“It was an accident, for goodness sake,” Elizabeth protested as Edge waved his Winchester towards her and her brother.
“I will testify to that, my child,” the priest promised.
More footfalls sounded on the stairway as Haven suffered pain in giving a nod. Trooper Day would have made a good soldier, had he been given the time. “I bear no grudge against his kin for what they intended to do to me. The shooting was accidental.”
Millie Pitt, Sheriff Truman and a tall, thin man in a stovepipe hat and frock coat filed into the room. The madam, her over-painted face contorted with suppressed rage, pointed a trembling finger towards Edge. Truman, his right hand heavily bandaged, eyed the half-breed nervously.
“I got deputies at all the exits,” the sheriff warned as the mortician stooped over the dead girl and went through the motions of testing for a pulse and holding a piece of looking glass in front of her blood-run mouth.
“I shot her!” John Day said suddenly, jerking out of the trancelike state that had gripped him ever since he had seen the whore slide off the sofa.
Relief flooded Truman’s fleshy face and he performed his quick draw technique with a finger under the buttons of his coat. His right holster was still empty but the Colt slid smoothly from the left and was jammed into the small of Day’s back.
“It was accidental,” Elizabeth exclaimed as the Pitt endeavored to hide her disappointment.
“Up to the court to decide,” Truman growled, confident he was now in control of a situation he had dreaded. “Move it, son. Let go of him, ma’am.”
Elizabeth released her grip of John’s arm. The mortician hummed a funereal hymn to himself as he took out a tape and began to measure the length and breadth of the corpse.
Day was suddenly struck by a frightening thought. He looked around the room with horror-filled eyes. “Elizabeth!” he cried. “Who’ll take care of Elizabeth?”
“She can have the bedroom,” Haven replied. “Miss Pitt will arrange to have a bed moved in here for me.”
“Not if you were the...” John began in a, biting tone.
“I’ll be all right, John,” the woman insisted.
“She may stay in my house behind the church,” the priest said.
“Edge!” Day exclaimed suddenly as Truman spun him around and forced him out of the doorway. “I charge you with her safety.”
“That guy’s not a bad judge,” the man with the searching stare muttered.
“All I need is a place to stay,” Elizabeth said, looking at the madam. “I can take care of myself.”
Millie Pitt shook her head emphatically. “Sorry, dearie,” she said harshly. “Even if I had the room, I wouldn’t let you stay.”
“Nice girl like you would get the place a good reputation,” Edge put in as he began to roll a cigarette.
“Take her out with you when you leave,” the madam growled at Edge, then swung towards the mortician. “And you hurry up and finish your work, Jem Potter. Pine with rope handles. Cynthia didn’t hardly pay back the fare I laid out from New Orleans.”
“Best oak with gold trimmings,” Haven contradicted as the madam swept out of the room. “Send the Mil to me.” His sad eyes moved towards the priest. “And a full funeral service. A choir and the death knell.”
The prospect of a higher profit margin urged the mortician to speed his work and hurry from the room to make the arrangements. The priest bobbed his head and followed Potter along the corridor. Elizabeth ran the tip of her tongue nervously along her lips as she tried to conceal the apprehension in her green eyes.
“My offer is still open, Miss Day,” Haven said sympathetically.
“Stick with Edge,” the well-dressed man of violence urged.
“Get lost, pint size,” the half-breed muttered around the cigarette slanting from the corner of his mouth.
“Be careful,” Haven warned as the small man formed his lips into the crooked semblance of a smile. “Now that Hyman’s dead, Jonas Pike is the only man in Summer you have to worry about, Edge.”
The half-breed’s hooded eyes raked over the short man again. “You’re Jonas Pike?” he asked easily, trying to spot the tell-tale bulge of a concealed weapon in the well-tailored suit
“You’ve heard of me?” Pike asked with only mild interest
“We almost trod in each other’s footprints once,” Edge supplied cryptically. *(*see Edge: California Killing.)
