California Killing (6 page)

Dexter nodded curtly.

Mayer snapped his attention back to Breen. "That makes it real personal," he boomed. "I got a hundred head of the best breeding longhorn at the ranch. And they ain't no use to me until there's a buyer. And there's no buyer until Dexter gets his money back. You better make a move, Breen. Before morning. Then I raise a vigilante committee and we'll do our own hunting."

The sheriff's expression became even harder and darker as he swung the rifle so that it was trained directly upon Mayer. His voice was quiet, but the tone of the words was determined. "I've told you I'm working on it, Mr. Mayer. And I've told you what I think of vigilantes. Any man takes the law into his own hands will get dealt with by the law."

"What'll you do, sheriff?" a woman taunted. "Sit in your safe office and stickpins in wanted posters?"

Breen spat out his cigar stub and ground it into the sidewalk. He seemed about to give vent to another threat, but suddenly whirled and strode back into his office, kicking the door closed with the heel of his boot.

"Yellow bastard!" Mayer muttered. Then he stiffened as a gun muzzle was rammed into the small of his back.

"But careful about the words he uses," Edge hissed, moving up close to press himself against the man in front of him, screening the gun from those around him.

A hubbub of excited conversation had broken out and the word vigilante was frequently voiced: sometimes with excitement sometimes with appreciative relish. But Randy and Duke took no part in this as they turned towards Mayer expectantly. Experienced in sensing trouble, they looked into the face of their boss and snapped their gun hands down to their holsters. The anger of helplessness blazed in their eyes.

"Tell 'em," Edge whispered, his lips close to Mayer's ear.

There was a lump in the man's throat and his words squeezed out around it. "He's got me cold. Leave him."

The frustrated gunslingers backed off a half pace. Dexter elbowed his way between them, unaware of the sudden tension. "I hope you'll hold on to those steers until I can get…"

"Not now," Mayer hissed, regaining some of his composure.

Dexter looked over Mayer's shoulder into the ice-cold depths of Edge's eyes. "What's happening?" he demanded.

"This man owes me something," Edge said.

"You're crazy," Mayer retorted. "I don't even know you."

"That's why you're still in one piece, mister;" Edge told him softly. "You didn't know any better. So I'll accept an apology."

"What the hell for?" Mayer demanded, raising his voice, attracting the attention of the whole group to the drama in its midst.

Edge kept his own voice low, but in the sudden silence with its distant background of badly played-piano music, everyone heard his words. "My Pa was Mexican. I ain't ashamed of it. You call me Mexican, no sweat. But you just called me Mex, mister. That's got a dirty sound to it."

"Kind of sensitive, aren't you, Edge?" Dexter snarled.

"I wouldn't stand there if I was you, feller," Edge told him. "Ain't a lot of meat on this guy. Slug's likely to go clean through him and drill you a new navel."

Dexter stood his ground, bristling with indignation. "You wouldn't dare."

Duke stared hard into Edge's face and saw the killer glint in the slits of the eyes. "He'd dare, Mr. Mayer," he warned.

Mayer's solemn features seemed to be carved out of dark wood. He swallowed the lump. "I apologize," he muttered.

Edge holstered the revolver. "Obliged," he said, turning away.

"And I'm not a salesman," Wood spoke into the silence of the released tension. "I'm a photographer. Setting up business here in town. If anyone wants their pictures…"

The powerful hate the eyes of Duke and Randy seemed to have a physical force and Wood retreated under it, breaking off and turning to hurry after Edge. A buzz of conversation restarted in the group, but Mayer and his two men took no part in it as they stared malevolently after Edge and the little man scampering at his side. Not until the two had entered the batswing doors of the Paramount Hotel did Mayer ask a question.

"Who is he, Dexter?"

The rancher shrugged. "He was on the stage from 'Frisco. Didn't have much to say for himself. Driver said he was in some kind of trouble with the law up there. Got himself out of a hanging rap." *
(* See - Edge: The Blue, The Grey And The Red.)

