California Killing (12 page)

Scott grinned his pleasure at being offered a useful part to play. He drew his Colt and aimed it in the general direction of his charges. Dexter and Stricklyn looked at the gunman, then at each other. Stricklyn seemed about to protest, but a quick, stem-faced shake of the head from Dexter held him in silence.

At the house, Edge finished counting the money and emitted a grunt of satisfaction that the amount was correct. Then he looked impassively out of the window as, at a soft-spoken order from Mayer, Bronson and Elam caught hold of the free end of the rope and began to drag Kilroy across the yard towards the gaping doorway of a bam.

The barn was diagonally across the yard from the parlor window, facing the full, glaring heat of the sun as the southern peak of midday approached.

"String him up," Mayer boomed, and Wayne urged his horse forward, took the rope and tossed it over the lintel beam.

"How high, Mr. Mayer?" he asked conversationally as he steered his mount into the barn.

Mayer stepped forward and extended his arm so that his hand was about three feet from the ground. "And hold him there, Randy."

Naked fear sprang vividly across the face of Kilroy. But he kept his lips clamped tight, emitting no sound as Wayne moved to take up the slack, hitched the rope around his saddlehorn and went deeper into the barn, beyond the reach of the sun's rays. The full length of Kilroy's body dragged up dust for a few inches, then, by degrees, his bound feet, his legs, his hips, his torso and his head were raised from the ground. The lintel beam creaked but held.

"That'll do it!" Mayer boomed when Kilroy's outstretched fingertips came three inches clear of the ground.

The four riflemen took up positions, two each side of the inverted Kilroy.

"Plenty of room up front," Scott urged, motioning with his Colt for Dexter and Stricklyn to move in closer for a better view.

The men complied reluctantly.

Edge, apparently forgotten by everybody out in the yard, sipped water from the diminishing supply in the canteen and raked his eyes over the group at the barn with seeming disinterest.

"Last chance," Mayer said softly, but in the silence which clung to the ranch buildings, his voice seemed to have the tone of a high mountain echo.

Kilroy, his face mottled by his inverted position, waited in mute terror, swinging gently to and fro.

"What you gonna do, Mr. Mayer?" Bronson asked nervously, wiping sweat from his face with the back of a hand.

"Hurt him!" Mayer boomed, and lashed out with his right foot. Every ounce of his angry strength was behind the vicious kick. The toe of his boot smashed savagely into Kilroy's face. The nose was crushed with a moist, squelching sound. Kilroy's body jerked away and then came back, a spout of blood gushing down to inscribe a scarlet line in the dust. Kilroy's scream was a high-pitched, thin sound that caused Stricklyn to press his hands over his ears.

"Like that," Mayer announced, standing back with an expression of satisfaction, to allow the captive's body a free swing.

The blood escaping from Kilroy's smashed nose lost its impetus and began to merge with his sweat and trickle into his eyes. After the scream, he made no other sound.

"I didn't figure on nothing like this, Mr. Mayer," Elam muttered, backing away.

"Nor me," Stewart croaked. "I figured just to bring him in."

Mayer seemed not to hear the men as he looked at Kilroy's agonized, blood-run face. "Convinced yet?"

Kilroy opened his mouth, but he did not speak. Instead, he spat at his tormentor. The blob of moisture splashed on to the dusty toe of Mayer's boot.

In a split-second, every trace of the man's characteristic solemnity drained from Mayer's thin face. His mouth worked in a frenzy of dumb rage and the fires of momentary insanity blazed in his coal, black eyes. He seemed to grow two inches in height as he tensed his body.

Kilroy saw the mounting fury and every man in the group at the barn were awed into silence as they sensed the evil power being generated in Mayer. Elam and Stewart, already backing away, were able to keep moving, but the rest were rooted to where they stood.

"Okay!" Kilroy croaked.

But it was too late. Mayer was lost, deep inside his madness. And nothing short of death could have stopped him lashing out his foot towards the helpless man. This time the toe of his spittle-stained boot crashed into the top of Kilroy's skull with enough force to bend the man almost double and feed slack into the restraining rope.

