California Killing (9 page)

Wayne continued to hold the gun, but now it was aimed uselessly at the floor and he felt the needle sharpness of the razor's tip resting on the fleshy part of his nape. He allowed the gun to slip from his fingers and then did not move to the extent of holding his breath. His boots swung lazily at each side of his terrified face.

The killer glint showed in Edge's hooded eyes as he looked along the bed at Scott. "You gonna be his friend in need?" he asked softly.

In the lightning instants during which Wayne was turned from captor into captive, Scott had snapped up the Colt, seeking a clear shot at Edge. Now his knuckle whitened around the trigger as his target was exposed. But the sight of the blade, its sheen dull in the lamp's glow, acted as a brake to the impulse.

"Duke!" Wayne pleaded, the word little more than a rush of escaping breath.

"Your move," Edge encouraged the shocked and angry Scott. "I know this guy ain't the king. And, he don't act like no queen. Maybe you'll only be losing a pawn."

Scott thrust his gun forward. "Let him up, Edge."

Edge curled back his lips in a grin that contained a grain of humor. "What are you, a comedian out of the Holly Playhouse?"

"Duke," Wayne implored, his voice reaching a higher pitch. "He's got me cold."

"Same way I got him," Scott replied thickly, his hand rock steady as he aimed the Colt at Edge's chest.

"You ain't fast enough, Duke. I'll get stuck. What about Belle?"

The name injected afresh emotion into Scott's unblinking eyes. He flicked out his tongue to moisten dry lips, emphasizing his fear and confusion. The aim of the gun wavered.

"Who's Belle?" Edge asked easily.

"Mr. Mayer's' sister," Scott answered in disgust. "Randy and her fixing to get hitched."

"Mayer approves the match?"

Scott opened his hand and allowed the Colt to fall to the bed between Edge's feet. "She's fat and forty and gives him hell. He approves."

Edge had been resting his free hand on Wayne's back. Now he moved it to his hip and drew the Walker-Colt. "Women," he said reflectively, "Even when they ain't around they somehow get messed in man's business. On your feet, Romeo. Back off, Scott."

As Scott stepped up against the wall, Edge removed the razor from Wayne's neck and the man scrambled to his feet, his complexion scarlet from the blood rush when his head had been forced down. A motion of Edge's gun sent him stumbling across the room to stand beside his partner.

"Face the wall," Edge ordered as he swung his legs off the bed and stood up.

The two men did as he said. He moved up behind them, gun in one hand, razor in the other. "Message for Mayer," he said softly. "The picture ain't in Justin's bag, I've got it. And I intend to hold on to it - until Hood gives me back my two-and-a-half grand for it."

Scott stared tacitly at the wall. "You just gonna let us walk out of here?" Wayne asked with a hint of hope in his voice.

Edge grinned at the backs of their heads. "Hell, no. I reckon you guys deserve something for your trouble. I always repay trouble."

The wet sound of Wayne swallowing hard was very loud in the silence of the room. But as Edge went down into a crouch, the crack of the gunshot was much louder, masking the swish of the razor. Wayne screamed and buckled at the knees, dropping heavily to the floor and toppling forward to crack his forehead against the wall. Scott sucked in his breath and swayed forward. But he stayed upright by flattening his palms against the wall. Scott's shattered ankle bone gleamed white through his blood-soaked sock. Wayne's Achilles tendon had been severed by the blade. His blood gushed more freely. He stared at the widening pool with naked horror. "Christ, you didn't have to do that," he whined.

"Right," Edge agreed, side-stepping to the door. He pulled it open. "I could have killed you."

Hatred fought through the pain in Scott's eyes. "Mister, you're gonna wish you had," he spat out.

Edge holstered his gun and slid the razor back in its pouch. A door opened further along the balcony.

"What's the shooting?" Cooper yelled.

Edge jerked a thumb through the doorway. "On your way, fellers. You're causing a disturbance."