Pike nodded, obviously failing to understand the significance of the comment, but indifferent to it. “Stay out of mine this time,” he said softly. “My need is greater than yours.”
Edge showed Pike his own brand of mirthless grin and let the expression suffice for his reply.
Pike bowed stiffly towards Elizabeth. “You’ll be best advised to accept the priest’s invitation, Miss Day,” he said. “Apart from his religious ethics, he’s married and has two grown-up daughters. Your virtue will be safe while you’re in the house. And if you need to step out and I’m available, I’ll be happy to act as your escort.”
The woman seemed on the point of ignoring Pike’s advice but was startled by a sudden full-throated roar from below, as if every man in the saloon had been pushed tight against hysteria.
“That’ll be Fanny La Rue starting her strip-tease act, Miss Day,” Haven said earnestly. “It’s the high spot of the night And after she’s finished it isn’t safe for a young girl to be on her own in Summer.”
“Seems the Dakotas is full of naked women today,” Edge murmured as he headed for the door.
“Beast!” Elizabeth hissed at him as she stepped out of his way, then turned to show a coy smile to Pike. “If you’ll be good enough to see me across to the reverend’s house, sir, I’ll be most appreciative,” she said.
“I can expect to be hearing from you, Mr. Edge?” Haven called after the half-breed.
“Sooner or later,” he answered, pressing himself against the wall to allow the mortician and two pall-bearers to squeeze past with an ornate casket “How much?” he asked.
“For the coffin or the entire funeral service, sir?” Potter asked enthusiastically.
“Whole package?”
“For the best of everything, five hundred dollars,” Potter said, rubbing his hands together. “You wish to make provision, sir?”
“He ought to,” Edge said, pointing to where Pike was ushering Elizabeth Day through the doorway of Haven’s sitting room.
“I’ll stand it for you,” Pike said as the mortician and his helpers entered the room. “I reckon I’ll be able to afford it and it follows that if I can, you’ll be in need of burial.”
The two men smiled at each other, but Elizabeth knew they were not joking for she could see the willingness -almost eagerness - to kill lurking behind their cold stares.
“Please take me out of this place, Mr. Pike,” she said hurriedly, tugging at the man’s arm. Td like to visit John before we go to the church house.”
Edge stepped back against the wall once more and ushered the couple along the corridor towards the head of the stairs. As they went down and another roaring cheer sounded from below, a voluptuously built woman stepped out from a room. She was flushed and still patting her hair into shape as she collided with Edge. She stepped back in surprise as she saw the last remnants of the killer’s instinct visible in his hooded eyes.
“Sorry, mister,” she blurted out
Edge ran his eyes over the powdered swells of her breasts bunched high by the stiffening of her low-cut dress. The woman became aware of his interest and showed him a sorrowful expression.
“The Pitt says I’ve got to take care of the Colonel after what happened to Cynthia,” she said. She gave him a sad smile. “I’d rather go with you.”
“Just looking,” Edge told her. “I never buy what I can get for free. Which room was Cynthia’s?”
“Thirty on the top floor,” she answered, resentful of his attitude. “What do you want there?”
“Sleep,” he told her as Jem Potter l
ed the way out of Haven’s room, followed in slow step by the pall-bearers with a more weighty burden.
“Worry you?” Edge asked the woman as both pressed themselves against the wall to allow the short procession to pass by.
“A girl takes her chances in a town like Summer,” the woman answered with a philosophical shrug that threatened to extend her décolletage. “It’s a risk we take.”
“Yeah, guess so,” Edge agreed as he turned towards the stairway to the third floor of the hotel. “Whore today, gone tomorrow.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE rowdiness of the saloon did not reach to third floor level and the small, sparsely furnished room that had been Cynthia’s sleeping quarters was a peaceful refuge for a weary traveler. But Edge did not immediately make use of the narrow cot pushed back against one wall. New habits, if they are bred by constant danger out of suspicious distrust, die harder than old and he first gave the room a searching examination, noting the cheap lock on the door, the window that looked out on a sheer drop into September Street and the trapdoor in the ceiling. He dragged the bed out into the centre of the uncarpeted room and stood on it to loosen the time-warped wood of the door panel out of its frame. Then it swung up easily to provide access to the flat roof of the hotel. He could not close it properly again and a draught of frosty night air intruded.
