EDGE: A Ride In The Sun (Edge series Book 34)

by George G. Gilman

  As he rode the long miles westward, he had always been aware of alcohol as an answer to what ailed him.

  And it was largely because of this temptation that he had stayed clear of towns until he rode by accident into Mayville. This was not the sole reason, for towns meant people, and the proximity of people had always threat­ened danger for the half-breed—since those opening days of the War Between the States when he came to realize what kind of cruel fate ruled his destiny.

  But he had never been in greater danger than during the ride from the farm where Beth was buried to this grim Wyoming town. For by the crudest twist of fate ever to torment him, he was made to feel responsible for the terrible way in which his wife died. And so it was not just grief that rode with him. There was also a powerful self-anger, a well of bitterness for his ruling fate and a mindless hatred for a world in which a man could be made to suffer such boundless anguish.

  With his mind in such an emotional turmoil, Edge was aware that he would be unable to maintain the con­stant state of vigilance by which he had survived until now. Also, he knew that his unreasoning hatred for the world in general might well be channeled into and find outlet in an act of brutal violence against a fellow hu­man being who meant him no harm.

  He looked down at the glass in his fist and saw it was again filled with whiskey, raised his narrowed eyes and gazed into the thin face of the bartender. The man swallowed hard and took a staggering backward step, like he had been physically pushed by some palpable force emanated from the glittering slivers of icy blueness.

  "What—?" he started to croak.

  For just a part of a second the half-breed was on the point of streaking the hand away from the brimful glass, drawing the straight razor from his neck pouch and slashing at the scrawny throat of George. A man who meant him no harm. A man in the business of sell­ing liquor who could not possibly know that he was lur­ing his latest customer into the jaws of an inviting and obvious trap. These jaws liable to snap shut before the half-breed could escape.

  That was the threat which was posed by the tempta­tion of alcohol—the merciful relief of anguish, once tried, could well prove too difficult to resist again. And again.

  "No sweat, feller," Edge said evenly, and felt the skin of his face become less taut between the cheek and jaw bones as he raised his glass to his lips. "I was think­ing of somebody else."

  George thrust out his lower lip and blew air up over his sweating face. "Mister, I'm sure glad I ain't the one you was thinkin' of when you looked at me that way."

  "If you were, your troubles would be over." He took half the drink at a swallow and in doing so admitted defeat for the first time in his life. And al­ready his mind felt easier. If being drunk proved too appealing to ever be sober again, then maybe the liquor would kill him. Or if his body refused to be poisoned, then maybe one of his many enemies—or even a pass­ing stranger in a mood as black as his own—might fin­ish him quicker.

  He was prepared to take the chance, which was a measure of his desperation. "Buy the bottle, feller?"

  George showed both palms after setting the bottle down. "Sure, mister. Be my guest."

  "May need to be that." He took the bottle and glass and sat down at the nearest table. "If it gets so I can't handle a horse, I guess you got a room to rent?"

  "Right."

  "Horse hitched to your rail. You have anyone who'll take him over to the livery?"

  "I'll take care of it."

  The bartender came out from behind his counter and went to the door. Rain was blown across the threshold as he went out.

  "Not good for a man to drink alone, mister."

  Edge finished his third rye and poured another be­fore he looked across the intervening table to where Winters and the whore sat. For the first time, he no­ticed that they did not have drinks in front of them. It was the newspaperman who made the comment.

  "If you buy the lady one as well, you won't be, feller."

  Belle laughed.

  Winters scowled. "I'm busted, mister."

  "If money's all you're out of, you got nothing to complain about." He took this fourth drink at a single gulp. But was still able to see the maggots writhing be­tween Beth's eaten away lips.

  "Spare me your hard-luck story, mister," the fat man muttered…

  Edge nodded as he poured another drink.

  "You oughta get outta those wet clothes, mister," the whore with the pleasant looks advised.

