Name On The Bullet - Edge Series 6 (25 page)

‘It ain’t the kind of two dollar word I thought I’d ever hear in this kind of place, lady.’

She scowled contemptuously: ‘Thinking he could persuade a man like you to make a confession to the Whitney boy or to the likes of somebody such as me. Just because we showed you some small kindnesses.’ Edge inclined his head and lit the newly made cigarette as the woman went on: ‘The boy asked Slim Haydon if he should bring you what you needed for shaving, but the sheriff figured it would be better if I did it.’

She came casually across the room, showing none of the kind of anxiety that had affected Whitney, retrieved what she had brought, then backed off and challenged sourly:

‘Now you’ve seen me in the light of a sunny afternoon, I expect you’d laugh if I told you the idea George Guthrie put into the sheriff’s head to worm a confession out of you, mister?’

‘I can guess what his notion was, lady,’ Edge told her, then ran his tongue along the paper and sealed the cigarette before he added: ‘Because you were offered to me in the dark of the night and I turned you down sight unseen. No offence intended.’

‘There’s none taken.’ She directed toward him an over-the-shoulder look of mild seductiveness that she obviously considered gave her a hint of sexual allure as she drawled:

‘But I still think it’s a shame we didn’t meet in different circumstances. A guy like you who I figure knows more about life than every other man in this lousy little town put together: and a woman like me who’s always willing to learn. Maybe then . . . ‘ She shrugged and moved to the door.

‘Even then, Loretta,’ he said as he struck a match on the side of the cot and lit the cigarette. ‘Because whatever else I know or don’t know, I’ve learned too much about saloon women like you.’

She scowled and accused: ‘For a man with such a bright brain and a smart mouth, it seems to me you sure have gotten yourself into a real dumb guy’s mess, mister.’

‘I sure can’t deny that,’ he said with a cold grin.

‘Have a nice hanging,’ she snapped and swept out of the office with an overemphasised swaying of her skinny hips. She left the door open so that a faint summer breeze scented with the aroma of the pine forest wafted into the building throughout the rest of the afternoon while the town remained as peaceful as it had been during the morning. Fred Whitney brought in a supper tray just before sundown and started what could have been a lengthy and complex explanation of why he had not personally delivered the bucket of water and the rest of what Edge had asked for earlier.

But the seemingly interminable day of inactivity within the cramped cell, for the most part with just a series of disconcerting reflections on his present circumstances for company, had soured Edge’s temperament. And he broke in harshly on the eager to please young man: snarled at him to go to a hell that, he added, was surely not too far along the trail from this one horse town of Pine River Junction.

Afterwards he ate the fine tasting beef stew and newly baked bread in the fast gathering darkness of the day’s end while the scraping of the spoon on the dish seemed to be the only sound in the entire community. And experienced a mild stab of regret at giving the youngster such a hard time for no reason that was any fault of the boy. But such a considerate line of thinking was out of character for him and the fact he harboured it ignited another surge of resentful anger deep inside.

By the time he had finished the meal and lit a cigarette made from his fast diminishing stock of tobacco full night had descended over northern California and a little moonlight came in through the open doorway along with aromatic air that had quickly cooled with the coming of darkness. He sat hunched on the cot, both the thin blankets draped over his shoulders and with his hat tripped forward so he saw nothing in the meagre yellow light except the underside of the Stetson brim and his folded up legs. Remained like that for the time it took to smoke the cigarette. And maybe twice as long afterwards while he forced his mind to empty of futile thoughts concerned with all that had gone wrong for him since he heard Al Strachen’s wagon rolling down the trail east of Broadwater and then had triggered the impulsive killing shot.

But that was all in the past now: done, so impossible to undo. Whatever part of it he may have handled differently was history and it would serve no useful purpose to rake over the cold ashes of what had been. Just as it would be a waste of time and mental energy to project his thoughts into the future. He was a prisoner in this small town jail and there was no chance of him breaking out. Sometime soon he would be taken from here to Sacramento: and until he knew by what means and how many and what kind of guards would be assigned to escort him, he could not plan even the first moves of an escape. Then just as he became aware he was in danger of sinking into a mire of self-pity, footfalls drew near the law office: those of a man who made no attempt to conceal the sounds of his approach until he stepped into the building and announced: ‘You awake, Edge?’

