It was the closest Edge had been to civilization for a long time, but it did not, impress him. It merely represented a place to rest up in a comfortable bed, the chance of a bath in hot water, an opportunity to drink something more palatable than raw tequila and mescal and time to survey the prospects of getting a bankroll.
He walked only as far as the intersection, then started back and hitched his horse to the rail in front of the undertaker's parlor. He stepped up on to the sidewalk and rapped his knuckles on the glass panel of the parlor's door. He had to knock twice more, threatening to shatter the glass, before a man yelled for him to be quiet and appeared from a doorway in the back of the dim interior. He was a small man of middle years, sour looking with mean, avaricious eyes. He was still prodding his shirt into his trousers as he jerked open the door and glowered out at Edge.
"What is it?" he demanded. "You know what time it is?"
Edge nodded toward the burro and its burden. "Past time to bury him," he answered. "He didn't smell too good when he was alive. Dead, he's a health hazard,”
The undertaker merely glanced at the blanket covered body. "Got' a death certificate?" he demanded of Edge.
The tall man grinned coldly. "He's got an arrowhead buried in his back and he ain't been breathing for a long time. He's dead."
Fear leaped into the man's eyes. "Apaches?"
Edge didn't answer and the little man licked dry lips. "Who’s paying for the funeral?"
"Not me. The burro was his. Sell him. Keep it simple. His name was Zeb Hanson. Just put that and today's date on the marker. How far do you go out for the dead?"
"I'm the only Undertaker between here and the Mexican border," the man said with what could have been a hint of pride.
"That takes in the Fawcett farmstead, I guess," Edge told him. "There's three dead people down there."
The man's mouth fell open. "The Apaches killed Jim Fawcett and his family?"
"Wife and one daughter anyway. Seems there was another girl, but she wasn't there—dead or alive."
"I'm not going way down there if the Apaches are stirred up," the little man said aghast. "Why' didn't you I do the decent thing by them?"
Edge was tiring of the man's whining tone and accusative stare. With a fast, fluid motion Edge drew his revolver and pushed the muzzle hard against the undertaker's nostrils. The man's small eyes gaped wide and he tried to back away, but Edge clutched at his shirt front.
"Because I ain't decent," Edge said softly, coldly. "I got better things to do than waste time digging holes for people who had no right to be in this neck of the woods if they' didn't know how to defend themselves." He jerked his head sideways toward the burro. "Quit talking, undertaker, and undertake."
"Yes, sir!" the man said.
Edge nodded, holstered his Colt and released the shirt front. Then he turned on his heels, unhitched his horse and led the animal down to the livery stable. When he banged on this door there was no response except for the whinnying of horses inside. There was a big padlock on a central bolt. Edge looped one end of his lariat through the lock, looped the other end around his saddle horn and urged the big stallion forward. The bolt was tom clean off the door as the screws came free. As he climbed down from the horse, Edge heard a door open across the street, then spurs jingling as a man came toward him. But he ignored the newcomer as he began to loop in the lariat, untying it from the lock.
"That's called breaking in, mister," the man said sternly.
Edge hooked the lariat back on his saddle and turned to face the man. He was tall and broad, but not powerful because it was fat, not muscle, that coated his big frame. He had a round, florid face with bulbous cheeks, thick lips and wide nose. His eyes were bright and glittered from between swelled lids. He was dressed like a dude, in highly polished boots, sharp creased gray pants, a red shirt and a high-crowned hat the same color as his boots. He wore two pearl-handled six shooters slung low in ornate holsters on a belt ringed with shells. The shells shone almost as brightly as the five pointed star pinned above his heart.
"My horse needs feed and rest out of the sun," Edge said easily. "He's carried me a long way and I owe him that."
Emphasizing this opinion, Edge picked up the trailing reins and led the animal into the shaded interior of the livery stable.
"Fred Olson will be here to open up in an hour," the sheriff said, following Edge inside.
"So I saved him the trouble," Edge answered.
"Fred's liable to press charges for the damage you caused," the sheriff insisted as Edge began to unsaddle his horse.
"He can put it on my bill."
The sheriff shook his head. Might not be so easy as that. I could square it, though. Fred's a friend of mine. I could talk to him,"
Edge, his back to the man, grinned, swung the saddle free and hefted it on to a hook on the wall. He backed the horse into a stall, closed the door and broke open a bale of hay, tossing half of it to the animal. Then he turned to face the sheriff, showing the man his grin. "That how you buy those fancy" clothes?" he asked."With kickbacks for fixing things?"
The fat man glowered. "Rainbow's a nice town, stranger. I run it smooth. Ain't no room for awkward customers."
Edge made a move toward his saddle, but as he drew close to the sheriff he half pivoted and sent a short arm jab deep into the fat man's mid-section. Air rushed out of the man's mouth with a soft whooshing sound and he started to double. As he did so, Edge stepped behind him and pulled the two revolvers from their holsters. They were 1860 streamline Colts, .44 caliber with the original plain ivory grips replaced by carved pearl. Edge grimaced with distaste, figuring the modification had ruined the balance. "Listen, you barrel of lard," he said-softly, lips curled back in a snarl as the sheriff turned to face him, trying to pull upright. "I ain't no greenhorn fresh off the stage from New York City. I've had dealings with your kind before and I ain't never greased any palms." He spun the cylinder of each revolver in turn and emptied them of their loads, the bullets as shiny as the ones in the sheriff’s belt. "Don't threaten me, fat man, or I might just beat you over the head with these pretty guns and you might spill blood on your pretty clothes. Get it?"
The sheriff stared hate, but nodded his head as he still leaned forward slightly, clutching at his stomach. Edge grinned and slid the Spencer from his saddle-boot, then headed for the door. There was a pile of horse manure swept into a comer and with a sidelong glance at the sheriff he dropped the Colts on top, used a pitchfork to prod them deep down inside.
"Just a little something for trying to drop me in. it, sheriff," he said as he went out on to the street.
A bugler was sounding reveille at the fort and somewhere at the back of one of the buildings a woman was singing. Two Chinese were taking down the shutters from the laundry windows and a horse and buggy was parked outside the church. A woman stood beside a tombstone in the graveyard, holding a wreath of flowers. The burro and body of Zeb Hanson was no longer in front of the undertaker's parlor. An elderly but still attractive woman looked down at Edge from a first-floor window of the Pot of Gold. She was wearing a blue diaphanous nightgown that hinted at a body not yet past its prime.
"You open yet?" he called up, halting in the center of the street in front of the hotel.
She laughed and it was a tinkering sound, without harshness. "Depends what for:"
“Just a room with bed and bath."
"Sure, but it's a little early to get somebody to scrub your back." Again the laugh. She had black hair, probably too dark to be natural, framing a face that had once been beautiful, but showing too many lines and wrinkles in the unflattering sunlight.