  It was the kind of thing Beth might have said. Edge shook his head and looked away from the whore, sud­denly concerned about a side effect of his drinking which he had not considered before. What if the liquor did not serve its intended purpose? What if, when his brains were cooked in alcohol, he decided to try blot­ting out his pain by using the body of a woman? An available woman who was a whore? Hell, that would be like crapping on the new grave in which he had laid Beth to rest.

  "Am I bothering you, lady?" he asked harshly. "Or you, mister?"

  They said nothing, perhaps afraid that any word they spoke might harden the stranger's attitude even more.

  He nodded. "So obliged if you'd do me the courtesy of not bothering me."

  George returned to the saloon, seemed about to say something to the stranger, but kept silent when Belle looked hard at him and shook her head.

  The half-breed continued to sit hunched at the table, his bristled, gaunt, weary-looking face set in an impas­sive cast. The only moves he made involved pouring fresh drinks and throwing them at the back of his throat. Behind the slitted eyes under their hooded lids, he allowed his mind to float free, making no efforts to block from it the mental images of times—good and bad—during the tragically brief period he had known and loved Beth.

  He was totally detached from his squalid surround­ings of the decaying saloon in the dying town. New cus­tomers came in and left and he remained unaware of their presence—of the way they directed surreptitious glances at him while they drank liquor or beer, heads bent across the bartop to listen to the whispered words of George. He did not even know when, or how many times, the bartender came to the table, took away an empty bottle and replaced it with a full one, uncapped and ready to be poured.

  He thought about his first meeting with Elizabeth Day. She was naked, bathing her slim, high-breasted body in the rushing water of a stream.

  About the way he had won the first battle toward making her his wife when he beat out Jonas Pike.

  About their encounter with another newspaperman. Not named Winters. Named . . . Miles, that was it. Cyril Miles.

  About how, not long after Miles died, Beth Day be­came Mrs. Josiah C. Hedges—married to a man who vainly hoped that by reverting to his former name and buying a farmstead in the Dakotas not too unlike the one he had inherited in Iowa, he could alter the course of his destiny.

  About the Indian uprising that . . . "Luck to you, Mr. Winters!"

  The words, yelled close to his ear, triggered Edge out of his reverie. He jerked up his head and felt a damp wind blow into his face. Saw that the door of the saloon was open and a familiar figure stood there. The fat newspaperman, one hand on the door and the other clutching his valise. George stood beside the table, in process of switching a fresh bottle for an empty one.

  The half-breed shot forward a hand and fisted it hard around the bartender's wrist. George was surprised enough to drop the full bottle of rye. It toppled on to its side, rolled across the table and shattered when it hit the floor.

  "What's the matter, mister?" the man asked, voice shrill with fear.

  "How many's that?"

  The thin face blurred, looking like other indistinct faces the half-breed had been remembering.

  "That's the fifth. I'll get another."

  "Enough. I'm ready for that room now."

  He released the wrist and looked around him. Win­ters was still on the threshold, letting cold, wet air into the stove-heated atmosphere of the saloon. Belle was where she always had been. But her lipstick was smudge
d and her hair was mussed. Like she had been entertaining a customer and did not expect another one tonight. There was nobody else in the saloon.

  "Whatever you say, mister. I'll show you where it is."

  "No, feller. She'll show me."

  He pointed toward Belle. His arm wavered and his hand shook. He knew his voice was slurred.

  The whore got to her feet, patting her disarrayed hair and frantically darting out her tongue to lick her lip­stick.

  "Be happy to, mister."

  "Bye all," Winters called and closed the door behind him.

  Edge got to his feet and knew it was not the room that tilted, instead, the illusion was caused by the sway­ing of his body. The whore ran to his side and fastened a grip on his arm.

  "You need help, Belle?" George asked.

  "When did I ever need help in handlin' a man?" she answered proudly.

  The half-breed thought of something he wanted to say, but immediately forgot it. He had to concentrate all his mental ability on the physical chore of staying on his feet.

  "This way, mister," Belle instructed, her grip firm but the pressure with which she guided him gentle. "Along to the end of the bar and up the stairs. You can make it. There's a big, beautiful bed up there. The kind of bed where a man can forget whatever the hell it is that's troublin' him."