‘I made sure to stay that way, sheriff: in case I missed out on anything exciting that happened around here.’ He pushed the Stetson on to the top of his head and remained hunched on the cot as the lawman moved to the desk, struck a match and lit the kerosene lamp. In the higher level of light he saw Haydon had recently washed up and trimmed his beard. Wore a clean shirt, fresh kerchief and what looked to be a new vest.

‘Nobody ever claimed Pine River was an exciting town,’ the sheriff muttered indifferently as he sat down behind the desk, jerked open a drawer, reached far into the back of it and brought out a bulky envelope. ‘Folks around here make their own entertainment of the kind they like.’ He opened the envelope, drew out a slender slack of bills and began to count some off the top as Edge said:

‘I heard there was going to be a card game tonight. The kid said Guthrie figures his luck has changed and he aims to clean up.’

Haydon showed a rare smile as he returned more bills to the envelope that he had removed, replaced the money in the drawer and stood up. ‘George is a born loser at cards but the damn fool won’t ever learn to admit it. Just keeps on coming back for one expensive lesson after another. You want to slide that empty plate under the door and I’ll take it back to Loretta?’

Edge did as he was asked and Haydon stayed clear of the cell until his prisoner had returned to sit on the cot then stooped to pick up the tray. ‘If you’re as careful at playing poker as you are at doing everything else, I figure you’re a hard man to beat at the card table, feller.’

‘And I figure I shouldn’t set too much store by what a man like you figures, Edge.

‘That’s your privilege.’

‘Which is my point, mister. I’ve got that privilege because I’ve got the freedom to think and do whatever I want to. And right now I figure I’d be stupid to take account of the opinion of a loser like you on the winning I plan to do in the Timberland tonight.’ He stooped over the desk, doused the lamp and left the office.

As the lawman closed the door at his back, Edge growled: ‘Feller, in the kind of games I get involved in, there ain’t no winners nor losers until the final hand has been played.’

Haydon’s footfalls diminished from earshot and the silence of the night in this quiet town slid in under the firmly closed door like a physical presence destined to taunt Edge into a further period of frustrating negative thoughts. But he overcame the temptation to head down this dead end street and after awhile he stretched out flat on his back on the uncomfortable mattress. Willed sleep to come, failed miserably and submitted to enduring a sleepless night with the prospect having the makings of just one cigarette to ease the monotony during the dark hours.

Sleep refused to come . . . or so he thought. But it turned out that was only now it seemed: for the instant after he folded upright and reached for a rifle that was not alongside him he recalled exactly where he was and why he was there. And acknowledged he must have sunk to some level of unneeded sleep. Then he sensed the presence that had

awakened him. And blinked rapidly several times as he strove to pinpoint the precise whereabouts of whoever it was had silently entered the law office beyond the bars of the cell. Then the door closed with a faint click and a floorboard creaked to draw his narrow eyed gaze toward the wall to the left of the entrance.

‘How you doing, Yank? I guess we’re not buddies anymore?’

He vented a low-pitched sigh and growled: ‘Right now how I’m doing is not so damn good, Reb. And if you want to know what I’m doing: it’s listening to a lousy bushwhacking sonofabitch of a southerner asking me how I’m doing.’

‘I reckon I startled you, uh?’

‘What do you think?’

The Virginian murmured evenly: ‘You sound kind of on edge. But I realise it’s not every man can have nerves of steel.’

CHAPTER • 15

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THE VIRGINIAN said in the same easy southern drawl as before while he crossed to
the desk: ‘A lousy sonofabitch is sure what I must have seemed to you after they locked you up in this place.’

