CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Edge didn"t ask the sheriff any more questions. One,
because the man was not well disposed towards him after
being on the receiving end of a threat; and two, because
Edge did not want the lawman to know his reason for
coming to town. The sheriff made the great part of his
living from bounty hunters and thus would take exception
to a stranger whose intention was to kill five such men.
Edge went back across the street with more weariness
than he had shown when the sheriff had called him. He
looked briefly, but with great care, into the face of every
man he saw, but not one looked even vaguely like Frank
Forrest, or his four partners in murder.
The hotel lobby was sparsely furnished and deserted
except for a drunk who snored peacefully on a wooden
bench and a hawkish looking man of middle years who
leaned against the business side of the desk, leafing through
a newspaper. He wore a white shirt against which gold
ornaments glowed with the dull sheen of real metal – links,
armbands, tie pin, belt buckle and watch-chain. His smiled
was much brighter in his insincere warmth as he looked at
Edge, who carried his saddlebags, bedroll and repeater in
through the doorway.
“Welcome sir,” the man said in a high falsetto. “The
New York Hotel is the best resting place in town.” He
reached beneath the counter top and pulled out a bulky
register, slapped it down. “For how long will we have the
pleasure of your company?”
“Long as it takes,” Edge said, dumping his gear on
the floor.
The man was temporarily perturbed by the flatness of
the response, the complete lack of emotion in Edge"s voice
or expression
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“Ah...yes...Yes, very well, sir. Name?”
“Edge.”
The hotel man seemed relieved. At least he had got
one answer he wanted. He wrote in the register.
“Christian names? Given names?”
“Just Edge.”
“Just Edge?”
“Right.”
“Dollar and a half a night. No meals.”
Edge nodded.
“In advance.” Apologetic. Relieved again as the
stranger reached into his saddlebags on the floor and
brought out six dollars.”
“I"ll get some back if it don"t take that long.”
The man"s hand, heavily ringed with gold bands,
closed over the bills with a greedy strength.
“Of course, sir. Back or front?”
“Front. I like to look at the street.”
“Number three, sir. Nice position. Right over the
entrance on the second floor. Balcony outside to sit on
when the sun isn"t too hot.”
“Sounds like a piece of heaven,” Edge said and the
man snapped a glance at him, to see if he was expected to
laugh. But Edge continued to show the face of a man who
hated the world.
“And we can provide company for guests at a light
extra charge, sir.” He leered knowingly, trying for a
different reaction from the new guest. “Only a dollar. You
pay the girl what she requires, of course. If you have a
preference, we can offer Mexican girls from the cantina, or
good clean American ladies from the saloon.”
The man suddenly gasped as he found himself yanked
halfway across the counter as Edge"s hand shot out, his fist
bunching around the stingy throat. The edge of the counter
dug painfully into the front of his thighs and the hand at his
throat was cutting off his air supply. But the pain took
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second place to terror as he stared on a level into the
flaming slits of his attacker"s eyes, saw the lips draw back
over teeth that were almost canine in their snarling threat.
“You saying Mexican girls ain"t good or clean of
ladies?” Edge demanded.
The man tried to speak, but the grip on his throat held
the words in him. He shook his head frantically as his face
went bright red, took on the undertones of blue. Edge
grunted and tossed him back as if the man was a long piece
of cloth. He crashed into the wall behind the desk, Retching
dryly as he fought for breath.
“I don"t buy my women,” Edge said and now grinned
with the merest hint of humor at the crinkled corners of his
mouth. “And if I hear you make any more remarks about
Mexicans – male or female – I"ll melt down all that fancy
gold you"re wearing and pour it down your throat.”
“Yes sir,” the man said, fearfully, believing
wholeheartedly that Edge meant what he said. He reached
for the register to put it away; sprung back in fright as Edge
slammed his hand down on the book.
“Who else is staying at the hotel?”
“Who...who else?” His voice was trembling now.
Edge sighed, spun the register around and flipped it
open, ran a finger down the list of names. There was none
that he recognized. He crooked a finger at the cowering
clerk, who stepped forward with great reluctance.
“Him,” Edge said, pointing to the name at the top of
the column. “Harris. Describe him.”
The clerk did so, faltering at first, but regaining his
composure as Edge indicated other names and demanded
descriptions. There were ten men staying at the hotel, none
of them sounded like Edge"s quarry. Edge revealed no
reaction to this, picked up his gear and went up the stairs to
his room. They key was in the lock. Inside was a double
bed with freshly washed but still dirty sheets; a dresser with
a cracked mirror, a hip tub and a bureau scarred with many
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knife initials and dates. From the window which he opened
Edge could see directly across the street to where the
sheriff continued his detached vigil, the darkened facade of
the newspaper office and dry good store, and got an oblique
view of the interior of the Rocky Mountain Saloon where a
line of girls kicked naked legs along the counter top to the
drunken delight of a crowded audience. The noise of the
street was diminished as it rose, but would still not be
conducive to peaceful sleep.
