Edge: The Loner

The man suddenly gasped as he found himself yanked halfway across the counter as Edge’s hand shot out, his fist bunching around the stingy throat. The edge of the counter dug painfully into the front of his thighs and the hand at his throat was cutting off his air supply. But the pain took second place to terror as he stared on a level into the flaming slits of his attacker’s eyes, saw the lips draw back over teeth that were almost canine in their snarling threat.

“You saying Mexican girls ain’t good or clean or ladies?” Edge demanded.

The man tried to speak, but the grip on his throat held the words in him. He shook his head frantically as his face went bright red, took on the undertones of blue. Edge grunted and tossed him back as if the man was a long piece of cloth. He crashed into the wall behind the desk, retching dryly as he fought for breath.

“I don’t buy my women,” Edge said and now grinned with the merest hint of humor at the crinkled corners of his mouth. “And if I hear you make any more remarks about Mexicans—male or female—I’ll melt down all that fancy gold you’re wearing and pour it down your throat.”

“Yes sir,” the man said, fearfully, believing wholeheartedly that Edge meant what he said. He reached for the register to put it away; sprung back in fright at Edge slammed his hand down on the book.

“Who else is staying at the hotel?”

“Who ... who else?” His voice was trembling now.

Edge sighed, spun the register around and flipped it open, ran a finger down the list of names. There was none that he recognized. He crooked a finger at the cowering clerk, who stepped forward with great reluctance.

“Him,” Edge said, pointing to the name at the top of the column. “Harris. Describe him.”

The clerk did so, faltering at first, but regaining his composure as Edge indicated other names and demanded descriptions. There were ten men staying at the hotel, none of them sounded like Edge’s quarry. Edge revealed no reaction to this, picked up his gear and went up the stairs to his room. They key was in the lock. Inside was a double bed with freshly washed but still dirty sheets; a dressed with a cracked mirror, a hip tub and a bureau scarred with many knife initials and dates. From the window which he opened Edge could see directly across the street to where the sheriff continued his detached vigil, the darkened facade of the newspaper office and dry good store, and got an oblique view of the interior of the Rocky Mountain Saloon where a line of girls kicked naked legs along the counter top to the drunken delight of a crowded audience. The noise of the street was diminished as it rose, but would still not be conducive to peaceful sleep.

The balcony to which the clerk had referred was merely the plank roofing of the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Edge had to climb out of the window to get on to it and to lean over the unprotected side to get an upside down view of the street buildings on his side of the street. There was another floor of the hotel above and Edge discovered a loose shingle to the right of the window and over it. He went back into room three, took the money from his saddlebags and counted off ten dollars in ones which he put into his pants’ pocket. He was able to lean out of the window and reach up and put the rest behind the loose board and thumped it back into place with his clenched fist. He stashed the Henry under the bed, shut the window and left the room, locked the door behind him and pocketing the key.

Down in the lobby the drunk continued to enjoy his stentorious sleep. The clerk looked up from his study of the paper at the sound of his footfalls on the stairway, went hastily back to concentrated reading when he recognized Edge.

“Where’s the best place to eat?” Edge demanded.

The clerk swallowed hard. “Honey’s, Mr. Edge. Good food, friendly service. Cheaper in the saloon but the food’s hash and grease.”

“Obliged,” Edge said and went outside.

He saw the sheriff watching him with distrustful interest, but ignored him and set off slowly down the street towards the restaurant, again glancing into the face of each man he came across. The kid jumped him as he crossed the mouth of an alleyway between two buildings. He had been coming from the opposite direction, strolling casually, hands in his pockets, lips pursed into a soundless whistle: fresh faced and innocent looking, not worth a second glance in terms of what Edge was searching for. But as the kid came level with Edge, he transformed into a fast ball of action. His young features took on a cruel twist, his hands came out of his pockets and he went sideways with tremendous force.