Mayer pursed his lips and his features were suddenly rearranged into an expression of viciousness. "Whatever trouble he was in up north isn't anything to what he's just bought himself."

"Don't mess with him, Mayer," Dexter warned. "He's the meanest skunk I've ever come across."

Mayer ignored the rancher.

"I'm sure starting to feel naked without my gun, Mr. Mayer," Duke complained.

"So go and get dressed," Mayer told him. "Both of you. What did you say his name was, Dexter?"

"Calls himself Edge," Dexter replied.

Duke and Randy moved across the street towards the impressive entrance of the Metro Hotel. One of the placard bearing women elbowed her way through the group to confront the solemn-faced man,

"We agreed to keep things peaceful, Mr. Mayer," she reminded angrily. "Hood does enough killing."

Mayer shook his head without looking at her. "We're not going to kill him, Mrs. Vine," he said softly. "Just take some of the sharpness off Mr. Edge."

"Ready, Mr. Mayer," Duke called as he and Randy came down the steps from the hotel, their holsters heavy with Colts.

Mayer nodded and moved forward. Some of the group trailed after him, anxious for excitement. Dexter, stiffly angry, turned towards the door of the sheriff's office. Mrs. Vine flung her placard to the ground.

"Damn Mayer," she exclaimed. "He thinks he ought to run this town. He shouts action and everyone's supposed to do like he says."

"Don't take on so," an elderly man placated, as the remnants of the group broke up. "I've a feeling Mayer's about to get edged out of the picture."

Chapter Six

T
HE
ground floor of the Paramount was comprised of an ornately decorated saloon which stretched deep into the back of the building. On one side was a long bar dominated by an enormous oil painting showing a snowcapped mountain peak. A balcony ran around the other three walls, served by a banister stairway. At the far end of the room was a low stage upon which two men were strumming guitars and singing mournfully of their wish to find a home on the range. A painted sign at the side of the stage announced the act as
Tex Rogerson and Roy Ritner - The Singing Cowboys.

They had captured the attention of a section of the female patronage, but most of, the saloon's customers were either drinking or playing the many games of chance at tables which were spread throughout the big room.

"Beer," Edge told the tall, gangling bartender, as he hooked a heel over the brass rail and leaned his belly against the copper countertop.

"That sounds good," Wood said with enthusiasm. "Make it two, please."

The bartender nodded and drew two beers, carefully scraping the foam from the top of the glasses before setting them down.

"You rent rooms?" Edge asked as Wood sucked at his drink with relish.

"Yep."

"On credit?"

"Nope."

Edge took the markings from his pocket and began to roll a cylinder. "How about marking up the drinks?"

The bartender's face was blank of expression. "Nope."

Wood choked on his drink and slammed the glass down. "Oh, my, I forgot," he spluttered.

The singing cowboys finished their act to a smattering of half-hearted applause.

"You the owner?" Edge asked, lit his cigarette and then lifted his own glass to drain it.

"Nope," the bartender answered, his eyes watchful.

"What's your' name?" Edge smacked his lips with relish.

"Cooper." He showed no sign of being provoked.

"Who does?"

"Own it?" The bartender took Edge's drained glass and plunged it into a bowl of water beneath the bar.

"Right."

"The Warner brothers."

Edge arched his eyebrows, "The Warner brothers own Paramount? Ain't this state heard of anti-trust laws?"

"You gonna pay for your drinks?"

Edge nodded. "Sure. And the room you're gonna rent me. Soon as I catch up with a guy named Hood."

Cooper shook his head. "Nobody's ever gonna catch up with Sam Hood, mister. Few deputies been near to it, but Hood always outrun 'em."

Edge aimed at a discolored spittoon and scored a direct hit. "Regular nineteenth-century fox, ain't he," he muttered. "That beer hardly touched the sides of my throat. I'll take another."

