The Quiet Gun - Edge Series 1 (8 page)

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Williams was suddenly aware he was not alone on the street and swept his angry gaze toward Edge. Recognised who he was and checked his arthritically clumsy hands on the rifle’s lever action. Frustration displaced rage on his wizen features as he complained:

‘Hell, I’m too damn old for this much gun!’

‘It happens.’ Edge looked down at the revolver in his hand and shoved it under his waistband as he peered through barely cracked open eyelids toward the retreating buggy. Then he extended a hand, the fingers curled. ‘Here, let me try, feller.’

‘Uh?’

Edge hardened his tone. ‘Give me the damn rifle!’

‘He’s too long gone,’ Williams growled morosely, but pushed the Winchester forward so the frame fitted snugly into the outstretched hand.

Edge’s actions were beguilingly smooth: neither impatiently fast nor deliberately slow as he pumped the lever to eject a spent shell-case and jacked a fresh cartridge into the beech. Then he raised the rifle and levelled it, settled the butt firmly into his shoulder, nestled his cheek against the stock as his eye aligned the fore and rear sights on the distant target.

A moment later the Winchester cracked out a third shot. If the recoil caused the barrel to waver by a fraction of an inch the wide eyes of Billy Williams’ behind the spectacle lenses failed to see it. But the embryo expression of admiration on his weathered, deeply lined face altered abruptly to disappointment when he switched his attention to the far off buggy and saw its hell for leather progress was uninterrupted.

‘I told you the cheating sonofabitch was too far off!’ he accused bitterly. ‘Like I – ‘

If Williams finished his adamant contention, the words were drowned out by the Winchester when it exploded a fusillade of half a dozen shots along the street and the trail beyond. While expended cartridge cases rained to the ground and the acrid taint of burnt black powder briefly laced the hot, sunlit air.

The druggist covered his ears against the cacophony while he stared fixedly southward. Then the shooting ended and he did a double take at the distant cloud of dust in which the buggy was now hidden, repeated in the same tone: ‘I told you! Didn’t I tell you, mister? Too damn far! Hell, all you done is waste Jake’s ammunition!’

50

Edge returned the rifle to the angrily dejected old man and promised evenly: ‘I’ll pay for the shells when I get back the money Kress stole from me.’

He set off down the street without haste as a semblance of normality began to descend upon the town, the talk that accompanied the low key activity voiced in the rasping tones of shock in response to this second eruption of violence so soon after the first in this usually peaceful community.

‘But you’ll never catch him on foot, mister!’ Williams claimed scornfully. ‘Way he’s running like a scalded cat!’

‘It’s the horse that’s making fast time and it’ll tire pretty soon,’ Edge said and did not turn to look back at the dejected old man. ‘I had no cause to kill that animal. It’s skunk I was hunting.’

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CHAPTER • 7

_________________________________________________________________________

IT TOOK Edge over an hour to walk at a measured pace through the rising heat of
the Arizona morning to where the horse harnessed to the buggy had finally come to an exhausted halt.

He did not pay any kind of attention to the town as it became smaller in perspective and less discernible in the heat haze behind him. Knew if anyone rode out to lend a hand he would hear hooves on the hard packed trail before the rider drew close. But nobody did come after him and he was content to be left alone to handle his own business in his own way.

It did not bother him that the force of forward momentum had overcome the impact of the bullets thudding into Kress’s body to hold the man firmly against the seat of the speeding buggy instead of tipping him out.

He was determined to get his money back and if he had to walk further than he would like, then so be it. In the present circumstances there was no hurry. The horse had run itself to a winded standstill at a point where the trail skirted a scattering of boulders and some stunted mesquite at the base of a long, broad, element scoured slope. Few shadows were cast by the rocks and scrawny trees but by accident or design the dejected looking animal had moved off the trail to find a patch of meagre shade in which to rest.

The sturdy grey gelding eyed Edge with indifference as he approached and for the moment the man paid the animal only as much passing attention as he gave to the closely grouped pattern of seven bullet holes which showed in the stretched black leather of the buggy’s hooded rear. For it was obvious at a glance that the sweat lathered horse was in no condition to bolt: and not for a long time had it been a cause of surprise to Edge that he invariably hit any target at which he aimed.

Sam Kress was sprawled in a spread eagled attitude, leaning slightly to the right across the buggy seat, a pained, wide eyed expression on his round, smooth skinned, unshaven face. From the front there was no sign of how he had died because, fired over 52

long range, the bullets that first had to penetrate the hood before hitting him had no velocity left to explode blood run exits wounds.

Edge climbed on to a wheel spoke of the rig, reached inside the dead man’s suit jacket and eyed impassively the torn sleeve that had snagged on Emily Jonas backyard fence. Then he grinned as he brought out a sheaf of bills: interrupted what he was doing at the sound of far off hoof beats.

He peered to the south and saw two riders had come over the distant crest of the slope: as yet discernible only as small, shapeless daubs of dark on the skyline in the shimmering heat haze.

He carefully counted off the amount of money Kress had stolen from him and transferred it to his hip pocket. Returned the rest, that seemed to be about three hundred dollars, to where he found it. Then he went to check on the condition of the gelding. There were areas of the crusted white foam of dried sweat on his flanks and withers but his eyes were clear and no longer bulged and he was breathing regularly: gave no more than a docile whinny when Edge ran a hand down his neck. Next he submitted without complaint to having his legs examined for swelling that could signal sprains. There were none and moments later the animal showed itself willing to go to work again after the headlong gallop. Complied at once with Edge’s command after he climbed up on to the seat, wedged himself in beside the corpse, slapped the reins and steered the buggy into a wide turn back on to the trail, headed for Dalton Springs. The two riders approaching from the south held their mounts to a steady canter until they drew level with the off-side of the rig, when they reined down to a walk. One of them greeted:
‘Buenos dias, senor.’

