The Outrage - Edge Series 3 (4 page)

‘What’s that?’

‘If you agreed to accompany us on a picnic like that. Or had lunch with us on the terrace if that’s what Martha and Nancy have got planned.’

‘I ain’t – ‘

Quinn pressed on earnestly: ‘I’m sure I’ve given you an entirely wrong impression of the town. Most people there are – ‘

‘I’m much obliged, feller, but I’m headed for Austin.’ Edge was disconcertingly touched by the offer of hospitality and felt a trace of remorse for having been such a reluctant listener to the anxious to be liked man.

‘For something special? Something that means you have to be there in a hurry? I know you don’t approve of prying, but I don’t intend that, sir. ‘I’m just intrigued to know why a man would turn down excellent food in wonderful surroundings. With pleasant company, too - I refer to my wife and daughter, of course - unless he has a good reason?’

‘If you don’t mean to pry into my business, then don’t do it,’ Edge growled sourly as his brief empathy for the man evaporated. And he peered fixedly out of the window, then shot a glance toward the other passenger in the noisy, jolting Concord and saw that Quinn was unaffected by the crass ingratitude

Quinn said: ‘You are perfectly right, of course. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry about the way I seem to go a little crazy when I get home after being away for more than a day or two. This time it seems my insanity has apparently taken the form of wanting to share my good luck. Demonstrate to somebody else how fortune has smiled on me. Please forget it. Forget I said anything about anything, sir. I’m a babbling fool and no mistake about that.’

Quinn peered out of the window on his side of the stage as he made the apology and offered his excuse. Then he shifted his gaze to look directly ahead. And Edge saw he wore a foolish grin, as if to confirm how much of an idiot he considered himself.

‘No sweat, feller.’

One of the two men up on the Concord’s box seat yelled above the clatter of the stage:

‘Springdale in five minutes, folks! Five minutes to Springdale! Gonna have a thirty minute stopover there!’

Edge sensed Quinn was watching him quizzically and asked: ‘You got something else on your mind?

‘Merely a recommendation, sir. If during the stopover in town you are in need of refreshment not of the alcohol variety, please do try Nancy’s café. There’s a choice of coffee strengths available and a fine selection of cakes and pastries. Although, like I said, Nancy won’t be in charge today. But Muriel Mandrell and her daughter always provide excellent service when my daughter isn’t on duty.’

Edge found it easy to show a half smile that he hoped went a little way to negating the effect of his earlier ill humour with this man trying so hard to make amends when he was not at fault in the first place.

‘Much obliged but I don’t reckon I’m turned out for paying a visit to a café run by ladies.’

Quinn studied Edge briefly and there was in his eyes a dull glaze that signalled he continued to feel the effects of too much liquor. Then he nodded. ‘Perhaps you are right, sir. In which case the Grand Hotel has a first class saloon.
Grand
is rather a misnomer I’ve always felt. There’s certainly no need to dress formally to pay a visit there. If I were not so anxious to return to the bosom of my family – and hadn’t already slaked my thirst so well from my own supply . . . ‘ He tapped the valise. ‘Then I would be happy to join you.’

‘Maybe I’ll stop by the place for a beer, feller.’ Edge dropped his cigarette butt to the floor and ground it out under a heel.

Then they both withdrew into silence as they returned to watching the passing scene from their respective windows: one seeing this part of east Texas for a disinterested first time and the other drinking in the familiar sights with unconcealed enthusiasm. After twisting and turning for so many miles through undulating country the trail had for some time been cutting straight as an arrow along the centre of a broad east to west valley. Northward cotton plantations stretched from the trail to the lower slopes of the distant valley side while to the south was an expanse of grazing land featured here and there with extensive stands of broad leaf timber: maybe a section of the Cassidy land of which Quinn had spoken. Then the Concord began to slow on the start of a street between a stone church at the rear of a walled cemetery to the south side and the clapboard Avery County School behind a picket fence opposite. Next were some large and elegant houses of two and three stories in their own hedge-bordered yards. There was a line of smaller houses without front yards on the north side for a while and opposite some homes that were like scaled down versions of the larger ones on this street that a sign named as Texas Avenue East. The commercial centre of Springdale was at an intersection with First Street that cut off to the north and River Road to the south.

This was where the stage rolled to a halt and the driver repeated parrot fashion the name of the town and duration of the stopover like he had a full load of passengers. There followed a shouted exchange between the driver and a shirt sleeved and leather aproned man named Frank who came out of the stage line depot immediately across the sidewalk from where Edge stepped down from the Concord. Just a handful of curious bystanders waited nearby but many others were showing a keen interest in the arrival of the stage from a distance.

The depot was on Texas Avenue’s north side with the telegraph office next to it on the corner of First Street. Its second immediate neighbour was the law office and on the other corner of First was a building that housed the
Springdale News and Avery County Journal,
the newspaper’s name neatly sign-written on each of its first and second story windows. Across from here on the corner of Texas Avenue West and River Road was the balcony facaded Grand Hotel. And on the other side of River Road and also with a frontage on Texas Avenue was the Springdale Cotton Company headquarters. Stores and other business premises supplying and providing many kinds of merchandise and services were aligned along each side of all three streets for a considerable distance. Then there were more houses flanking First Street and River Road while beyond the intersection on Texas Avenue West were factories and warehouses devoted to the processing and storage of cotton and the manufacture of cotton goods.