"Nope."

An Italian-looking man began to jangle the keys of a piano adjacent to the stage and a half-dozen overweight and over-powdered dancing girls high-stepped into view.

A new sign announced them as
The Follies of Eighteen Seventy.

Wood picked up his valise. "We'll just take those two on the house and leave, " he suggested nervously.

"Nope. No more drinks and you stay right here. Work off the price of the two you had."

Edge's lean face became thoughtful and he sucked his teeth noisily. Then: "Justin here is a fine photographer. Makes pictures, you know. Another beer and you can be in one for free."

"Take pictures, Mr. Edge," Wood corrected, "Not make them. Take them." He grinned at Cooper. "Sure. I'll take your picture for nothing. Yes or no?"

"He don't talk that language, Justin," Edge said.

"Nope."

"What I tell you?"

Up to this moment, Cooper's movements had been slow, almost lazy. But now, as he let the glass fall to the bottom of the bowl, he grabbed a double-barreled shotgun from alongside and his reflexes were shown to be superb. The barrels rested easily across the bar, the large bore muzzles six inches from where Edge's flat stomach met the copper.

Edge's expression of cold good-humor did not waver. "Reckon that talks a language we can all understand," he muttered.

"Yep," Cooper said, and the single word was soft spoken. The gunshot which followed it provided a violent contrast.

Edge and Cooper stood rock-still. Wood yelped and leapt several feet back from the bar, staring in horror at the jagged remains of his beer glass. The pianist played three flat notes and stopped the music. The dancers stomped the boards with a few more steps and halted. Within seconds, the saloon had been reduced from raucous noise to almost complete silence. The exception was the magnified whirr of a metal ball encircling a roulette wheel. Then it clicked into the winning slot.

"Double damn zero again," a man slurred in drunken disgruntlement.

"You only lost money," Mayer boomed. "The Mex is going to drop more than that. Turn around, Mex."

The beer which had been left in Wood's glass had been spilled across the bar top. Edge made seemingly meaningless fingermarks in it. But, upside-down to him, he had scrawled
$100 for iron.
He looked into the eyes of the bartender and saw they were as blank as ever. He sighed and turned around. Several customers were watching him, but many more were looking towards the door. Mayer stood in the entrance, flanked by his two henchmen, both holding their guns at right angles to their hipbones. Behind the trio, crowded into the open batswing doors, were those from the demonstration who had come to see the showdown. One man still carried his placard, proclaiming WE WANT ACTION.

"Take off the hat, Mex," Mayer instructed, a cold smile playing at the comers of his mouth.

"Sorry," Edge said, "Didn't know the saloon was a holy place." As he reached one hand behind his head his fingers brushed against the wooden handle of the sheathed razor. But he let the weapon rest where it was. He tilted his hat forward and pulled it off.

"On the floor. At your feet."

All eyes were now focused upon Edge as he allowed the hat to drop to the sawdust-covered floor.

"All I did was come to town with him," Wood said, his voice shaky. "We're not friends." He inched further away along the bar. Nobody gave him a second glance.

Edge moved almost imperceptibly in the opposite direction, counting on the bartender holding the shotgun in the same position.

"I always figured Mex folk to be crazy," Mayer boomed, addressing the expectant crowd. "But some things I've just got to see for myself before I'll believe them. And one thing I'd give my right arm to see." He looked at Edge now, his hard black eyes boring into the half-breed's face. "So show me, Mex. Dance on your bat."

Edge curled back his lips in a cruel grin. "Sure. But one thing first."

"What's that?"

"Put your head in it."

A crackle of laughter came from the rear of the crowd, safely out of Mayer's view.

The fire of rage flared in Mayer's eyes. "Make him move it, boys," he roared.

Duke and Randy pasted malevolent grins upon their handsome fares and started to fan the Colts. The two guns blazed, belching fire and smoke and sending bullets splintering into the floorboards around Edge's mud encrusted boots.