The Outrage - Edge Series 3 (3 page)

‘I assure you it’s the very best money can buy, sir,’ he encouraged as he slid sideways along the seat so that Edge did not need to stretch far to take the offered, recently opened almost full bottle.

‘Much obliged.’ Edge accepted the whiskey, lifted it, tilted back his head and took a shot-size swallow of the smooth textured, fine tasting Tennessee liquor. Quinn grinned his liking for the way the other man obviously approved of the bourbon.

‘The first bottle was used up between San Antonio and where the drummer I shared it with got off the stage. I don’t exactly remember where that was.’

‘Much obliged,’ Edge said again and returned the bottle, relishing the liquor’s mellow afterglow. ‘It’s been a long time since I tasted anything but saloon rye.’

This was all that Quinn required by way of encouragement to continue the conversation and he slid the rest of the way along the seat and settled comfortably into the facing corner.

‘I’m not usually much of a drinker myself, Mr . . ?’

‘Name’s Edge.’

‘Mr Edge.’ He repeated the name in a tone that suggested he was imprinting it on his memory for future reference rather than checking if he had heard it before. ‘But when I do take a whiskey I appreciate the very best. I’ve only been drinking so much as I have . . . ‘ He raised the bottle and sucked out twice as much as Edge had done. ‘ . . . because I’ve achieved something worth celebrating. A business deal I clinched in San Antonio. One that certainly deserves a belt or two and no mistake, I can tell you, sir.’

‘Good for you, feller.’

‘Are you in business, Mr Edge?’ Quinn peered hard at his fellow passenger, like he truly wanted to have an answer to his query: was not simply trying to keep the exchange alive to help pass the time.

‘I’ve done a whole lot of things to earn a buck over the years.’

Quinn took another slug of whiskey and as he lowered the bottle into his lap there was now a glaze in his eyes. And a slur in his voice as he did a double take at Edge and suggested:

‘In the manual line, I’m right to presume?’

Edge dug out the makings. ‘Mostly at the end of the day’s work it’s been my back instead of my brain that’s ached.’

‘No offence intended, sir.’

‘No sweat.’

‘Would you care for another?’

‘Maybe later?’

Quinn pushed the stopper into the neck and trapped the bottle between his legs. ‘You say when you’re ready. I’m in the retail clothing business myself. Operate a chain of bespoke tailoring stores that stretches from New York through Chicago to San Francisco and I’m in a whole lot of small towns in between those cities.’ He grinned. ‘And now there’ll soon be a new Quinn and Son Gentlemen’s Outfitters in San Antonio. Since I’ve just bought out a fine business in an excellent location down there.’

Edge confined his response to a nod and Quinn peered out of the window as the trail cut through the bottomland of a broad, heavily wooded valley as he went on:

‘Inherited the eastern stores from my late father but it was me who opened up in the Middle West. Then went out to the Pacific coast and now I’m starting to expand across the south west.’

Edge lit the newly rolled cigarette and when Quinn eyed him expectantly gave another nod to signal he was listening.

‘Are you going all the way to Austin, Mr Edge?’

‘That’s my plan.’

Quinn’s grin broadened and his tone became more self-satisfied. ‘Me, I’m bound for Springdale. That’s a little community some fifteen miles south of there.’

‘Uh uh.’

‘Been our home for ten years now: me and my wife and daughter. Only good thing about this travelling I have to do every now and then is coming back to the house and my family. Where are you from, do you mind me asking?’

‘All over.’

Quinn looked at Edge with more than fleeting interest now. Registered the tall, basically lean but thickening around the belly man seated opposite him was of mixed Mexican and Anglo heritage. The Hispanic discernible in his over-long, obviously once jet black hair now streaked with grey, the angular structure of Edge’s high cheek boned face and the way he affected an underplayed moustache that turned down at each side of his thin-lipped mouth. But his eyes did not have a Latin cast, for they were glittering blue between lids that were permanently narrowed, like he spent much time outside in bright sunlight.