Inside the bam, Wayne heeled his mount forward, picking up the slack. Kilroy's body unfolded and danced limply in mid-air. Rope, beam and horse held fast. The man was held two feet higher than before.

"Jesus!" Bronson whispered, backing away. But he, like the others, was unable to tear his eyes away from the lifeless man.

Kilroy's skull had been cracked wide by the blow and now there was a deluge of blood and lighter colored stickiness pouring from the fracture to gush into the dust.

In the parlor of the ranch house, Edge sighed and stood up, pushing the money into the front of his shirt. He went out into the decaying hallway, unhitched the mare and led her outside to mount up. He rode slowly over to the group before the barn and looked coldly into the drained face of the one-armed man. Mayer swayed, his shoulders drooping, seemingly unaware of the other's presence.

The vigilante named Crawford moved anxiously away to join the other three, heading for the rear of the ranch house where their horses were tethered. Scott seemed not to know what to do with his Colt and finally holstered it.

Edge extended the Winchester, one-handed, and rested the muzzle against the rope. He squeezed the trigger and the weight of the dead man's body parted those strands untouched by the bullet. Kilroy dropped into the mud of his own blood and brain tissue. Both Dexter and Stricklyn quivered at the sharp crack of the rifle. In the barn, Wayne struggled to calm his spooked horse.

"You're a fool, Mayer," Edge spat at the wretched one-armed man. "It was your goddamn head I should have blasted off. Dead men tell no ta1es. Kilroy would have talked. But Kilroy ain't here no more."

He wheeled his horse and heeled her into a gallop out of the valley, trailing dust.

Chapter Twelve

J
USTIN
Wood walked out into the center of the street and smiled for the first time since Mayer had turned him loose. An elderly painter was putting the final touches to the letter D above the plate-glass window of the building between Breen's office and the Playhouse. And Wood thought the man had done a good job. The WOOD was inscribed in two colors - white with a red outline - in a pleasant, flowing style. The paint was still wet and gleamed almost as brightly as the window which Wood had personally cleaned and polished.

But then the photographer's pleasure at seeing his name above the property was erased. He heard a rider come on to the street and was at once nervous when he saw the man sitting tall in the saddle.

Edge reined his horse to a halt in front of the little man. "So they turned you loose, uh?"

Wood nodded as he squinted up at the half-breed. "I don't know why and I don't care," he answered quickly "I don't want any part of any of this. I've got my business to think about now, Mr. Edge."

He looked across at the gallery facade as the sign painter finished his work and started to descend his ladder. Edge looked in that direction, too. He made a tutting sound.

"Don't you like it, Mr. Edge?" Wood enquired anxiously.

"Old timer same one did the theatre sign?" Edge asked.

Wood nodded. "Mr. Holly recommended him."

"Ain't got a lot of imagination, has he, Justin? But it could be the start of something big." He heeled his mount across in front of Wood and on down the street.

Wood waited impatiently for Edge to clear his line of vision, then scrutinized the building facades. "Oh, damnation!" he exclaimed as he realized what Edge meant The sign painter had placed the new sign at the same level as that on the theatre front and had used the same style of lettering. It seemed to read:

THE HOLLY WOOD

PLAYHOUSE

"Okay, Mr. Wood?" the old timer asked.

Wood sighed. "It will serve, Mr. Disney," he allowed.

Edge rode on down to the Universal Livery and ensured the roan was fed and watered before he ambled back through the fierce heat to the Grauman Chinese Restaurant. The young waiter stood in the doorway, wearing his wide grin. He pointed a yellow finger at the ground and Edge saw a third footprint had been molded beside those of John Wesley Hardin and his own. It matched his in both length and width.

"Too big for Jesse James," Edge said sourly.

"Jonas Pike, sir," the Chinese announced proudly.

"Never heard of him," Edge said, pushing past the Chinese and going in through the doorway.

