Edge: Apache Death

CHAPTER FIVE

THEY were the center of a great deal of interest as they walked down the sidewalk toward the sheriff's office. The evening had completely swallowed up the day now and kerosene lamps from windows and hanging on posts provided light for the citizens of Rainbow to find their pleasure. But they all had time to spare to look at Nelson Mortimer, back bowed under the weight of the dead Billy Kramer, as he staggered out of the Pot of Cold, Edge immediately at his heels, prodding him forward with the muzzle of the Spencer.

"Don't you usually put them in a box first, Nelson?" a woman called amid raucous laughter.

Kramer should have gone to hell a long time ago," a man rejoined.

"Sad night for Beale," another man said. "He's goin~ to have to shell out some money."

Violent death was not taken very seriously in Rainbow. Edge ignored the comments and merely glanced at the faces of the bystanders: not from curiosity but to make sure Kramer had no friends prepared to take a chance on avenging his death. Beale's door was open and the undertaker hesitated a moment, suddenly shot forward into the sheriff’s office with a pained yell as the rifle muzzle whipped up into his crotch. Beale was seated behind his desk, much of the color gone from his florid face; Edge knew he had been told the bad news already.

"Get him out of here,"· Beale snapped, venting his anger on the defenseless Mortimer. "I know who he is and how much he's worth."

"Can't I rest for awhile?" the little man pleaded breathlessly.

"You got a chapel of-rest across the street," Beale yelled.

Mortimer groaned, turned and panted out through the  doorway as Beale attempted to hold Edge's steely stare. But he couldn't do it and looked away, his lower lip trembling. The Safe was in a comer of the office, but Beale had already been there. He pulled open a drawer of his desk and took out a stack of five dollar bills and a rolled up wanted poster. He unfurled the poster, and held it up, showing Edge a crude drawing of Kramer and, the big lettering offering a two hundred and fifty dollar reward for the man, dead or alive.

Edge didn't say anything.

"Bounty, hunters' ain't popular around here, stranger;" he said, injecting hardness into his tone. "There's a few others in town who ain't about to let you live and pick up their tabs."

Edge spat on the clean floor. Beale kept his office as neat as his attire and he grimaced at the gesture. Edge stepped up to the desk and Beale flinched away from him. Edge picked up the money and clucked his tongue. The sound startled Beale.

"You can't kill a lawman," Beale yelled, his tone pitched high.

"Not one with a safe stuffed with bounty money," Edge agreed softly. "Such a lawman is allowed one chance," He 'grinned. "Just one, sheriff. So you better put the word out. Any other gunslinger makes a try for me, I’ll be back. I'll come in here and hang you up by the thumbs and then I’ll shoot off bits of you with your own fancy guns. Get it?"

Beale swallowed hard, started to shake his head, changed it to a nod.

"Nice to do business with you, sheriff," Edge said, turned and strode out of the office.

Nobody paid any attention to him now as he sauntered down the street, tying to decide which of the many saloons offered the most attractions. For everybody else seemed to be engaged in the same activity, and doing it with a singleness of purpose that allowed for no distractions. They moved quickly, wearing intense expressions, talking too loudly, laughing too much and appearing altogether in Edges mind, on the verge of a kind of nervous hysteria. It was as if few of them were actually enjoying themselves, rather they were desperately trying to hide their true emotions with a false sheen of lightheadedness.

Edge saw a group of cavalry mounts hitched in front of a saloon called The Lucky Ace and halted outside, peering over the swing doors into the smoky, noisy interior. At, the far end a sweating pianist was thumping out a tune as half a dozen dancing girls performed high kicks for the delight of a large group of yelling men in front of them.  

At several tables near the doors other men were hunched over spread hands of cards. The long bar was clear in the center, with one end crowded by hard-drinking civilians while at the other the cavalry lieutenant, an officer with major's insignia and four sergeants sipped at beer. Edge made one further, quick survey of the room, spotting the Englishman at one of the card tables, then pushed in through the doors and headed for the vacuum at the center of the bar. He sensed that the lieutenant had spotted him and was whispering to his superior, but did not look in their direction.

"Beer," he told, the bartender who was all protruding teeth and bright eyes with a welcoming smile.

"Yes, sir!'" the man said enthusiastically, drawing the drink. "First one’s always on the house at The Lucky Ace."

"So put a whisky in it," Edge said.