The Quiet Gun - Edge Series 1 (25 page)

The time was something after ten and there were more darkened windows than lit ones along the deserted main street where the clop of hooves of the three slow moving horses provided the only sounds in a brooding silence.

The Lucky Break was the sole business still open and the massive figure of Bart Bannerman appeared at the batwing entrance of the quiet, seemingly empty of customers saloon as the returning riders approached.

‘How did it go, John?’ he asked and nodded to Edge.

Although the saloonkeeper was certainly not the only local citizen to hear the sounds of the moving horses, he remained alone in showing himself to offer any kind of greeting.

‘The gunrunning business is over and done with, Bart,’ McCall said wearily as he and Edge reined in their mounts. Then hardened his tone to add: ‘But Shannon and those that broke him out of jail are still on the loose.’

The big man’s frown changed into an embittered scowl as he reported: ‘Along with a whole bundle of our money, John.’

‘What?’

‘Like you know, Cyril Casey was one of the men killed in the gunfight last Saturday night. The woman who works for him kept the place closed for awhile as a mark of respect. And when she opened it up a couple of days ago she found the safe was cleaned out. Shannon must’ve taken the keys off Cyril’s body.’

As he heard about yet another crime committed by Luke Shannon, McCall seemed to visibly diminish in size. Then he muttered something under his breath, heeled his horse forward and asked over a shoulder: ‘Any strangers come to town, Bart?’

‘No, John.’

‘Nor anyone local returned?’ Edge asked as he swung down from his saddle. Bannerman’s fleshy face expressed puzzlement.

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‘He means did Mrs Raine come back,’ McCall called sourly from across the street as he halted his horse and the pack animal out front of the law office.

‘No, there’s been no sign of her, John.’

McCall dismounted, slapped his gelding on the rump and the animal and the one tied to it moved slowly off: as wearily as the man – McCall entering his office and the horses heading further up the street.

‘If you’ve finished with that mount for the night, he’ll do the same,’ the saloonkeeper replied to the inquisitive look Edge gave him.

‘That right?’

‘If you rented him from Ephraim Rider, then he’ll go back to the livery under his own steam. And then kick up a ruckus outside until Ephraim shows up to take care of his needs.’

Edge shrugged, abandoned his intention to hitch the reins to the Lucky Break rail, took down his carpetbag and imitated McCall’s slap on an equine rump. And sure enough the horse set off in the wake of the others, moving on by the law office just as the half curtained window spilled lamp light outside.

Bannerman backed off the threshold of his saloon as Edge stepped up on to the porch and approached the batwings. Then the big man went behind the bar counter as his only customer weaved among the chair-ringed tables, his footfalls echoing hollowly.

‘Business is a little slow tonight?’

‘On account of the funerals.’

‘They were today?’

‘Would’ve been, if the Widow Raine was around to see her husband put in the ground. With so many men dead, the plan is to have a communal burial.’

‘Makes sense, I guess.’

‘It was decided to give Mrs Raine one more day to get back here. Folks have been making that same decision day after day. Which isn’t any good for my business. The thought of all them dead bodies lying in caskets at Jake Slocum’s place . . . It sure is 161

putting people off drinking. And a lot else, I guess. You want to give my beer another try, Mr Edge?’

‘A shot of whiskey will be fine.’

Bannerman brought up a half full bottle and a glass from beneath the bar top and set them down.

Edge handed over two cents, poured the shot glass full of liquor and re-corked the bottle. ‘Just the one. Plan to get a solid night’s sleep and wake up clear headed tomorrow. Here’s to you.’

Bannerman nodded a glum faced acknowledgement of the toast then asked eagerly:

‘What happened to the Mexican bandits?’

‘There was some shooting at an old Federale fort called
Caja Fuerte.
A few miles south of the border. All of them finished up dead.’

The big man grimaced. ‘Best thing that could have happened to them to my way of thinking.’

Edge nodded and made to finish what was left in his glass.