He wore grey pants and a blue shirt that had been part of a well-styled outfit some considerable time ago. And a battered black Stetson, creased red kerchief and scuffed riding boots that had also seen many better days. A gunbelt, a bullet in every loop, encircled his waist with a holster that could be fastened down to his right thigh with ties that hung comfortably loose at present. A Colt with a walnut butt was in the holster.

‘I’d hazard a guess the stage is not the way you usually choose to travel?’

‘My saddle and bedroll are up on the roof.’ Edge nodded to indicate the way they had come. ‘Had to sell my sick horse to the feller who runs the Pine Wells way station.’

‘I think I would also be right in guessing you are wearing what remains of a suit cut by a first class exponent of his trade? And your shirt, unless I am mistaken, costs more than many men earn in a week?’

‘I’m impressed that you know the tailoring trade so well, feller.’

‘I do not mean to pry, sir.’ He grinned with pride. ‘I have to allow my father was an expert at what he did and he lost no opportunity to pass on his skills to me.’

Quinn peered out of the window as the Concord, after leaving the wooded valley behind, continued to make steady progress out across the desolate east Texas flatlands. He went on talking about himself and his family in a manner that was overly self-satisfied and soon got to be irksome. But Edge needed to listen with just half an ear to this man who required no prompting and remained happily occupied with his complacent monologue. He claimed to have put in his share of hard work but admitted he had been blessed with more than his fair share of good luck along the way. Though he did not believe in a man’s destiny being primarily steered by the unpredictable hand of fate. He could not claim his life had been difficult on account of deprivation at any time. And he did not often over-indulge himself or his family in the luxuries of life in the normal course of events. One of the aspects of his life-style he valued most was how his wife and daughter could live anywhere they chose while he travelled to oversee the smooth running of the Quinn and Son chain of stores. But Martha and Nancy had never hankered for smart neighbourhoods in the big cities. And they had settled happily outside of Springdale in a house that was built to their own exacting specifications.

Martha, with a little help, kept the house neat and tidy and cooked fine meals: while Nancy ran a modest coffee shop in town and involved herself in many social activities that made living in a small town very amenable.

‘The girl went through a bad patch last year, it has to be said. Longer than a year ago, I guess. But once she’d had her wild fling she settled down. Now we have high hopes of a wedding in the not too distant future. I hope I do not sound too self-centred, sir?’

Edge realised he had not been paying more than a modicum of attention to what was being said as they both gazed out of the windows, Quinn sucking regularly from his bottle the level in which had sunk to less than halfway. His voice had got to be as slurred as earlier and he suddenly sounded a little maudlin. Edge’s mind brought forward the last thing said to him and he replied:

‘A man who gets what he sets out for ought to be proud of what he’s done, I figure.’

Quinn nodded firmly. ‘To tell the truth, if I didn’t go away for awhile every now and then I reckon I could easily take it all for granted. Need to leave and come back to appreciate it. Get reminded to thank my lucky stars once in awhile for how things have worked out so well for me.’

He offered the bottle again and Edge took a deeper drink than before of the finest whiskey he had tasted since he had enough money buy the suit Quinn had commented upon: of which the pants were all that was left. A time when good food, fine liquor and quality clothing were his for the asking and his style of living had been a lot closer to that of Quinn than it was now.

When he tried to return the bottle he saw the man had again sunk into a kind of sleep that was close to a drunken stupor. And he sighed with mild relief as he relished the warm afterglow of the fine whiskey once more while he enjoyed the absence of uninteresting talk. He tossed his cigarette butt out of the window and again allowed himself the opportunity to sleep if the jolting of the stage would grant him the luxury without over-indulgence in liquor to dull his sensibilities. But sleep would still not come, clearly because he had rested his fill during long, undisturbed nights; while he did nothing except reflect on his past and contemplated his future during the waking hours interrupted only by meals with the less than garrulous old timer who ran the way station.

