CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The sign was newly painted, the fresh white lettering

shining in the moonlight against the dark wooden plank

supported by two poles at the side of the trail.

WELCOME TO PEACEVILLE

Population 314

Fastest growing town in the territory.

Edge was close to the American-Mexican border

now, having circled two townships and a way station since

he shot the woman heading for Warlock. Three days had

passed and he was starting to feel the fatigue of the search,

knew he would have to rest up before he despaired of ever

finding that for which he was looking.

The name Peaceville had a restful ring to it:

inappropriate to its position on the map, maybe. But it

showed the citizens of the town had faith in the future.

Edge made his decision and urged his horse forward,

moving with no haste in front of the sign and into the town.

It was considerably bigger than Anson City, and

didn"t roll up its sidewalks when the sun went down. It was

built on two cross streets, intersecting at midway points and

effectively dividing into an uptown and downtown sections.

Entering from the north, Edge passed through Peaceville"s

residential area of shacks and cabins and a few buildings

large enough to be called houses. Some even had fenced off

gardens, too parched to grow anything except cacti. There

was a church, its lines suggesting it had begun life as a tiny

mansion and been extended as the settlement grew around

it. Across the street was a schoolhouse and this was also an

odd mixture of Mexican influenced design with later,

pioneer built additions.

The town was quiet here. Edge saw one couple

strolling, taking in the night air. They glanced at the

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stranger with curiosity, but no suspicion. The man seemed

on the point of greeting him, but turned away and hurried

the woman along the street when he saw Edge"s bitter,

weary expression. He saw other people, too, sitting in their

homes by the lights of candles or kerosene lamps. One

family was eating the evening meal, another grouped

around a man who read from a large book, The Bible, Edge

figured. In others women sewed as men dozed.

The town came alive on the other side of and on the

western spur from the intersection. For here was the Rocky

Mountain Saloon, and the Sanora Cantina; the New York

Hotel and Harry"s Dry Goods Store; the Covered Wagon

Dancehall and Frank"s Friendly Pool Hall; the Feed and

Grain Livery Stable and Honey"s Restaurant. Here, too,

was the office of the sheriff and that of Peaceville and

Territory Star.

And people. A different breed of people from the

other side of the intersection. Men mostly, of all ages, but a

good amount of women, all young or doing their best to

look that way. Edge could see them walking down the

sidewalks or sitting and talking on chairs outside the places

of entertainment. And inside there were more of them, all

with something in common – seeming hell bent upon

enjoying themselves. Pianos thumped out music, girls sang

and danced, men drank whisky and beer and tequila. There

was an air of festival about the place, added to by the

streamers that draped most of the buildings, some

stretching across the width of the street. But if it was a

festival, Edge had arrived late to it, for the decorations were

dirty and torn: had obviously been in place for a long time.

As on the other side of town, there was no suspicion

directed towards Edge as he rode through. Precious little

curiosity, either. Peaceville had apparently thrown open

house, all welcome, no questions asked. Except for one

man.

“Hey you?”

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Edge had halted his horse in front of the wide

sidewalk fronting the New York Hotel, was preparing to

dismount. He turned in the direction from which the man

had spoken, his voice cutting clear and resonant across the

noise. He was on the other side of the street, sitting on the

opposite sidewalk, in a large rocking chair, feet hoisted up

on to a barrel. A lamp was hung above the doorway behind

him and Edge could see him clearly: around sixty, lean

faced with leathery skin; clear bright blue eyes that did not

blink; drooping moustache the same gray peppered with

black as his long hair. He wore a check-shirt, black pants,

gun belt with two holsters tied down. He wore no hat. He

did wear a tin star.

Edge sighed. “Me?”

“Yeah,”

Edge slid off his horse, took his time hitching her to

the rail. Then he crossed the street, hands loosely at his

sides, not inviting trouble but ready if it came. He stopped

before he reached the sidewalk, so that his face was on a

level with the sheriff"s despite the fact that the other man

was sitting down.

“You"re new around here?” he asked.

Edge nodded. “First time.”

The sheriff sniffed: a wet sound. “Any money you

make. I take ten per cent.”

“Yeah?” Edge said evenly, his gaze not flickering.

“The town can"t afford a sheriff,” the lawman told

him. “But if it didn"t have one it would be a real wild place.

We got some decent citizens here who wouldn"t like that.”

“So they got to content themselves with a crooked

lawman,” Edge tossed out.

The sheriff had been insulted before had had learned

to ride with it. The sniff again. “Takes a lot to rile me, son,”

he returned. “I know I ain"t crooked and you calling me

names don"t alter that. We get a lot of wanted men trying to

sneak through this part of the country to get across the

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border. I could get a few of them, but not enough. So I let

you bounty hunters operate from here.”

Being mistaken for a bounty hunter took no skin of

Edge"s nose. “Bounty hunting ain"t against the law,” he

said, flatly.

“But it ain"t nice, neither,” the sheriff answered with a

sniff. “And Peaceville"s a nice town. You guys pay ten per

cent for the privilege of dirtying it up some.”

“Don"t you have any trouble with that?”

“A mite, sometimes.” The lawman"s eyes seemed to

turn to chips of ice. “From strangers. But I limit the

numbers, see. Too many hunters going after too few

fugitives ain"t good for business. Most of you guys get to

see that sooner or later. Since the war ended I"ve shot three

that didn"t take to the idea. You guys got five more. Get

it?”

Edge shrugged. “Got it. Now can I go get a hotel

room for the night?”

“Sure son,” the sheriff said and now he looked

disappointed. “Just the one night? We got room for one

more bounty hunter. You look like the kind of man who"d

make a lot of money at the game.”

“Less ten per cent,” Edge pointed out.

The longest, wettest sniff yet. “Why son, in my office

I got posters on wanted men offering close on fifteen

thousand dollars. My cut"s chicken feed.”

Edge turned with a cold grin. “When the gravy runs

out, chickenfeed can keep a man alive,” he said. “I"m in the

wrong town anyway, Sheriff.”

“Ain"t a better one in the territory,” came the reply.

“Where you headed?”

“Warlock,” Edge said, and began to walk away.

But he came up short as the sheriff started to chortle.

“What"s so funny about Warlock?” he demanded.

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It took the man a few moments to control his laughter.

“You ain"t got far to go, son,” he told Edge. “No siree. Not

far. Only Warlock don"t exist anymore.”

Edge turned to face the sheriff, resting his hand on the

butt of the Remington. He face was a mask of bitter

determination. It was a pose and an expression that wiped

every trace of good humor from the lawman"s features.

“You"re sitting and I"m standing,” Edge told him, his

voice low but dangerous. “I"ve got the drop on you and I

don"t like jokes about Warlock. Just what the hell do you

mean, sheriff? Or do I plug you and go and find someone

who ain"t a comedian.”

“Mite touchy, ain"t you son?” the Sheriff answered.

“Can"t you see the streamers? Didn"t you see the newly

painted sign outside town? We had to rename the weekly

newspaper on account of the Civil War ending, like

Citizen"s Committee voted to change things. Warlock don"t

exist no more" cause we re-named it Peaceville.”

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