The bartender nodded. "Well, couple of weeks ago an army wagon train rolled into Fort Rainbow and those wagons were riding real low on their springs, mister. And ever since that train came in, Apache attacks have increased. And they're getting closer to Rainbow. Another rumor is that Chief Cochise and his brother have ordered the whole Apache nation into the territory for an attack on Rainbow."
Edge nodded and narrowed his eyes, creasing his brow in thought, He turned to lean his back against the bar and survey the saloon again, He saw something he hadn't noted before. Almost every man in the room was armed, not only with holstered handguns, but, like Edge himself, with a rifle. And he recalled that the people out on the street had also been carrying more arms than were strictly necessary for a stroll downtown. Edge sensed somebody standing at his side and, turned to see the colonel there, in the same attitude of reflective study.
“I think you're a man of some perception, sir," the officer said softly. "You can see these people are shit scared and trying to hide it by pretending they're having fun."
The colonel was as tall as Edge, but a good deal thinner. His age could have been anything from thirty-five to forty-five, because his clipped hair was gray far beyond his years and his sallow, spare features were marked by too many lines of hard experience and deep worry. He had a look of bone-hard fatigue which even the intelligent brightness of his eyes could not conceal. During his service in the Civil War, Edge had seen many such men, promoted before their time because they showed ability far beyond the mean, but not mature enough to handle the responsibilities of command.
"With good reason, I hear," Edge, answered.
"And you saw, Lieutenant Sawyer tells me," the colonel said. "He said you had a run-in with four braves up on the south ridge."
"Four more good Indians?"
"I don't hold with that sentiment," Colonel Murray came back quickly. "Washington wants peace with the, Chiricahua Apaches in this part of the territory. But Cochise doesn't trust Washington and I'm the buffer in between. If the Indians attack, it's my duty to defend the fort and for my sins, the people of this town."
Edge sipped his beer and spoke without looking at the army man. "You ain't talking for the pleasure of my company, colonel," he said.
Murray cleared his throat. "You met some Apaches on the south ridge this morning. I lost a patrol, except for one man, in the west this afternoon. This evening I got a telegraph report that a war party of fifty braves wiped out a settlement fifteen miles east of Rainbow."
Edge grinned coldly. "They're closing in on Rainbow, uh?"
"And fast," Murray said with a sigh. "I've got less than a hundred men at the fort,"
"Town's full of men," Edge pointed out.
Murray grimaced. "Scared and undisciplined. There's probably only one Indian fighter amongst them."
"I ain't an Indian fighter," Edge answered. "I kill anybody who tries to kill me—Indians, Americans or guys with green spots and horns growing out their heads."
Murray eyed Edge with distaste. "You take care of yourself and nobody else matters?" he said contemptuously.
Edge eyed him coldly. "To me, nobody else does, colonel."
The army man seemed about to hurl a rebuke at Edge, but caught the dangerous glint in the other's expression and spun on his heels to return to his men.
"Beer!" Edge called and the bartender moved quickly up to him with a bottle.
"You cheating bastard!"
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.