There was water in the cracked pitcher on the bureau and he poured it into a chipped, unmatched basin. Thin ice clinked against the porcelain. He splashed water on to his stubbled face and it refreshed him but did nothing to dissuade the pressing need for sleep.
Still he ignored the physical necessity, until he had attended to a final chore dictated by a mind trained to consider every possibility. This involved checking his weapons. He had no shells to replace the shot fired by Truman from the Navy Colt so he had to be content with using the pillowcase from the bed to clean the handgun, then simply checking the action. He cleaned, reloaded and checked the Winchester. Finally, he used his gunbelt as a strop to hone the razor.
Only then, after laying the rifle on the floor within easy reach, and tucking the Colt under his thigh, butt outwards, did he stretch out full length on the bed. He was fully dressed except for his low-crowned hat, which he set upon his face, far enough back to allow him to see both the door and window by simply snapping open his eyes. Then he slept: the sleep of a man who knew his next breath might be his last, at a level of unconsciousness that was but a pin-drop away from full alertness.
So it was that he heard the foot-treads in the corridor, and the sixth sense which is self-preservation’s strongest ally warned him that the man was coming to his door.
Edge opened his eyes before the doorknob turned. It rattled angrily. “Damn nuisance,” a man muttered.
“Room’s taken,” Edge called softly, not moving his hat.
“Can’t be,” the man called back after a surprised pause. “Lady who runs the hotel just rented it to me.”
“She ain’t no lady,” Edge told him. “You can’t trust that kind. Go get your money back.”
“I sure will, mister,” came the reply, then in a suddenly anxious tone. “But where will I stay the night? She said this was the only spare room in town.”
“Try Frank’s Livery couple of blocks down on August,” Edge suggested, flexing his fingers to combat the cold from the draughty trapdoor. “Comes high but it’s probably warmer than this place. And it’s got to be a whole lot safer.”
“Safer?” the man posed nervously.
“Sure,” Edge told him. “If you don’t move away from that door and let me get some sleep you’re right in line to find out what I mean.”
His gulp sounded very loud. Tm going, mister, I’m going!” he yelled, and proved his intent by heavy footfalls as he hurried back down the corridor.
Edge sighed and sat up on the bed, tipping the hat back on his head. He bolstered the Colt, picked up the Winchester and rose to unlock the door. Then he climbed on to the bed and reached up to push open the trap. He shoved his Winchester through the frame and hauled himself aloft. He closed the trap. He could see completely over the town, illuminated by the full moon and a million stars that seemed to be pasted upon the matt black sky. A layer of sparkling frost, thick enough to resemble a light snowfall, reflected the night light. It coated Edge’s clothes, hair and three day stubble as he crouched on the roof blowing on his cupped hands.
Less than two minutes had been chipped from time when The Gates of Heaven’s new guest returned along the corridor. But now he had reinforcements and Edge guessed that it was not his fist that thudded on the door, loud and demanding.
“Open up in there!” a man ordered gruffly “Or make your peace.”
Edge continued to breath vaporized breath into his hands and look at the sparkling rooftops of the town. He did not flinch as a shot exploded, splintering through the door lock. A middle-aged man with watery eyes and a goatee beard entered the room in a stumbling run, shoved from behind by two broad-shouldered gunmen toting Remingtons.
“Ain’t nobody here,” one of them said in disgust.
“Nobody’s right,” the other answered, glaring at the cowering new guest. “Reckon the drummer here just didn’t have enough strength to turn the door handle, Bart.”
Bart gave a harsh laugh.
“I talked to him,” the disconcerted salesman insisted. “He threatened me.”