‘In spades, feller: multiplied by any big number you want to think of.’ Edge rose slowly from the cot, flexed his over-rested muscles and had to make the effort not to replace anger with something akin to exhilaration as he watched what the Virginian was doing in the meagre level of moonlight that entered the office.

Steele had dropped into Haydon’s chair and began to open the desk drawers: delved a gloved hand into each of them and eventually sighed before he muttered caustically: ‘You’ll let me know if I’m looking in the wrong place for the key to open up that cell door and turn you loose, won’t you?’

‘Bottom drawer on the left as I recall,’ Edge supplied and when Steele had found what he was looking for added: ‘Although maybe it’s better to keep these bars between us. That way you can’t crack me over the skull with that fancy rifle a second time.’

Steele rose wearily to his feet and growled sourly: ‘It sounds to me like you’re riled up enough to want to take it out of my hide right here and now for doing what I reckoned was the best for both of us.’

‘What’s the time?’

‘I don’t damn well know!’ Steele was getting more irritable by the moment. ‘Ten: or maybe it’s eleven. What the hell difference does it make?’

‘A Sacramento Justice Department lawman is riding out to take me back for killing Strachen. And if he doesn’t rest up too much he could be here in a couple of hours. So I figure there’ll be plenty of time later for you to tell me about all those high ideals of yours.’

Steele turned the key in the lock and backed away from the cell, moved to the office door, cracked it open and reported: ‘The town’s as dark and silent as the grave, except for the saloon. And even in there folks are taking their pleasures quietly.’

Edge was opening the corner closet where he had seen Slim Haydon stow his two rifles and gun belt last night. As he retrieved his weapons he told Steele: ‘There’s some serious poker being played in the Timberland. On account of George Guthrie figured that collecting bounty money on me showed his luck had changed: and tonight he aims to win back every cent he lost in the game the other night.’

‘Another time and I’d be amenable to seeing how my luck was running in the way of five card stud.’ Steele shot a glance back at Edge who was buckling on his gun belt. ‘You about ready to head out of here now?’

‘After you, feller - and I ain’t being polite,’ Edge invited. ‘And if you take it amiss that I prefer to stay in back of you, I won’t give too much of a damn.’

Steele pulled open the door, stepped out over the threshold and waited for Edge to follow. The chill, pine-scented air smelled good to Edge and he took a moment to savour it. Then he glanced at Steele in the glittering light of the moon and recognised in the Virginian’s dirt streaked and unshaven face that Steele was bone-deep weary from lack of sleep.

‘Where’s your horse?’

Steele jerked a thumb. ‘Back at the old sawmill. Do you know what happened to that gelding of yours?’

‘The kid said he’d take it to the livery.’

‘What kid is who and where’s the livery?’

‘George Guthrie’s junior partner in the bounty hunting business,’ Edge answered grimly. ‘Name of Fred Whitney. The livery stable’s that way - over near the saloon.’

Steele moved away from the law office with long strides, setting down his feet carefully but otherwise doing nothing furtive. Edge did much the same a few paces behind the Virginian, both of them fully aware of the dangers that could be lurking in their immediate surroundings: which comprised a town with a population of a hundred or so people, some of them maybe able to watch the cautious progress of the only two men out on the street. For because of the nature of the community, its scattered buildings and an almost complete lack of trees and brush on the flatness of the valley floor, the pair with a total price on their heads of ten thousand dollars were only in cover at wide intervals. But there was no sign they were under surveillance as they moved between the buildings haphazardly positioned along the street: looking nothing like casual strollers taking the evening air. Much more in keeping with them being fugitives was the way in which Steele carried the Colt Hartford tightly gripped in both gloved hands slanted across his chest and Edge lodged one rifle in the crook of an arm and toted the other securely across his belly. And both of them peered constantly in every direction for seconds at a time in a manner that showed an inner tension not revealed on their impassively set features. As they neared the rickety looking, warped clapboard livery stable they began to hear the first sounds of life in the largely darkened town: indistinct talk interspersed now and then with subdued laughter and the chink of coins on a wooden tabletop and bottles against glasses.