Edge: Apache Death

Sleep insinuated itself Into his body like a soothing balm on an ache and it seemed only a few moments later when its pleasure was snatched away by an insistent rapping of knuckles on the door. But when Edge snapped open his eyes it was to see the room lit with the blood red light of the sun almost at the end of its daytime arc. There was a lot of noise as a background to the knocking: a blend of piano playing and singing, laughter and talk, hoofbeats and wagon wheels rolling, glasses clinking and feet stamping which seemed to come from a long way off but which was all just outside the room's window. The noise of Rainbow heading into another night-time orgy that would lead toward, another morning of late waking.

"Who's there?" Edge demanded, snatching up the Spencer and-leveling it at the door.

"Nelson Mortimer, the undertaker, Mr. Edge," the recognizable whine, called through the door. "I've got a problem, sir."

Edge glanced at the foot of the door, saw a strip of light which told of lamps in the hallway outside. He eased himself off the bed and looked along the floor, saw that there were two pairs of boots in the hall. "Just a minute," he called back, going up into a crouch, then moving on tip-toe to the door. The key was still in the lock and he turned it a fraction of an inch at a time, prepared to leap away at the first sound it made. It made no sound. He backed away, still moving silently, until he stood in the doorway of the bathroom. "Okay, Nelson," he called. "It’s open. You can come in now."

The door was opened and showed just the undertaker standing there, looking smaller than ever in his fear.

"Mr. Edge!" he stuttered, taking a step into the room, his eyes searching desperately for an occupant. "It was just that I … Mr. Edge … I think …"

He suddenly shrieked in alarm and went over sideways, knocked out of the way by a hulking, barrel-chested gunman who rushed into the room, a revolver in each hand, covering every inch of space in front of him. Edge allowed the man three seconds to express his astonishment at the empty-room, then stepped out from the doorway.

"You got two," he said and shot the man in the left eye, knocking him around and spraying blood on the wall, "But my one's bigger," he completed as the dead man crumpled.

"Oh, my God," Nelson Mortimer gasped, pressing his trembling body against the wall, as if trying to force his way through.

Edge looked at the terrified man, swinging the rifle around to cover him. "You pose a problem, Nelson," he said softly.

The man swallowed hard as a girl with a startled expression appeared in the doorway. Edge, ignored his nakedness and her presence, "Why … what … what do you mean, Mr. Edge?"

A man appeared in the doorway now and surveyed the scene with cool interest. Edge ignored him, too.

"Who's going to make the arrangements for the undertaker?" Edge asked rhetorically.

 Every trace of color left Nelson Mortimer's face and he suddenly clasped his hands in front of his chest and sank to his knees. "Please, Mr. Edge. Beale made me do it. He said he'd run me out of town if I didn't get that man into your room. I didn't know he wanted to kill you. Mr. Beale deputized him. They told me he was just going to arrest you. Honest to God; Mr. Edge. I'm innocent." 

"My goodness me, a mortified mortician," the man in the doorway said, in a cultured English accent. "And a wanted man as a deputy. I really don't know what Rainbow is coming to."

Edge glanced at the Englishman now, seeing that he was smiling. He was tall and slim, about thirty-five with a fresh, clean-shaven face. His features were regular with a youthful innocence about them, open and honest. He was dressed in a gray, Eastern suit complete with matching vest which had a gold watch-chain slung across the front. He wore a white shirt and gray tie, and a gray Derby over his black hair neatly trimmed. His shoes were white and very shiny and there were white spats above.

"Wanted?" Edge snapped, and the tone did not disturb the open smile.

"Billy Kramer, no less," the Englishman answered. "There's two hundred and fifty dollars on his head. There was in Santa Fe anyway, old boy."

Edge nodded. "Obliged."

"Pleasure;" the Englishman answered, broadening his smile and raised a hand which was delicate and long-fingered, extremely clean and showing no signs of ever having been engaged in hard work. "Must toddle off now. There's a hot deck waiting for me down the street."

He turned and tipped his hat to the girl who was no longer startled. She was eyeing Edge's naked body with undisguised estimation.

"Please, Mr. Edge," Nelson Mortimer pleaded, still on his knees, hands clasped in an attitude of prayer.

The Englishman hesitated a moment longer. "Old boy?"

"Yeah?"Edge asked.

"Don't shoot the undertaker, he's doing his best." Then he was gone.

Edge curled back his lips in a cold grin and lowered the rifle. "You just, brought me two hundred and fifty bucks, Nelson," he said softly. "I'm not about to kill you for that. Stick around."