Bart gave the statement mock consideration. “That Cynthia knew all the tricks,” he said. “I hear that one old-timer wasn’t halfway round the world when his ticker gave out. Maybe that was his ghost you heard, feller.” He pointed the gun. “Snuffed it, right there on that bed.”
The salesman blinked and eyed the bed nervously.
“Cost of a new lock will go on your bill,” Bart said as he led the way from the room and his partner jerked the door closed.
The salesman pressed a hand against the dent in the blankets made by Edge’s body and felt the last vestiges of warmth. “Hey!” he said in a half cry, taking a step towards the door.
“Yeah?” Edge replied softly as he yanked up the trapdoor and squatted in the opening, pointing the Winchester.
The nervous drummer could take no more. The only light in the room came from the window and through the trapdoor and in this meager moon glow Edge, coated from head to toe in white frost, appeared as a gruesome apparition. The man’s breath hissed out in a gasp and he fainted, his slight body falling backwards across his valise.
Edge grinned and dropped down on to the bed, pulling the trapdoor closed behind him. His teeth chattered with the cold and he could not feel his feet He glanced at the salesman, crumpled beside the bed, and slid under the blankets. For several minutes he continued to shiver, but gradually his natural body heat built up a resistance to the cold and his mind once more gained supremacy over his physical being.
The salesman groaned and Edge brought a hand from under the blanket and jabbed the muzzle of the Navy Colt into the man’s neck.
“Summer ain’t no ghost town, feller,” he whispered as the man took a sharp, gasping breath.
“What... what... do you ... you want?” the salesman stammered.
“Sleep,” Edge replied, moving the revolver so that the cold steel of its barrel rested across the man’s cheek. “But I sleep light. Best you stay awake, in case you fidget. I feel one move and you’ll be as dead as the old timer. But it won’t be so much fun.”
“I’m freezing,” the salesman complained as Edge used his free hand to push his hat over his face.
“You’ll be colder when you’re dead,” Edge told him, and closed his eyes.
Edge slept until dawn while the wretched salesman fought against his fatigue and the freezing temperature of the night He had ridden a great many miles and the lights of Summer’s Solar Circle had seemed the answer to a dream. But their promise of warmth and comfort had turned into a nightmare and he felt sure he was going to die, either from cold or a bullet.
The half-breed slit op
en his eyes and took a fraction of a second to orientate himself. “You did a good job, feller,” he congratulated as he reset his hat on his head and pushed back the blankets, lifting the Colt from the salesman’s cheek.
The man continued to stay pressed against the floor, as if frozen there. Edge stood up and indicated the bed.
“All yours.”
The man’s watery eyes, small and reflecting his pain, examined the towering figure of Edge with disbelief.
“Blankets are cooling fast,” Edge said easily as he crossed to the bureau. The dirty water he had used for washing last night was crusted with ice again and he used the butt of the Colt to crack it. As he splashed the reviving water on to his face the salesman picked himself painfully from the floor and collapsed on to the bed. He had enough strength left to drag the blankets up to his chin.
Edge went to the window and had to chip the iced condensation from the glass before he could look out on to the frozen emptiness of September. The grey dawn had swept a blanket of low cloud across the sky that seemed to be clamping a depressing grip over the town.
“Good day for sleeping,” Edge said as he turned away from the window.
“I’ve got a job to do, mister,” the salesman replied. His voice was weak but color was beginning to spread into the pale skin above his mottled grey beard,
“What you selling?” Edge asked.
“Mail order service. I’ve got to fill my quota in this territory today or I’ll get fired.”
“Small town,” Edge told him. “You can cover it on foot.”
The salesman eyed him suspiciously. “What’s that supposed to mean, mister?” he asked.
“Guess your horse is stabled down at Frank’s Livery?” Edge moved to the door.
The salesman tried to force a threatening tone into his voice. “They hang people for stealing horses, mister.”
Edge’s expression was bland as he swiveled the Winchester up to a right angle with his hip-bone and aimed it at the bed. “For murder, too,” he said softly. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”
Bloody Summer Page 7