‘Howdy, Mr Quinn, sir,’ a tall, broadly built man showing a doleful expression leading a saddled roan gelding greeted as Edge’s fellow passenger came carefully down the step off the stage.

Quinn blinked in the bright sunlight of midday and smiled in the slightly foolish way that was his wont as he continued to experience the effects of too much whiskey mixed with the high excitement and keen anticipation of the simple pleasures of homecoming.

‘Harry, it’s good to see you. This is Mr Edge: a new friend of mine. Edge, meet Harry Shelby, who’s the town blacksmith and liveryman.’

‘Glad to know you,’ Shelby said absently to Edge as he continued to look mournfully at Quinn.

And Edge now noticed that the small knot of people who had come to meet the stage were looking toward Quinn with much the same degree of solemnity as Shelby: their dark mood totally at odds with the newly returned to town man’s own state of carefree happiness. While the people watching from further along the streets that met here also appeared to be weighed down by some kind of heavy emotional burden that made them often hang their heads and shuffle their feet like they were embarrassed by their interest in the newly arrived stage.

‘Something wrong here, Frank?’ the grizzled, squint eyed shotgun rider on the stage asked when the driver and depot man had completed the brief passing back and forth of company information.

The question and the heavy silence it drew in response at last overcame Quinn’s exuberance and he looked hurriedly about himself. While the smile on his fleshy, pale complexioned face remained fixedly in place for a few more moments before it died. Then he clamped his lips tightly together as he recognised he was at the centre of grave attention.

‘What’s happened? Matt? Sarah?’ He looked first at a handsome, grim faced young man of twenty or so who had emerged from the barbershop across the street. Then at an attractive red headed woman of about forty who was on the verge of tears. Reeled off more names as his head swung from side to side. ‘Muriel . . ? Sawyer . . ? Virgil . . ? Joe . . ?

Won’t somebody please tell me?’

The old timer he asked last was actually spilling tears down his heavily wrinkled face beneath the peak of what seemed to be a seafarer’s cap. Edge noticed, inconsequentially that he was the only armed townsman present, with a twin barrel shotgun canted to a thin shoulder.

It was the bearded, dark eyed, slightly gimpy liveryman who answered while the man with the shotgun struggled to find his voice. ‘There’s been trouble at your place, Mr Quinn. The sheriff and Max Lacy are out there now.’

‘Along with Jed Winter.’ This from Virgil, who was as old as Joe, wore wire frame spectacles and needed a cane to walk.

‘Oh my God, Winter is the undertaker!’ Quinn said hoarsely and fixed his gaze on Edge. Who had come to realise that each new piece of information revealed and every change in the expressions and voices of the men and women around the stage augured tragic news of the worst kind for the suddenly apprehensive man.

Shelby limped forward and extended the reins of the roan as he urged: ‘Be best for you to get on out to your place, I reckon.’

‘What’s happened?’ Quinn let his valise drop to the ground and took the reins as Shelby turned to move quickly away, like he had decided that delivering the horse ended his contribution to easing the anguish of the disconcerted man.

Quinn wrenched his head from side to side to demand more shrilly: ‘I asked you people what’s happened. Please, I beg of you! Won’t somebody tell me?’

‘Old Mrs Travis found – ‘ the acne scarred young man who Quinn had called Sawyer started as he brushed strands of long hair of his face.

‘Best thing is for you to get home and talk with Sheriff Meeker. Find out about things for yourself, Mr Quinn. It’s really bad by all accounts.’ The speaker was the faded beauty of forty or so named Muriel: probably Muriel Mandrell, who helped out Quinn’s daughter at her coffee shop, Edge thought.

‘Mabel Travis’s account made it sound real bad anyways,’ the shotgun toting Joe augmented flatly.

Quinn let go of the reins, raised both hands to his face and said something too muffled to be understood. Then he wrenched his hands down to reveal ashen features set with a wooden expression of utter desolation.

‘Oh, my God,’ he muttered tautly, gathered up the reins and swung awkwardly up into the saddle. Swept his anguished gaze over the faces of the people looking up at him while his lips moved soundlessly as he tried to speak. But he could not gain control of his vocal chords and his expression offered no clue to what he wanted to say.

Then it seemed to Edge that the distraught man’s gaze remained fixed upon him for a stretched second longer than anyone else and during that time signalled a heartfelt plea for help. Next he tugged on the reins to wheel the horse and thudded in his heels to command an instant gallop. To set the animal racing west along Texas Avenue, its clattering hooves raising a billowing cloud of dust in the hot, still, early afternoon air.

‘I guess you rent horses, feller?’ Edge asked Shelby and stooped to pick up the valise Quinn had abandoned.

The bearded liveryman shifted his gaze away from the galloping horse and peered at Edge who now looked up at the stage driver and extended his free hand.

‘Be obliged if you’d pass me down my gear.’

As this was done Harry Shelby said: ‘I sure do have mounts to rent mister. A buck a day is what I charge for an animal. I see you got your own tack, so won’t be needing none of mine.’

Edge nodded and hefted his gear under an arm as he said: ‘Seems we can do business, feller.’ He stepped down off the sidewalk.

‘Hey,’ the stage driver said. ‘I thought you had a ticket through to Austin, mister.’

Edge was covertly surprised by his own inexplicable impulsiveness as he held the steady gaze of the man up on the high seat. Then he showed a sardonic grin as he answered:

‘Getting old, I guess.’

The puzzled driver asked: ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Me not going all the way, feller. It’s getting so that these days there are more and more times when I have trouble finishing what I start.’