‘Are you in any one particular line of business, sir?’

Again Edge was startled out of his detached state to be asked a direct question. He shifted his hat up off his lightly sweat run face and looked at Quinn: guessed from the way the man eyed him that he had been studying him for some time.

‘I was asking, sir, if you – ‘

‘I heard, feller. And the answer is no. When the need arises I’ll do anything legal to earn a buck.’ Edge was irritated at himself because of how he had been awake but not alert. That was happening a lot lately and although here and now there was no good reason for him to remain fully aware of what was going on around him, there was an important principle involved. For being on his guard at all times had often saved his skin in the bad old days that had recently showed signs of returning.

‘I don’t mean to pry.’

‘So quit asking so many damn questions. Here.’ He held out the bottle. Quinn took it, looked abashed for a few moments then ensured the stopper was fully pressed into the neck before he rested the bottle on the seat beside him. Then he spread a neutral expression across his fleshy face as he looked out of the window at a scene little changed since the last time either of them had surveyed the passing Texas landscape. And a minute or so later he said: ‘I do try not to talk so much.’

‘Uh?’

‘Guess it comes from sharing a house with two women for most of the time.’ He grinned. ‘Not that I’d change it. But two women and one man living at close quarters? It’s natural the man doesn’t get to say too much. That’s the reason I talk a lot when I’m away from Martha and Nancy, I suppose.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You’re not married, I take it, sir?’

‘Not for a long time.’

‘Oh?’

‘She . . . Elizabeth died.’ He had to consciously keep himself from saying
was killed.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Like I said, it was a long time ago. And a long way from here.’ He took out the makings.

‘Yes.’ Quinn slid along the seat to where he was slumped when Edge boarded the stage. It was a sudden move, completed without explanation. Then he stooped, dragged a valise from beneath the seat and stowed the bottle in it. ‘Almost home. Only a couple of miles to Springdale from the Cassidy place. Noah and Alice Cassidy own all the land from this trail right over to River Road. A lot of acres, but most of it’s scrub timber. And in one of the stands there’s a bluff with a sheer drop of more than sixty feet. Real dangerous place for stock to be, they say.’

‘Is that so,’ Edge said absently.

‘But Noah and Alice, they’re not much for ranching, anyway. Had more money that sense when they came to Springdale. Ill-gotten gains, it’s been said. Acquired in New Orleans. Maybe that’s why they squandered it the way they did.’

There was no malice in what the heavily built, wan faced, elegantly attired man said and Edge glanced at him, wondering if Quinn was talking about any random subject that flipped into his mind as a way to control the almost child-like excitement of homecoming that gripped him.

‘They’re a strange couple and no mistake. And Alice is so unlike her sister. That’s Sarah Farmer, who helps out at the school. Odd couple, sure enough. But more good-hearted than a lot of other local people. And not prejudiced like some others. Those that are dead set against . . . ‘

Edge sensed that Quinn directed a surreptitious glance toward him. ‘ . . . Mexicans and Yankees: it’s real odd for a town so close to the border but there’s not a single Mexican living in Springdale. And there are some people in town who still seem to be fighting the Civil War, in a manner of speaking?’

Edge said: ‘Since I won’t be stopping over in Springdale none of that matters to me, feller.’

Quinn peered fixedly ahead for another minute or so as he tightly clutched the handles of the valise resting on his thick thighs then started to talk again in the same eager way as earlier. ‘My wife and daughter are sure to be both at home today. Nancy takes every Wednesday off from working at the coffee shop. And we all have lunch together. Out on the terrace if the weather’s as good as it is today. Or sometimes we pack a hamper and take the buckboard out into the country. Stop on the bank of the Springdale River and have us a picnic. Cold cuts and salad with a little wine.’

‘That sounds real good, feller.’

‘You know what would sound even better, Mr Edge?’