"He very famous hunter of bounties, sir," the youngster said enthusiastically as he scuttled into the restaurant in the wake of his new customer. "He been in Mexico, but now he gone north. He, like you, honored this dishonorable establishment."

"So we got one thing in common," Edge muttered as he sat down at the window table, aware, but choosing to ignore the nervous glances from the other customers.

"What that, sir?"

"Bad taste," Edge replied. "Bring me the same as this morning, but more of it. Seeing a man die gives me an appetite."

The Chinese broadened his grin. "Gives it an edge, Mr. Edge?"

"The half-breed grimaced. "I'm the one from Iowa, China."

"Pardon, sir?"

"Where the corn comes from. Get the food."

The Chinese scratched his head, continued' to smile out of politeness to a patron and moved away between the tables. People hurried to finish their meals.

Sheriff Breen was finished anyway; but when he had paid the check he ignored the door and moved across to the window table. His solid bulk threw a shadow over the seated Edge.

"Something, Sheriff?" Edge asked, sliding his Winchester to the floor beneath the table.

"Saw you ride out. Couple of the stage passengers and Mayer's vigilantes weren't far behind. What happened?"

Edge found something of interest on the street. "You pick up Hood's inside man from the hotel roof?"

Breen's rough-hewn face exuded a hardness which had been proved to be only skin-deep. "Mortician's got him. I've only got your word he was one of Hood's men."

"Didn't know you needed a signed statement, Sheriff," Edge said softly, turning his hooded eyes to look up into the rust-colored face of the lawman. "Neither did Mayer, I guess. He killed another of them up at the old R.K.O. spread awhile back."

Breen's face was suddenly shiny as the skin tightened over his cheekbones. The Chinese delivered a heaped plate to Edge and withdrew hurriedly. Edge began to eat.

"Law don't take care of guys like Hood, I guess citizens got to do what they can."

The Sheriff took out a cigar and jammed it between his teeth. "I told you I was working on it. I lost six deputies trying to get Hood. Ain't no more men willing to get sworn since they seen how the bastard killed them. And I don't figure to get burned alive or cut open and left for the coyotes, citizen."

Edge chewed contentedly on his steak. "He's a real mean guy, ain't he?"

"I figured like you. Hood had to have a man here in town. If I'd have flushed him out, he'd have talked. I'd have known where Hood was holed up and there'd been no trouble raising a posse. But you just up and killed the critter."

Edge patted his bulging shirt front. "He told me what I wanted to know, Sheriff. The guy out at RKO. Would have made me a profit, but Mayer wanted a piece of the action."

"And he killed him before he talked?" Breen said sourly as he fired the cigar.

Edge nodded. ''Was an accident, though. He didn't mean to."

"Trying to make a name for himself again." Breen made no attempt to hide his disgust.

"To give to the town, I hear?" Edge reflected. "A town ought to have a name. You're not careful, it could get called Hoodsville."

"No chance," Breen answered. "I'd rather see it named after a cathouse madam like the next town down the trail."

"Which one's that?"

"Beverly Hills."

"Sounds fancy."

"It's a place to live," Breen' said as he turned away, trailing foul-smelling cigar smoke.

As his body swung round, he almost knocked over an ill-matched couple who had entered the restaurant and were heading for the table behind where Edge sat. The man was a hatchet-faced thirty-year-old wearing an eastern suit, dirty with trail dust His, right arm was heavily wrapped in a filthy bandage from shoulder to fingertips, The woman with him was shorter and thicker bodied, dressed in a voluminous black dress, high at the neck, and a hat from which hung a thick veil so that only a narrow area of her throat was visible. She carried a rolled up parasol under her arm.

The couple moved to the side to avoid colliding with Breen. The Sheriff began to doff his hat in apology. Edge sighed and reached down nonchalantly as if to scratch his ankle. But, instead, his hand curled around the Winchester and he tipped up the barrel and squeezed the trigger, falling sideways out of the chair.