The balcony to which the clerk had referred was
merely the plank roofing of the sidewalk in front of the
hotel. Edge had to climb out of the window to get on to it
and to lean over the unprotected side to get an upside down
view of the street buildings on his side of the street. There
was another floor of the hotel above and Edge discovered a
loose shingle to the right of the window and over it. He
went back into room three, took the money from his
saddlebags and counted off ten dollars in ones which he put
into his pants" pocket. He was able to lean out of the
window and reach up and put the rest behind the loose
board and thumped it back into place with his clenched fist.
He stashed the Henry under the bed, shut the window and
left the room, locked the door behind him and pocketed the
key.
Down in the lobby the drunk continued to enjoy his
stentorious sleep. The clerk looked up from his study of the
paper at the sound of his footfalls on the stairway, went
hastily back to concentrated reading when he recognized
Edge.
“Where"s the best place to eat?” Edge demanded.
The clerk swallowed hard. “Honey"s, Mr. Edge. Good
food, friendly service. Cheaper in the saloon but the food"s
hash and grease.”
“Obliged,” Edge said and went outside.
He saw the sheriff watching him with distrustful
interest, but ignored him and set off slowly down the street
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towards the restaurant, again glancing into the face of each
man he came across. The kid jumped him as he crossed the
mouth of an alleyway between two buildings. He had been
coming from the opposite direction, strolling casually,
hands in his pockets, lips pursed into a soundless whistle:
fresh faced and innocent looking, not worth a second
glance in terms of what Edge was searching for. But as the
kid came level with Edge, he transformed into a fast ball of
action. His young features took on a cruel twist, his hands
came out of his pockets and he went sideways with
tremendous force.
Edge was in mid-stride, unprepared for the attack and
as the boy crashed into him, stumbled into the inky mouth
of the alley, unbalanced. And outstretched leg caught him
on the shinbone and Edge went over, reaching for his gun
only to find his hand trapped between his fallen body and
the hard ground. His free hand snaked across to the small of
his back but a pair of eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness
saw the movement and a foot stamped the forearm, sending
searing pain up to the shoulder and down to the fingertips.
“Get the bastard"s head,” he heard a voice shout and
from the light from the street, saw the kid who had shoved
him launch himself forward.
Edge heard a sound and twisted his head clear, felt the
rush of air cross his ear as a heavy foot missed its mark by
a hairsbreadth. Then the kid thudded on top of him, a fist
crashing into his jaw. The foot came off his arm and Edge
reached up, flipping on to his back. His big hand formed
into a claw, he grabbed at the white blur that was the kid"s
face and closed the grip. The kid, bringing up his arm to
start another blow, screamed in pain and terror as he felt the
fingers dig into the flesh on his face like talons before they
were drawn downwards. The skin ripped in two places,
beneath the eyes, came off in matching strips down each
cheek. His body went stiff with horror of what had
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happened and sailed through the air like a log of wood as
Edge jerked him off with hand and a knee in his crotch.
There were two others and one leapt upon Edge"s
back as he came up into a crouch, throwing arms around
the victim"s neck, locking his feet around the front of his
waist as his legs encircled the body in a vice like grip. Edge
grunted and blinked, found he was now on equal terms with
his attackers in the matter of picking out shapes in the
darkness. The kid with the ripped face sill lay on the
ground, moaning, his body now bent double to seek relief
from the agony in his groin. The kid on his back was
breathing hot and fast into his ear as he forced the grip on
with more viciousness and the third kid was coming at
Edge with something that glinted faintly in his right hand.
A fast glance over his shoulder showed Edge a
vertical row of rusty iron brackets climbing the wall of the
building forming a crude means of access to the roof.
Despite the weight of the kid on his back, the pain of his
grip and the fact that he had his arms pinned to his sides,
Edge broke into an awkward backward run, retreating from
the advance of the kid with a knife. The kid, mistaking the
reason for the retreat, took time to savor his imminent
triumph. A grin flicked across his features, froze in the
instant he saw what was happening. Edge judged his
distance and launched into a short backwards jump to
increase the power with which he slammed his burden
against the wall. The kid cried out once as his spine
snapped in three places as it met the solid obstacles of the
brackets. His arms and legs went limp and he slid to the
ground in a heap behind Edge, who in the next moment had
sprung forward, hand flashing from his neck, holding the
razor in its accustomed, concealed position.
“You killed him,” the third kid said in shocked rage
as he came forward, certain that he was going up against a
man who was going to defend himself only with bare
hands.
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“He died for ten dollars you ain"t going to get either,”
Edge said as he sidestepped the knife thrust with ease and
chopped down with his hand, the razor sliding forward, to
be gripped by the handle with the blade fully exposed. It"s
keen edge made a faint hissing sound as it sliced off the
kid"s right ear.
The kid dropped the knife, his hands flying to where
his ear had been. “Oh my God,” he whispered hoarsely.
“He wasn"t on your side.” Edge told him.
The kid blinked, gasped, stopped and snatched up the
useless lump of severed flesh. Then he spun and ran back
down the alley, away from the street. Edge picked up his
hat, dusted it off, donned it and continued his stroll towards
the restaurant.
“Real nice town, sheriff,” he muttered.
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