His tone was light but the set of his lean features warned he would accept no argument. Already on his hands and knees, Wayne began to crawl towards the door, dragging his useless foot behind him. Scott tried to stay upright, with the wall for support. But each time his shattered foot took his weight, fresh sweat broke out on his twisted face and he was forced to sink to his knees.

"Answer me!" Cooper demanded. The bartender was naked except for a pair of tattered longjohns. He could have looked ridiculous, had it not been for the double-barreled shotgun he aimed into the room.

As he saw the two men on their hands and knees, trailing blood, he stopped short, showing uncharacteristic surprise. Scott and Wayne refused to look up at the bartender as they crawled out on to the balcony.

"What happened?" Cooper asked.

Edge pursed his lips and held his peace for long moments, then he shrugged. "Metro's star boys. Mayer sent them over, but they weren't big enough for the part." He waited for Scott to draw himself over the threshold, his hands slipping in the blood trailed by Wayne. "Couple of feet short."

He slammed the door and picked up the discarded Colts. He hurled them out of the window.

Chapter Nine

E
DGE
slept no more that night. But over the violent years of his recent past he had become attuned to needing the minimum of rest. Thus, the nap he had taken while Justin Wood stood his negligent guard left the tall half-breed alert to face the new day. It dawned with a promise of high heat as the sun crested the eastern mountain range.

But food was a prime necessity to maintain his deceptively lean strength and when, from his sentry position at the window, he saw Grauman's Chinese Restaurant open up, he left the room.

The Paramount was silent as he crossed the empty saloon, its atmosphere heavy with the odor of old beer and stale sweat. There was little sign of early morning activity on the street, either, except for the pigtailed Chinese who was opening the window shutters of the restaurant.

Crossing the dusty street, Edge rasped his palm over his stubbled chin and considered the need of a shave. But a low growl from deep in his stomach emphasized the priorities. The Chinese heard his approach and turned, grinning broadly, bowing elaborately.

"Welcome to this most dishonorable eating establishment, sir," he sing-songed.

"You cook anything except Chop Suey?" Edge asked.

"Whatever you wish, sir:"

"Steak, beans and grits?"

"Best in California, sir," the Chinese said, bowing again. He was young, still in his teens. "Pardon sir, please do not break the foot mark."

Edge halted and looked down. The sidewalk ended at the side of the Holly Playhouse and there was just hard-baked dirt in front of the restaurant. Just to the left of the doorway was the imprint of a booted foot. Edge eyed the Chinese boy quizzically.

"Very famous, sir, the youngster said proudly. "One day after heavy rain, visitor come. Step in mud. Sun dry mud later. Now, when the rain comes, we cover the mark. People much interested. Come to see."

"Don't look like much to me," Edge said with disinterest.

"Famous gunfighter make mark, John Wesley Hardin, sir. You famous sir? We always have pail of water ready. In case not raining when famous, man comes."

Edge spat into the foot mark of John Wesley Hardin. "Known for one thing," he 'murmured.

"What that sir?" The Chinese was excited.

"Eating the waiter when I'm hungry and my breakfast ain't ready. Raw."

Edge reached out a hand and the boy emitted a startled cry. He scurried into the restaurant, Edge ambled in after him and took a checkered clothed table near the window, offering a broad view of the empty street. As he waited for the meal to cook, and then ate it, the sun hauled itself clear of the mountain ridge and it was as if its mounting heat breathed life into The Town With No Name.

He saw the
tacitum Cooper sweep dust out of the Paramount and then fasten the batswing doors wide. Three men, still bleary-eyed from yesterday's drinking, went into the saloon, trying not to hurry. A flatbed wagon rolled along the street from the north and he recognized Mrs. Vine up on the seat. A buggy halted outside the porch of the Metro and a rotund man with soft hands lifted down a black doctor's bag before going up the steps into the hotel. Sheriff Breen, swinging his Starr rifle easily at his side, sauntered in front of the restaurant. The eyes of the two men clashed through the glass of the window and the lawman broke his stride, then tightened his mouth line and moved on down the street.

