forward from his crouch, hands still clasped together. The locked fingers dropped over Bradbury’s head and tangled in his hair. When Edge snapped up his arms, Bradbury was forced to straighten. His face was a mask of agony: a thousand beads of sweat standing out against the deathly white of his skin. The weak end of the scream trailed from his gaping mouth. Edge stared coldly into the twisted features: and from the corner of his slitted eyes he saw beyond them. To the frightened Ernie, the fascinated Dorrie, and the horrified preacher framed in the doorway. The preacher ducked out of sight.

  The half-breed jerked Bradbury’s head down - and brought up his knee. The two collided with a sickening crunch of bone against bone. Edge felt dampness on his pants leg and when he released the suddenly limp and silent Bradbury, he saw the blood stain. The deputy fell hard on to the base of his spine and sprawled backwards, displaying his face to the audience. The entire lower half of his features was coated with slick, shiny blood. His ragged breathing bubbled fresh ooze from the flattened wreckage of his smashed nose.