CHAPTER NINETEEN

Edge sat on the side of the bed in his hotel room,

submitting with a mere token show of reluctance to the

ministrations of Gail. First she bathed his injured hand in

warm water, then dabbed an astringent liquid upon the torn

flesh before finally bandaging it. He was sure she enjoyed

it when he winced as the healer stung, complained she had

fastened the dressing too tight.

“There,” she said when she had finished. “You won"t

be shooting anybody with that hand for some time to

come.”

He grinned coldly. “I"m two-handed with guns, lady,”

he said. “Or any weapon.”

The young man who stood to the left of the room

door, holding a revolver in his hand as if he was not sure

what it was shuffled his feet uncomfortably as he heard

Edge"s words. Edge had heard Honey give the kid his

instructions, telling him to watch the stranger, prevent him

from reaching Forrest before the citizens could make the

final kill for themselves. He had accepted the duty with

pride and enthusiasm which had waned steadily as the

results of Edge"s violence had come to light in the rooms

above the saloon. He was just a kid who thought himself a

man. With each soft word that Edge spoke he grew younger

and more vulnerable. He was glad the waitress from the

restaurant was in the room with him and Edge. She seemed

able to keep him in line.

She came up from stooping over her patient, rubbing

the small of her back where it ached from holding the same

position too long. “You must have had a powerfully strong

reason for wanting to kill those men,” she said, and carried

the bloodied bowl of water over to the dresser.

“Five hundred of them,” Edge answered.

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Gail shook her head. “Stronger than money. I think

you took the reward under false pretences. You were going

to kill them anyway.”

Edge shrugged. “Thinking is free.”

“One of them called you Captain.”

“I ain"t ever liked answering questions, lady,” he told

her, his expression as hard as granite.

She pouted. “A man"s business is his own, unless he

wants somebody else to know it.”

“I don"t.”

“Frank Forrest is the town"s business,” she came

back. “I told you earlier we had a lot of respect for Sheriff

Peacock. And we want Peaceville to be a clean, decent

town. If there was any doubt who killed the sheriff we"d

hold a vigilante trial and dispense justice the way we see

fit. But Forrest and his men killed the sheriff before the

whole town so he"ll hang.”

Edge listened dispassionately. “Then the town ain"t so

decent,” he said softly. “It"s robbing me of something.”

An expression of distaste flitted across the woman"s

beautiful face. “They"ll probably let you keep the full five

hundred.”

“I aim to,” he answered. “But I"m not talking about

money. That doesn"t matter a damn in relation to the

other.”

Gail looked at him closely, a confused look upon her

features, “You...” she started and then stopped.

“Yeah?”

“You can speak like an educated man when you want

to and yet most of the time you...”

Edge stood up, suddenly angry, and the kid near the

door brought up the gun, cocking it. Edge knew that when

the chips were down, he"d know what to do and he"d do it

quickly.

“I ain"t no first grade drop-out,” Edge snarled at Gail.

“I already warned you about prying into my affairs.”

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“They must have done something very evil to make

you the way you are,” she replied with gentleness, refusing

to be provoked by his anger.

Edge turned his back on her and went to the window,

threw it open, admitting the cold of the early hours,

drawing it into his lungs in great gulps. The gray light of a

false dawn was already streaking the sky, dimming the stars

and giving the town the substance of solid wood and adobe

out of the shadows from which it was formed during the

night. Edge leaned out to look back down towards the

intersection of streets and watched for awhile the activity

taking place there. A dozen men were working in the center

of the two streets, measuring, sawing and nailing. They had

been engaged on their task for less than an hour and yet

already the construction was taking the shape of a gallows.

“Ain"t you ever hanged anybody in Peaceville

before?” he asked without looking back into the room.

“There"s some trees outside of town,” the kid replied

to Edge"s impassive back.

“They were lynchings,” Gail put in with repugnance.

“This is going to be done correctly.”

Edge withdrew his head, closed the window and went

back to the bed, stretched out full length on it. His hat was

on the floor below and he picked it up, set it upon his

forehead so that it covered his face except for the stubble

jaw line.

“Wake me up before sunrise,” he said from

underneath the brim. “I wouldn"t want to miss the show.”

No-one answered him and within a few minutes he

was breathing deeply and evenly, like a man in a sound

sleep.

“Christ that"s a relief,” the kid said with a sigh. “I

don"t mind admitting it, Miss Gail. That feller makes me

nervous by just looking at me. D"you see what he did to

those people in the saloon?”