  Edge felt weary and he felt sick. Out of the patch of light from the two kerosene lamps the shadowed area of the saloon appeared to him to be pitch black. Had he not had the whore as a guide, he would certainly have tumbled over the dusty furniture in an unused area of the big room.

  Climbing the stairway threatened him with total ex­haustion and he leaned heavily on Belle. So that she had to stop talking and devote all she had to keep from collapsing under his weight.

  At the top she leaned him against a wall while she opened a door. Then steered him inside, turned him and lowered him to a bed.

  He had been conscious of her perfume from time to time. As he sprawled out on his back, relishing the soft­ness of the mattress beneath him, the scent was much stronger, and constant now.

  "Reckon a two-buck quickie won't be any use to a man in your condition, mister," the whore said. "You'll need the five-dollar treatment. Or I'll stay all night, if you wanna pay ten."

  "I'll pay ten, lady," Edge answered, opening his eyes as lamplight spread across the room from where she stood at a bureau.

  "Money first, mister. You ain't paid George yet, ex­cept for the first few belts you had."

  The bed smelled of her perfume. There were frilled curtains at the room's only window. A strip of rug on the floor, and some pen and ink sketches of cities on the walls. Otherwise it was like most other hotel rooms Edge had slept in. A bed, a chair and a bureau with a pitcher and basin for washing beside the kerosene lamp.

  "I'm good for it," the half-breed muttered as he pulled himself up on the bed and leaned his shoulders against the headboard. Then reached down and began to take off his boots.

  "I ain't doubtin' that, mister. But will I be able to get what's owed after I've supplied what's needed? Here, I'll do that."

  As she came away from the bureau, Edge was able to see his reflection in the mirror propped on it. The first time he had seen himself since . . . long before Beth died.

  "Lady, I wouldn't trust a man who looked like me," he growled, frowning at the gauntness of his features, the hollowness of his eyes, the ingrained dirt in the ex­posed flesh and the irregular bristles which covered the rest of his face and throat. Then he hardened his tone as she stopped by the bed and stooped to tug at one of his mud-caked boots. "Leave it!"

  "What?" she answered, stepping away from him, as frightened as George had been at the latent cruelty which was abruptly visible on the surface of his eyes. "I never even let Beth take my clothes off, lady."

  "Who?" Her pleasant looking features suddenly showed enlightenment. "Oh, it's a woman that's driven you to the bottle!"

  At no time while he was drinking had Edge felt good. Ever since he felt the soft bed under his back, the effects of the liquor had gotten worse. There was a foul taste in his mouth, a nagging ache behind his eyes and a churning sensation in his stomach. Now, as he got off the first boot and lay back against the headboard again, the whore's perfume seemed suddenly much stronger in his nostrils and threatened to erupt nausea into his throat.

  "Forget her, lady. That's what I'm trying to do."

  "Pay me the ten and I'll do my damndest to help you."

  "Twenty."

  "Twenty?" She was both delighted by the offer and anxious about what she was required to do to earn it.

  "Double to take care of your injured professional pride. On account of I don't want you to share this bed with me."

  He got off the second boot and sighed his relief at the achievement.

  "What then? What do you want me to do?"

  "Wake me in four hours," he answered, taking off his hat and dropping it to the floor on his boots. Then he slid down to stretch out full length on the bed.

  "Wake you? Hell, mister, you ain't gonna pay me twenty bucks just to do that."

  "That's right. When I wake up, I want to have my horse saddled and ready to leave. I want the saddlebags to be packed with supplies and the canteens filled with fresh water. I want a couple of cartons of shells for my Winchester and I want a Colt .45 to put in my empty holster. Enough shells for the handgun to fill the loops of my gunbelt."

  She was perplexed, then resigned, finally smiling with happiness. "Sure, mister. The customer's always right. And I ain't gonna ask you why doin' that is worth twenty bucks to you."

  "Making sure I ain't going to do it is worth twenty, lady," he answered, closing his eyes against the lamp­light.

