Name On The Bullet - Edge Series 6 (23 page)

‘Well, the way it is, Fred’s pa runs the Timberland Saloon in Pine River Junction, mister,’ Guthrie said with barely subdued excitement. ‘And aside from the liquor and beer he sells, there’s a not so bad looking woman named Loretta who works there: mostly does cleaning and cooking. But she’ll put out if the price is right. And I reckon Fred could fix it with his old man to have Loretta pay a house call with a bottle of something to ease a man’s thirst and – ‘

‘It’s a jailhouse I run, not a goddamn cathouse!’ Haydon snarled.

‘Does Loretta put out for you, feller?’ Edge asked.

‘Shit, I don’t have no need of a whore!’ Guthrie bristled with self-righteous indignation.

‘Like you damn well know, I got Rachel! And let me tell you, it ain’t only at cooking and keeping house that woman makes a fine wife for a man!’

‘Did you get to screw her lately?’ Edge asked in the same easy tone as before. In his high anger Guthrie turned so fast in his saddle that he almost toppled out of it and expressed dark rage as he rasped:

‘You listen here, mister: around these parts what occurs between a man and his wife in the bedroom is considered private. Real private, you murdering bastard!’

‘Easy, George,’ Haydon advised coldly. ‘And you, mister, you better lay off that kind of talk.’

‘No sweat, sheriff,’ Edge drawled. ‘Just want the feller to know where I stand on his offer. And if he’s getting it supplied regular, then there’s no point in me telling him to go screw himself.’

CHAPTER • 13

__________________________________________________________________________

THE MUSTY smelling jailhouse in Pine River Junction was not constructed to cage a
dangerous killer who maybe had a partner on the outside ready, willing and able to break him out. It comprised a single cell in a barred off quarter area of the single story, one roomed clapboard building. In the office section of the twenty by twenty undecorated room was a small rickety desk, a single unpadded ladder-back chair and a lop-sided two seat sofa. And the many better days the furniture had seen were probably in other locations than where they had finished up, Edge thought. Because it seemed unlikely Slim Haydon had ever been busy enough to spend time enough in this office to inflict on the furnishings all the day-today wear they had plainly endured over the years. In the cell was a narrow cot built directly against the base of the rear wall, a backless three-legged stool and a dented bucket. On the cot was a thin mattress and two neatly folded blankets, all of which billowed up an accumulation of what seemed to be many months’ dust when Edge disturbed them. This while he made himself as comfortable as he was able after the taciturn lawman locked the barred door behind him when the farmer and the kid left the building.

There had been little talk after the exchange concerning Guthrie’s offer to bring the local whore to the jail and for the remainder of the slow ride back to town Edge was left alone to think his own thoughts. Which turned out not to be such a good thing: for once he had acknowledged that he would be a fool ever again to rely on the help of Steele, he faced the prospect of soon being in the same fix as the Virginian two nights ago. Escorted across the country to stand trial for killing a lawman. Probably with a heavier guard than Steele had been given. And certainly as guilty as Steele admitted to being. So destined to hang for the crime.

Unless he escaped by his own efforts. Which was something he was in no physical condition or frame of mind to contemplate right now as he stretched out on the mattress and covered himself with the blankets then placed his Stetson over his face. While Haydon sat down hard behind the desk, took out writing materials and began to scrawl with a pen that had a blunt nib on a pad. And occasionally uttered a low toned oath or wriggled irritably on the chair that seemed to get more uncomfortable by the minute under his bony frame. He asked just the one question right at the outset. ‘Edge – is that the only name you’ve got?’

‘It’s the only one I’ve answered to for a lot of years.’

‘Suit yourself.’

‘That’s what I always try to do, sheriff.’

If the lawman unhappy with his clerical chore asked anything else, Edge was asleep at the time he did so and Haydon did not consider the matter important enough to pursue right then. This period of natural sleep, maybe made deeper by the after-effects of being unconscious for so long earlier, ended when he came awake to the morning sounds of a small country town: roosters crowing, dogs barking and horses whinnying. His head still hurt some as he remained stretched out on the cot, peering into the darkness of his Stetson’s interior. Then it hurt a little more and sharpness transcended dullness as he carefully sat up, set his hat on his head and swung his feet to the floor.

He kept his eyes barely open against the seemingly blinding light of the sunlit day until he stood up and began to knead some muscles. To rid them of the stiffness of inactivity as the effect of the blow to his skull returned as a muted throbbing sensation: more irritating than painful. By then he could accept the level of light without having his glittering, ice blue eyes any more closely slit than usual.

Then he discovered the rest of his senses were operating at their full potential. He heard sheep bleating and cattle lowing in distant pastures and twice a nearby woman called shrilly to somebody named Robert while pots and pans clattered together. Next he smelled smoke and frying food: then his unwashed body, which in turn triggered his sense of taste that registered only the unsavoury one of too much sleep after too many cigarettes. This at least meant he did not feel overly hungry, which was a good thing because he was alone in the law office and probably unlikely to get any breakfast before the sheriff turned in for the start of a new day’s work.

