“It’s better when you don’t know it’s coming,” he said, jumped back down and walked across to push the revolver back into the dead raider’s holster.
He looked around, shading his eyes from the sun, searching for the pack horse, spotting it directly below a bunch of circling buzzards. He mounted and cantered over to it, transferred as many of the supplies as he could comfortably carry. Then he returned to the stage trail, to follow it to the town called Warlock.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE sign was newly painted, the fresh white lettering shining in the moonlight against the dark wooden plank supported by two poles at the side of the trail.
WELCOME TO PEACEVILLE
Population 314
Fastest growing town in the territory.
Edge was close to the American-Mexican border now, having circled two townships and a way station since he shot the woman heading for Warlock. Three days had passed and he was starting to feel the fatigue of the search, knew he would have to rest up before he despaired of ever finding that for which he was looking.
The name Peaceville had a restful ring to it: inappropriate to its position on the map, maybe. But it showed the citizens of the town had faith in the future. Edge made his decision and urged his horse forward, moving with no haste in front of the sign and into the town.
It was considerably bigger than Anson City, and didn’t roll up its sidewalks when the sun went down. It was built on two cross streets, intersecting at midway points and effectively dividing into an uptown and downtown sections. Entering from the north, Edge passed through Peaceville’s residential area of shacks and cabins and a few building large enough to be called houses. Some even had fenced off gardens, too parched to grown anything except cacti. There was a church, its lines suggesting it had begun life as a tiny mansion and been extended as the settlement grew around it. Across the street was a schoolhouse and this was also an odd mixture of Mexican influenced design with later, pioneer built additions.
The town was quiet here. Edge saw one couple strolling, taking in the night air. They glanced at the stranger with curiosity, but no suspicion. The man seemed on the point of greeting him, but turned away and hurried the woman along the street when he saw Edge’s bitter, weary expression. He saw other people, too, sitting in their homes by the lights of candles or kerosene lamps. One family was eating the evening meal, another grouped around a man who read from a large book, The Bible, Edge figured. In others women sewed as men dozed.
The town came alive on the other side of and on the western spur from the intersection. For here was the Rocky Mountain Saloon, and the Sanora Cantina; the New York Hotel and Harry’s Dry Goods Store; the Covered Wagon Dancehall and Frank’s Friendly Pool Hall; the Feed and Grain Livery Stable and Honey’s Restaurant. Here, too, was the office of the sheriff and that of Peaceville and Territory Star.
And people. A different breed of people from the other side of the intersection. Men mostly, of all ages, but a good amount of women, all young or doing their best to look that way. Edge could see them walking down the sidewalks or sitting and talking on chairs outside the places of entertainment. And inside there were more of them, all with something in common—seeming hell bent upon enjoying themselves. Pianos thumped out music, girls sang and danced, men drank whisky and beer and tequila. There was an air of festival about the place, added to by the streamers that draped most of the buildings, some stretching across the width of the street. But if it was a festival, Edge had arrived late to it, for the decorations were dirty and torn: had obviously been in place for a long time.
As on the other side of town, there was no suspicion directed towards Edge as he rode through. Precious little curiosity, either. Peaceville had apparently thrown open house, all welcome, no questions asked. Except for one man.
“Hey you?”
Edge had halted his horse in front of the wide sidewalk fronting the New York Hotel, was preparing to dismount. He turned in the direction from which the man had spoken, his voice cutting clear and resonant across the noise. He was on the other side of the street, sitting on the opposite sidewalk, in a large rocking chair, feet hoisted up on to a barrel. A lamp was hung above the doorway behind him and Edge could see him clearly: around sixty, lean faced with leathery skin; clear bright blue eyes that did not blink; drooping moustache the same gray peppered with black as his long hair. He wore a check-shirt, black pants, gun belt with two holsters tied down. He wore no hat. He did wear a tin star.
Edge sighed. “Me?”
“Yeah,”
Edge slid off his horse, took his time hitching her to the rail. Then he crossed the street, hands loosely at his sides, not inviting trouble but ready if it came. He stopped before he reached the sidewalk, so that his face was on a level with the sheriff’s despite the fact that the other man was sitting down.
“You’re new around here?” he asked.
Edge nodded. “First time.”
The sheriff sniffed: a wet sound. “Any money you make. I take ten per cent.”
“Yeah?” Edge said evenly, his gaze not flickering.
“The town can’t afford a sheriff,” the lawman told him. “But if it didn’t have one it would be a real wild place. We got some decent citizens here who wouldn’t like that.”
“So they got to content themselves with a crooked lawman,” Edge tossed out.
The sheriff had been insulted before had had learned to ride with it. The sniff again. “Takes a lot to rile me, son,” he returned. “I know I ain’t crooked and you calling me names don’t alter that. We get a lot of wanted men trying to sneak through this part of the country to get across the border. I could get a few of them, but not enough. So I let you bounty hunters operate from here.”
Being mistaken for a bounty hunter took no skin of Edge’s nose. “Bounty hunting ain’t against the law,” he said, flatly.
“But it ain’t nice, neither,” the sheriff answered with a sniff. “And Peaceville’s a nice town. You guys pay ten per cent for the privilege of dirtying it up some.”
“Don’t you have any trouble with that?”
“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.”