‘So you got what you wanted, uh?’ the saloonkeeper asked in a rush, obviously anxious for company and clutching at any straw to keep his single patron in the Lucky Break.

‘There’s a feller up in Tucson I need to run into again. So . . . ‘ Now he did finish the heeltaps in his glass. ‘That’s the reason I want to wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed in the morning. Night to you, feller.’

Bannerman muttered an unenthusiastic respond, then raised his voice as Edge got to the batwings. ‘You won’t be sticking around for the funerals?’

‘I’ve got another one to attend. A lot of miles north of here.’

‘Uh?’

‘In Tucson. A feller named Franklinn.’ He pushed out between the batwings.’

‘But I thought you said – ‘

Against the flapping of the doors, Edge answered: ‘That’s what I said. But before they can hold the funeral, I need to provide the corpse.’

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CHAPTER • 19

_________________________________________________________________________

EMILY JONAS insisted that despite the lateness of the hour Edge should sit down
to a hot supper before he went to bed. And he did not protest too strongly for it had been several days since he ate a half way well cooked meal. But a portion of the price for his room and the board she was so eager to provide for her sole guest had to be paid in kind rather than cash.

Because the silver haired, short of stature and broad across the beam spinster was anxious to learn every detail of what had happened after Edge, McCall and the two Mexican lawmen left Dalton Springs on the trail of the Shannon bunch and the bandits. It was no hardship for him to supply the information: at first calling out answers to her questions through the cracked open door of a small back room in which he took a hot bath in a wooden tub, then face to face across a white linen draped table in the dining room of the scrupulously neat and clean house.

It was much the same conversation, he thought, that Bart Bannerman had wanted to share with him over at the Lucky Break. But he knew that if he had stayed in the saloon he would still be dirty, dog tired and getting a little fuzzy headed. Whereas here he was able to scrub away the dirt of the long ride, shave off today’s bristles, feel pleasantly weary and stay reasonably sharp. While his appetite was at first whetted by the smell of cooking food then satisfied after he sat down at the immaculately set table to a plate of pork chops, fried eggs and a heap of grits with fresh, still warm bread on the side.

After she had heard her fill, the bright eyed Miss Jonas’s enthusiasm for facts she would be able to pass on with authority around town tomorrow was replaced by concern about the recent violent events that had troubled Dalton Springs.

‘You know, Mr Edge, there was hardly ever any real serious upset hereabouts until just lately.’

‘So I heard, lady. And I’m sorry I was the reason for so much of it.’

‘You? But you’ve done so much to – ‘

‘It was me who got duped into bringing the guns down here from Tucson and – ‘

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She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, if it hadn’t been you, it would have certainly been somebody else. More than likely some evil desperado who knew exactly what he was up to. Which would have been much worse for Dalton Springs, it seems to me.’

Edge had a mouthful of food and eyed her quizzically.

She explained: ‘On account of a man who was well aware he was doing wrong wouldn’t have stayed on to lend a hand with putting matters right. Helped John McCall the way you’re doing. The sheriff is a good and fine man. But I don’t suppose he’s anywhere near as skilled at using guns as you are.’

Edge swallowed the food and almost choked on it as he hurried to correct her misconception: ‘No, lady, I only did what I did to set things right as far as I’m involved. The sheriff handled things his own way. With some help from the Mexican lawmen.’

‘Are you saying what I think you are?’ Anxiety dulled her brown eyes.

‘I’m saying that now the matter of the gun running is over, my business here is finished.’

Anxiety expanded to spluttering, flush faced shock. ‘You mean you’re not going to lend a hand with bringing that awful Shannon man and his partners-in-crime to justice?

Help to get back the money they stole from the town bank?’

‘That part of it sure isn’t any of my business, Miss Jonas.’

She shook her head ruefully and sighed. ‘Well, I declare, I find that very difficult to understand of a man like you, Mr Edge. The way things have been happening hereabouts I thought for sure you had been hired on as a regular deputy to John McCall. Just like Phil Raine was. Only he, poor boy, was even less fitted to deal with the likes of that Shannon creature than John McCall is.’