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“They told me,” Gail answered, looking at Edge with

an odd mixture of concern and disgust in her dark eyes. “I

suppose he did what he felt he had to do. He has his own

values and nobody in Peaceville can in any honesty despise

him for what he did. We paid him for doing our dirty work

and we didn"t make any conditions.” Her voice was tinged

with sadness. Then she sighed and moved to the door. “He

seems harmless enough now, Jesse,” she said. “I think

that"s the first time he"s had any real rest in ages. But keep

an eye on him. Honey will send up somebody to help you

take Edge out if he really does want to see the hanging.”

“Right, Miss Gail,” the kid said with the confidence

of Edge"s sleep as he opened the door, then closed it again

when the woman had left the room.

But Edge was not asleep. He had kept his breathing

deep and evenly paced by a conscious effort as he listened

to the conversation, quelling his impatience as the seconds

ticked away and the voices droned on. He knew he could

handle both the woman and the kid. But he would have to

take the kid first, to disarm him, and while he was doing

that the woman would have enough time to raise a ruckus

loud enough to wake the whole town. There was no point to

that, if it could be done quietly without trouble. So Edge

curbed his itch for action until the woman had gone out.

The kid was nervous, and that was bad. A brave man

might think he could handle Edge alone and could be

pushed into making a mistake. The kid would either shout

for help or, worse, start blasting at the first flicker of

trouble. So Edge had to wait for him to make the first

move. It wasn"t a long wait. He had been standing by the

door for a considerable time and at first the monotony of

sentry duty had been counteracted by watching the woman

at her nursing, then by conversation. Alone, except for the

apparently sleeping man the boredom set in. The sounds of

building across the street reached the room, faint but

without competition, sufficient to catch his interest.

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He tiptoed across the room, keeping his eyes and the

gun trained upon the bed, holding his breath and clamping

his teeth on to his lower lip with each tiny sound of his

movement. Edge followed his progress with ease, grinned

into the darkness of the hat when he heard the faint swish

of the window rising, the sounds from outside suddenly

amplified. Edge counted the beat of his own breathing, got

to ten and reached up to raise the hat, swiveling his eyes to

look at the window. He saw the kid"s rump folded over the

sill, the slope his back angled out into the gray of dawn as

he craned forward for a better view of the activity that held

his attention.

Careful to keep his breathing pitched at the same

regular beat, Edge sat up, put on his hat and turned his body

so he could throw his legs off the bed. He held the pose for

a second, waiting for the kid to sense trouble and swing the

gun onto a target. The kid stayed as still as Edge.

Edge"s mouth cracked open and his teeth gleamed in

contest with the glint of his narrowed eyes. Winter north of

the Artic Circle had never been so cold as the expression.

His boots were still in the room above the saloon, and his

stockinet feet moved soundlessly across the floorboards. He

had not spent much time in the room, but he was well

aware of those sections on the floor that creaked. He

avoided them.

They had found his knife, taken it with the Remington

and Henry, but the razor in its pouch had escaped their

attention. He came up behind the kid and drew the razor.

The kid"s six sense delivered a late warning and he started

to turn. But Edge"s fingers were already curled over the

kid"s belt and the kid was being hauled in from the window

with great force and speed. The side of the kid"s head

smashed into the window frame, stunning him. The Edge

smashed him against the wall and pressed his body against

him, bringing up his hand to hold the razor against his

throat, just nicking the skin. The kid felt the sting of the

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wound and looked down with distended eyes at the object

of his pain as warm blood oozed.

“You all right, Jesse?” somebody called from below.

“Answer him while you can still talk,” Edge hissed.

“Quiet,” the kid said. “Stubbed my toe. You"ll wake

him.”

Edge grunted his satisfaction.

“Don"t kill me, mister,” the kid pleaded.

“Stoop down,” Edge told him, relaxing the pressure

of his body a little, but keeping the blade tight against the

other"s throat. “Lay the gun on the floor. Make a sound and

you"ll be at the gates to welcome Frank Forrest.”

The kid tried to nod, felt the blade dig deeper and

made a low noise of horror. As Edge"s full weight was

removed, he slid down the wall, bending his knees,

stretching down his arm to let the gun rest on the floor.

When Edge glanced down and saw the kid"s fingers come

free of the revolver he stepped back a pace, taking the blade

away from the flesh. The kid"s sigh of relief was curtailed

by a soft groan as Edge"s knee snapped up, caught him on

the point of the jaw. His eyes glazed, closed and he fell

forward, to be caught by Edge, who lowered the inert form

quietly to the floor.

Then Edge picked up the revolver, grimaced his

distaste that it was a .44 Starr single action; like his own

Remington in appearance but vastly inferior in

performance. But it fitted snugly into his holster. Better

than his feet fitted into the kid"s boots, which pinched at the

toes but would serve his purpose.

He went out of the room as the sound of hammering

was abruptly halted and the man below the window spoke

to a companion. “Reckon it"s almost time for the hanging.”

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