Edge: Apache Death

The insult, high-pitched and angry, cut across the noise in the saloon like a whiplash, diminishing and then suddenly silencing it. A chair crashed over backwards and every eye in the room was drawn toward one of the card tables near the door. A young man, no more than eighteen, was standing between his fallen chair and the table, glaring in rage at the seated figure of the Englishman. The latter lounged nonchalantly in his seat, the innocent smile highlighting his good looks.

"Carl," one of the other card players said placating reaching out a hand, which was angrily shrugged away. "I been watching him. Those last two cards came off the bottom."

"Beer," Edge repeated and for a moment his voice drew the attention of the saloon. But as soon as the bartender began to refill his glass, all eyes turned back to the card table.

"Come now, old boy." The Englishman's cultured voice was in violent contrast to the angered tones of the other. "I only cheated a little."

"He admits it!" the accuser yelled, startled by the Englishman's reply. "He's got the gall to cheat and then admit it like a thousand bucks is a few nickels."

"But I only cheated a little," the Englishman insisted, still smiling, not moving from his comfortable position.

Watching with a detached interest, Edge decided the young man named Carl was signing his own death warrant with each word he spoke. For he was angry and would telegraph every move while the Englishman was just too placid: too nonchalant under the onslaught not to have something with which to back up his composure.

"Give me back my money," the youngster said, and reached out for the pile of crumpled bills in front of the Englishman.

"Leave it!" The smile had gone, replaced by steel hard earnestness and the Englishman was suddenly sitting upright in his chair, delicate fingers curled over the edge of the table. The two words were spat out like oaths. They froze the youngster to the spot. But only for a moment. He came erect slowly and stepped back three paces, his heels knocking away the overturned chair. The silence was so complete that everyone in the saloon heard the beer pour down Edge's throat.

"You better be heeled," Carl said.   

"Try me." As the words were spoken, the youngster clawed for his holstered revolver, but had not even got a grip on the butt before the Englishman had jerked his right arm to release a tiny weapon into his palm. It made a sound like a silver dollar hitting the floor and the youngster screamed as a bloody crease was carved out of the back of his gun hand.

"Jesus!" the bartender exclaimed behind Edge.

"Fast," Edge allowed softly, as the Englishman pulled up his right sleeve and replaced the tiny gun in a spring loaded holster strapped to the inside of his forearm. "How can you' cheat a little?" he called across the shocked silence which still pervaded the saloon, interrupted only by the whimpering of the injured man.

The Englishman began to gather up the money, stacking it neatly before pushing it into an inside pocket of his suit jacket. The smile was back on his face so that he again looked incapable of committing a bad act in an evil world. ''When I cheat second, old boy," he called, getting to his feet and putting on his derby. "Friend Carl here has been palming cards all night. So I dealt a few off the bottom."

He turned to head for the door and a murmur of conversation started to spread throughout the saloon. The pianist attempted a few tentative notes but stopped when he realized it was too soon. Edge started to turn toward the bar, but caught sight of Carl moving to the side, reaching around the front of his body to drag out the revolver with his left hand.

"Low on your left as you face!" Edge barked and watched through narrowed eyelids as the Englishman spun in a crouch, jerking his right arm. The delicate little weapon spat once more and a look of pained surprise entered the youngster's eyes as the small caliber bullet entered his throat. Then he pitched forward, dead before he sprawled on the table, staining the green baize crimson with gushing blood from a severed jugular vein.

"Thanks, old boy," the Englishman called across the new silence of the saloon. "Most kind of you,"

"Know who you just helped to kill, mister?" the bartender said as the Englishman scrolled out and Edge leaned on the bar to finish his beer.

"Some punk kid named Carl," Edge said with disinterest as a group gathered around the body and, the pianist and dancing girls attempted to force normality back into the saloon.

"Carl Drucker," the bartender supplied. ''His father's Wyatt Drucker. Got the biggest ranch in the territory, north of here. Old man Drucker thought Carl was the best thing since they invented money,"

Edge aimed for a spittoon and missed. "Slow, like that, the kid was mortgaged. The Englishman just foreclosed." He moved away from the bar, toward the door.

"Thought your own life was all that mattered?" Colonel Murray called.