Edge: The Loner

“A mite, sometimes.” The lawman’s eyes seemed to turn to chips of ice. “From strangers. But I limit the numbers, see. Too many hunters going after too few fugitives ain’t good for business. Most of you guys get to see that sooner or later. Since the war ended I’ve shot three that didn’t take to the idea. You guys got five more. Get it?”

Edge shrugged. “Got it. Now can I go get a hotel room for the night?”

“Sure son,” the sheriff said and now he looked disappointed. “Just the one night? We got room for one more bounty hunter. You look like the kind of man who’d make a lot of money at the game.”

“Less ten per cent,” Edge pointed out.

The longest, wettest sniff yet. “Why son, in my office I got posters on wanted men offering close on fifteen thousand dollars. My cut’s chicken feed.”

Edge turned with a cold grin. “When the gravy runs out, chickenfeed can keep a man alive,” he said. “I’m in the wrong town anyway, Sheriff.”

“Ain’t a better one in the territory, “came the reply. “Where you headed?”

“Warlock,” Edge said, and began to walk away.

But he came up short as the sheriff started to chortle.

“What’s so funny about Warlock?” he demanded.

It took the man a few moments to control his laughter. “You ain’t got far to go, son,” he told Edge. “No siree. Not far. Only Warlock don’t exist anymore.”

Edge turned to face the sheriff, resting his hand on the butt of the Remington. He face was a mask of bitter determination. It was a pose and an expression that wiped every trace of good humor from the lawman’s features.

“You’re sitting and I’m standing,” Edge told him, his voice low but dangerous. “I’ve got the drop on you and I don’t like jokes about Warlock. Just what the hell do you mean, sheriff? Or do I plug you and go and find someone who ain’t a comedian.”

“Mite touchy, ain’t you son?” the Sheriff answered. “Can’t you see the streamers? Didn’t you see the newly painted sign outside town? We had to rename the weekly newspaper on account of the Civil War ending, like Citizen’s Committee voted to change things. Warlock don’t exist no more ‘cause we re-named it Peaceville.”

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 smile 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

“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.”