‘I’m no expert at – ‘

‘I’ve seen you with my own eyes – the way you dealt with Samuel Kress. And heard how you were able to spirit Kitty Raine away from town under the very noses of Shannon and his evil gang. Then you came back with John McCall and saw to it no more townsfolk got hurt. Made sure the trouble with those Mexican bandits was finished far outside of Dalton Springs. So no more innocent folks were – ‘

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‘You weren’t paying close attention to what I said, Miss Jonas,’ Edge cut in, his tone as hard as his gaze. ‘That was the sheriff’s doing. I went along only to – ‘

The suddenly gently smiling old lady took another turn at breaking in. ‘Why don’t you sleep on it, Mr Edge?’ She stood up, reached across the table for his empty plate and coffee cup. ‘What I always say is that a person should never make up his mind at night if there’s prospect of a good night’s sleep ahead of him.’

‘I don’t reckon I’ll have any trouble getting that, lady.’

‘I’m sure I can promise you a fine night of peaceful rest in my house, Mr Edge. Providing your conscience is clear?’ She gave him a pointed look before she went swiftly out of the dining room and called: ‘Sweet dreams, Mr Edge.’

He listened to the muted clattering sounds she made in the kitchen for a half minute or so then realised just now ready for sleep he was after the relaxing effects of the bath, the food and the talk in the comfortable surroundings of the well run boarding house. So he accepted her dismissal readily and climbed the stairs to the room she had showed him earlier. Where there was no need of the lamp because enough moonlight filtered in through the lace curtains at the window for him to clearly see the geography of the furnishings as he stripped to his underwear and slid into bed. The mattress and pillow were filled with the finest down and the sheets were of the smoothest silk. At least, that was now they felt to him during the few seconds he thought about anything before need of sleep dragged down his leaden eyelids and blotted out the world behind all-engulfing darkness.

When he awoke to the muted tolling of a nearby bell the room was coolly bright with indirect sunlight and the neat arrangement of the bedcovers showed he had hardly moved while he slept. He certainly felt well rested.

While the bell continued to toll in an unvarying melancholic cadence from the church at the north end of Dalton Springs’ main street, other sounds reached into the room. He identified these as he got out of bed and pulled on pants and shirt over his longjohns: hooves, wagon wheels and timbers and footfalls – clopping, turning, creaking and plodding at the same tempo as the bell.

And he guessed most of what he would see from the second story window before he moved to look down through the net curtains: a procession of sombrely-clad men, women 165

and children moving slowly in the wake of two wagons laden with simple pine coffins, some of which he had seen in the making at Jake Slocum’s workshop. Heading northward toward the cemetery across the street from the stone church from the tower of which the bell tolled the mournful funeral knell. From his elevated viewpoint he saw no other activity in the brightly sunlit morning while the entire community gathered for the mass funeral.

Every house and business premise flanking the street had an empty, desolate appearance and not a window nor door was open and many curtains and blinds were pulled tight as a mark of respect for the newly dead.

He turned from the window and made use of the pitcher of water and bowl on the bureau to wash up. Then, his appetite stirred by recalling last night’s supper, he started down the stairway in hope of a breakfast as good.

Called himself a name as he realised he was surely alone in the house: Emily Jonas attending the funerals along with everyone else in town.

Then he caught the appealing fragrance of hot coffee and heard the sound of bubbling liquid. Went into the kitchen and saw the gently steaming pot on the stove. The centrally positioned pine table had a place set for one and a piece of paper was folded so it stood up on the plate. The elderly spinster’s note was written in a neat hand:
You can see the coffee’s on. Please help yourself to the makings of breakfast, Mr
Edge.

He felt an easy smile spread across his face as he poured coffee into a cup and began to enjoy its taste and the satisfying feeling of being a welcome guest in the old lady’s house.