Edge responded with an easy grin shared between the two Mexicans: ‘How’re you fellers doing?’

Both riders did a startled double take into the buggy and recognised the lax way in which Kress moved with the gentle pitching and yawing of the slow rolling rig meant he was dead.

Each of them uttered exclamations of shock as they both crossed themselves and then exchanged rapid words in their native language that Edge would have understood had he chosen to listen.

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When they eyed him in an earnestly imperious manner he figured they were lawmen: which maybe meant he knew what business had brought them up the trail from Mexico. And before either could put one of the many questions that crowded their minds, he said:

‘You fellers are heading for Dalton Springs to pick up Luke Shannon, right?’

The six feet tall younger man nodded. Like his shorter and maybe ten years older companion he wore a well cut dark jacket and lighter coloured pants, a two hued patterned vest, bootlace tie and shiny, spurred riding boots. The only Mexican influence in their outfits was the silver ornamentation on the bands of their stiff brimmed Stetsons and the similarly ornate buckles of their gun belts, the holsters worn high on their hips, revolver butts jutting forward.

The younger one was in his early thirties, with hard black eyes and a crooked mouth line that gave his otherwise bland good looks a hint of character – and also suggested a latent dangerous streak in the man. He had a thin moustache that dropped to either side of his thin lips in a style Edge had affected in his younger days. His partner’s moustache was thicker and confined to the top lip. His face was heavily pock marked from an old disease and his forehead was deeply furrowed, like he had worried a great deal during many of his forty some years of living. He listened intently to the younger man’s translation of what had been said then eyed Edge suspiciously as he spoke a terse:
‘Si.’

‘That is correct,
senor,’
the younger man said. ‘You are from the town of Dalton Springs? Where everyone knows of the murderer Sheriff McCall is holding for us?’

‘I’m not and he ain’t any more,’

‘What do you mean,
senor.’
He was abruptly anxious and ready to get angry. Both the Mexicans’ early concern about the corpse of Kress had now totally evaporated.

‘Shannon was busted out of the town jailhouse last night,’ Edge replied and the younger man supplied a fast translation to the other one who clearly outranked him.

‘McCall left this morning with a posse to try to – ‘

The older man barked a curt command and they both spurred their mounts to a gallop.

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Edge grimaced and brandished a hand amid the dust that had billowed up in front of him while he held the gelding to the same easy pace as before. Demanded no higher speed than this from the weary animal during the rest of the return to town. It was mid-morning when he drove in off the open trail and on to the main street of Dalton Springs, shortly afterwards brought the buggy to a halt out front of Jake Slocum’s premises. Was not surprised to see the horses of the two Mexicans hitched to the rail outside of the law office, his attention drawn briefly in that direction when the massive figure of Bart Bannerman emerged.

By coincidence or otherwise, several other townspeople appeared on the street and began to advance warily on the buggy: but held back after somebody spotted one of the occupants was a corpse and the news was rapidly passed on. By the nature of his calling, the fifty plus, tall and scrawny, hollow cheeked, dungaree clad undertaker who appeared from his workshop at the rear of the funeral parlour was unaffected by the dead body of Kress. And his tone was as lacking in emotion as his expression when he glanced at the corpse and asked around a freshly lit cheroot:

‘You one of them there gunfighters, Mr Edge?’

‘It’s not my trade.’ Edge climbed down from the buggy as the bespectacled Billy Williams stepped tentatively out of the front door of the parlour between two black draped windows that displayed sample tombstones.

The druggist was as apprehensive as most of the other townspeople: with the exception of Slocum and Bannerman, who had not held fearfully back with the rest when he saw the totally inert form of Kress aboard the buggy.

The undertaker shrugged and pressed on: ‘Just that I’ve heard there’s some kind of unwritten rule in that line of work. A man who kills another in a gunfight is supposed to be duty bound to pay the dead guy’s funeral expenses?’

Edge touched his hip pocket and shared a narrow eyed gaze between Slocum and Bannerman. ‘Got back the money he stole from me, feller. Guess Williams and Rider will lay claim to what he took them for. But that’ll leave the horse and buggy plus whatever’s in the suitcase under the seat, and the cash that’s left over. Figure Kress can afford a pretty fancy funeral for himself.’

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The skinny undertaker grinned, expelled a cloud of tobacco smoke and seemed like he had to consciously check an impulse to rub his hands avariciously together. Williams blinked rapidly behind the thick lenses of his spectacles and said diffidently:

‘If Kress really was cheating in the saloon last night, then I guess I got a right to – ‘

‘He was cheating, feller,’ Edge growled.

‘Well, like you know, mister, I wasn’t there at the end of the game. But he took me for almost ten dollars before I went home.’

‘You sure it was that much, Billy?’ Bannerman demanded officiously.

‘Sure I’m sure!’ The slightly built druggist was shrilly insulted by the bigger man’s slur. ‘I ain’t the kind to rob the dead!’

Bannerman showed mournful contrition and looked around to reveal his regret to everyone nearby. ‘Yeah, you’re right, Billy. You wouldn’t do that. I’m real sorry for doubting you. But what with the trouble at my place last night and Phil Raine getting killed and then the jail break . . . Dalton Springs has always been a real fine town and I wouldn’t want to see it go bad. But once things start downhill in a good town like we got here, they can go real fast in a whole lot of ways.’