Just as Edge was finishing the last of his coffee, Elmer Dexter came limping down the steps of the Metro Hotel and started across the street towards the restaurant. Edge was preparing to demand credit for the meal and leave when his gaze wandered to the steps from the Playhouse sidewalk and what he saw caused him to do a double-take.

The well-dressed, bearded man whom Dexter had identified as the theater owner was coming down the steps and behind him, moving as a group, were what looked like four young children. But they were dressed and had the freshly-shaved features of men in middle years. Not one of them stood higher than four feet. As they hurried forward to Crowd in through the doorway ahead of Dexter and Holly, Edge continued to stare. He had seen a dwarf before, but never four together.

"No, Mr. Edge," Rodney Holly said, grinning through his beard. "You didn't drink too much last night. They're real." As the four miniature men climbed on to chairs and began a good-natured bantering of the Chinese boy, Dexter led Holly to Edge's table. "First rule for an actor. Never act with children. Steal every scene. Dwarfs are much easier to handle. I'm Rodney Holly. Elmer told me you're Edge."

Holly's beard was dark brown, but his flowing, shoulder-length hair was almost white. He was taller than he had looked from the hotel window last night and close up there was an impressiveness about him. Not of strength: rather of unaggressive arrogance. Edge didn't get up as he shook the man's proffered hand. Holly covered his resentment.

"Mind if we join you?"

"You can even pick up the tab if you like," Edge responded as he watched the actor and the rancher sit down.

The Chinese appeared and both men confined their orders to coffee.

"You need an advance on the reward money, Edge?" Dexter asked, slipping a hand under his jacket.

"Mayer money?"

Dexter shook his head. "Out of the bank. Mayer simply put up the collateral."

"Two big ones should do it." Dexter took out a shiny new billfold and slid two one hundred dollar bills from it. Edge stuffed the money carelessly into his shirt pocket.

"Mayer could pull the rug out from under if he hears you're still acting cozy with me the half-breed said, beginning to roll a cigarette.

"I heard what you did to his boys," Dexter said nonchalantly as the waiter brought the coffees. "He blames them for letting you get the drop. He wants Hood caught and hung, Edge. He'd like to fix the bastard himself because that would increase his stock in this town. But if somebody else does it, he'd still be happy."

Edge fired the cigarette and spoke through a cloud of grey smoke. "What makes him so anxious to get rid of the Hood gang?"

Holly smiled expansively. "Money, Mr. Edge. You probably saw the sign when you came in. This has the makings of a boom town. It ought to have a star-studded future. And Mayer's got a big investment in it. He owns the hotel, four stores down-the street, a ranch out in one of the canyons and he's holding the mortgages on a lot of other properties. He even owns ninety per cent of the Playhouse right now. To get a return on his investments he needs people to come into the area. Easiest way for people to get here is through the San Fernando Valley. But at the moment it's Hood's valley. And people can't cross it without paying the price."

"No free way across the valley, uh?" Edge muttered.

"You know it," Holly answered. "And it's ruining Mayer. He built this town - made it what it is. And he wants it called Mayertown. He thinks the citizens will vote for that if he can get rid of Hood."

Edge dropped his half-smoked cigarette into the dregs of his coffee and stood up.

"You need any help, Mr. Edge, I'm at your service," Holly said. "No people, no audiences. I'm as anxious as anybody to see Hood swing."

"From a greenwood tree?"

Holly showed his expansive smile again. "We did a play of the story. It bombed."

Edge nodded. "American audiences," he said softly. "They see bows and arrows, it's gotta mean Indians."

He moved to the door and, with a final glance at the dwarfs, stepped outside. His foot sank deep into a patch of mud and he looked up into the grinning face of the Chinese boy. The youngster held an empty pail in his hand.

"Pardon, sir. The little people tell me what you did to Mr. Mayer's men. And to Mr. Mayer. If you not famous now, I sure one day you will be."