  Belle looked down at him for stretched seconds, head cocked to one side, frowning. Then she glanced over her shoulder at her reflection in the bureau mirror, at the revealing dress she wore and the damage which her last customer had done to her appearance.

  "Guess Beth must have been quite a woman, mister," she said, soft and sad. "Liquor and whores ain't no use to you. Maybe driftin' out there away from people is the only thing that is."

  Edge opened one eye as, almost lost behind her words and the drumming of the rain against the saloon, he heard the sound of a horse being ridden slowly along the muddy single street of Mayville.

  "Sleep helps, lady," he said. "Obliged if you'd do like I ask."

  "Be glad to. Arid I reckon I can trust you for the twenty, mister. But Fred over to the grocery store and Alvin at the livery only do cash business."

  Edge nodded, rolled over on to his side and reached a hand into the back pocket of his pants. Froze when his probing fingers failed to find the money they sought.

  Suddenly, he felt stone-cold sober. And Belle took another backward step from the bed as she saw again the killer glint in the slits of his eyes.

  "What's the matter?" she asked hoarsely.

  Edge went over onto his back again, swung his legs to the side, pressed his bare feet to the floor and stood up. The room threatened to tilt, but he fought to maintain his balance.

  "Can't be you, lady," he said, voice cold and hard. "Or you wouldn't have asked for money."

  "You mean you've been—?"

  "Robbed, lady." He sat down on the bed again and pulled on his boots. "And I seem to recall that only you and George got close enough to me to pick my pocket."

  "George wouldn't have . . . Hey, wait a minute! Harry Winters. That fat slob went past your table on his way outta the saloon."

  "Maybe some others, lady? Also seem to recall folks came and went while I was—"

  "Sure. But they all stayed well clear of you, mister. On account George warned them you weren't in any mood to be bothered."

  "Except by a feller who's busted and real eager to leave town. Put out the light, lady."

  "What?"

  "The light. Douse it!"

  "Oh." She went to the bureau and turned down the wick of the kerosene lamp.


  As Edge crossed to the window and tugged at the curtain so hard it fell to the side. There was a mist of condensation on the pane. Rain drops lashed in at his face when he jerked up the window with both hands and leaned out. The cold wetness of the rainstorm served to further diminish the effects of the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream.

  "Mister, you can't be certain it was him!" Belle shrieked.

  The newspaperman was on the center of the street immediately in front of the saloon. He reined his horse to a halt. Perhaps he heard the sound of the window being opened. Maybe the shrill words of the whore reached his ears. Or it could have been that he simply sensed a threat. Whichever, he turned in the saddle to look up at the rain-needled darkness above the saloon's lighted windows. And the half-breed saw terror in­scribed into the soft flesh of the man's pudgy face, saw it too in Winters' rigid posture.

  The half-breed ducked his head, swung a leg over the sill and stepped out onto the roof of the saloon's stoop.

  Winters heard boot-leather on timber and jerked his head up. Then down, to see Edge drop in silhouette against a lighted window, hit the street in a splash of mud.

  "You took my money!" the half-breed yelled, and lunged forward, the ankle-deep mud sucking at his feet.

  The fat man gasped and his terror expanded to pet­rify him for a moment. Then he yelled at his mount and thudded his heels into its flanks.

  The animal snorted and reared, alarmed by the sud­den demand.

  Winters screamed. In fear and at the horse. Edge closed the gap and thudded his shoulder into the left hindquarter of the horse just as it was about to lunge into a gallop. At the same time as he fixed a double-handed grip on Winters' ankle.

  The fat man's scream lengthened and became shriller. Doors were wrenched open as the horse powered forward, and Winters was dragged from his sad­dle. He and the man who had unseated him fell hard into the mud.

  Voices were raised, demanding answers to questions. Belle's shrill words seemed not to be heard.

  When Edge released his hold on Winters, the fat man tried desperately to crawl away. But he made it only a few feet through the clinging mud before Edge caught him, threw him onto his back and crouched down be­side him—lowered the blade of the straight razor to his throat.