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.”
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.”