This thought occurred to him as he tested his final sense by touching the crust of congealed blood on his temple and the heavy growth of bristles at his jaw and throat. ‘
I
guess you have to look as big a mess as you feel, feller
,’ he mused sourly as he sat down on the side of the cot. And leaned his back against the rough timber wall while he tried to take his ease without bitterness as he waited for other people to direct his fate for the immediate future. Or maybe for all time if his name was on the bullet at last. Figuratively, he reflected wryly as he raised a hand to gently massage his arid throat. For if events were to run their legal course it was not a gun shot that was destined to end his life but a hanging rope. Despite the brightness of the early morning sunlight shafting in through the building’s only window it had been cool when he first awoke. But as the time crawled sluggishly by the heat just as inexorably built up and his throat began to feel more parched by the minute. Outside, the widely spread community of Pine River Junction became only slightly noisier as its citizens stepped out from their houses after a night’s rest and began to go about their daily business. Hooves plodded on hard packed dirt and an occasional wagon rumbled and creaked along the ill-defined street. And somebody started hammering, metal on metal. There seemed to be little urgency about any of the activities that occupied the local population: which was all taking place at a considerable distance from the building in which Edge waited in the grip of a rising resentment he made an effort to control. For he knew that allowing his anger free outlet would achieve no useful purpose: serve only to make him feel even more impotently angry at his predicament and the reason for it. Then, just as he was about to lose patience and give cursing vent to his feelings and to hell with the futility of doing this, footfalls approached the law office at a measured pace. Next came a pause followed by a few unidentifiable sounds until a key rattled in a key in the lock. The door swung open and Edge saw somebody was hunkered down just beyond the threshold. When the figure straightened up Edge recognised the skinny Fred Whitney, the youngster smiling brightly and showing no sign of nervousness this morning as he lifted and carried a tray inside the building. A cup chinked against a plate, a knife against a fork.

‘Morning to you, Mr Edge,’ the young man greeted in a cheerful tone that matched his broad smile.

‘The same to you, kid,’ Edge muttered sourly.

‘Whenever Mr Haydon has a prisoner locked up in here, which ain’t too often, the Timberland has got a contact to provide the man with chow. So, here you go.’ He advanced on the door of the cell, lowered the tray to the floor and tentatively reached out a foot to push it through a gap large enough to allow for this. His grin was a little insecure while he did it but immediately brightened when he backed off.

‘Much obliged to you.’ Edge claimed the breakfast of ham, eggs, grits and coffee, placed the tray on the stool and sat down on the side of the cot again.

‘Was this fixed by your pa’s maid of all kinds of work?’ He sipped the coffee and sighed his enjoyment of its reviving effect.

‘Uh?’ Whitney had been gazing fixedly at Edge, like the dishevelled man in the cell was somebody famous he greatly admired. And he needed abruptly to snap his mind back to the here and now.

‘Did Loretta cook the chow?’ Edge expanded and set down the coffee to start on the food, which, hungry as he felt, was no better, nor any worse than Rachel Guthrie had prepared for him and Steele yesterday morning. Which meant it tasted fine to a man who had not eaten a decent meal since that last home cooked breakfast. But it did not much improve his demeanour that was no fault of the acne-scarred youngster. But the kid was the only target within range and Edge pressed on grimly: ‘Did she fix it before she started her cleaning and whoring chores?’

‘Yeah, Loretta . . . She fixed up the food for you and me and pa . . . Aw hell, you didn’t oughta set too much store by what George Guthrie said, mister. Loretta ain’t really a whore. Not the kind of woman that . . . She’s just one who’s inclined to be generous with her favours is how my pa talks about the way she is.’

‘The town pony is how I put it,’ Slim Haydon growled as he stepped into the law office.

‘On account of that woman’s always ready to give any man have a ride if the fancy takes him and her at the same time.’ The lawman cleared his throat and glowered as he went on: ‘But knowing that about her won’t be of any use to you even if Loretta figures you for the best looking guy in California and she’s been on heat for a week. I just got this telegraph in reply to one that I had Ross Pope send for me last night.’

He went to the desk, sat down behind it and drew a piece of paper from his coat pocket, placed it carefully down in the front of him, unfolded it and read aloud: ‘
Hold Edge
prisoner until a marshal arrives from this office. Signed Judge P. Grover, State Justice
Department, Sacramento, California.’
The lawman looked up and a fleeting grimace came to and went from his bearded face when he saw that Edge had continued to eat his breakfast and showed no reaction to the message. He said in a sour tone: ‘It’s a day and a half’s ride without rushing between here and the state capital, mister. So the marshal could maybe get here real late tonight. Or sometime around noon tomorrow if he takes his time and rests up for a while here and there.’

‘Obliged to you for keeping me informed,’ Edge said, swallowed some food and took a swig of coffee. Then raised a hand to acknowledge Fred Whitney. ‘Just like I’m obliged to you for bringing me the food, kid. And you tell the same to Loretta for taking the trouble to fix it for me, uh?’ He cleaned the plate, drained the coffee cup, rose, set the tray on the floor and used a booted foot to push it back through the gap under the door then returned to the cot.

The skinny young man hurried to retrieve the tray, eager to leave now his errand had been completed. But he held back in the open doorway to ask: ‘Will you be dropping by the saloon later, Mr Haydon?’

‘Maybe, Fred.

‘It’s just that when me and George Guthrie parted company last night, he said as how running the wanted man to ground had given him a lucky feeling. And he’d be wishing to play some more cards tonight. Figures to make up for some of the losses he’s been having lately. Told me to let you and the others know the way he feels, if you’re interested?’

‘If I’m there I’m there, Fred,’ the lawman growled. ‘And if I ain’t I’ll be here making sure Edge is kept locked up nice and tight until the lawman from Sacramento rides in.’

‘Sure thing, sheriff.’ Whitney went out of the office and closed the door behind him. Edge said: ‘Thanks to the Whitneys and Loretta the inner man’s been well taken care of, feller.’