The Outrage - Edge Series 3 (5 page)

CHAPTER • 3

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NOBODY RAISED even a cynical smile as Edge walked alongside the limping Harry
Shelby across the intersection toward the start of River Road. Which was not surprising amid the atmosphere of grim faced despondency that gripped the townspeople. Shelby, his dark eyes empty of emotion while the beard concealed the set of his mouth line, chose not to explain the tragedy that had taken place at the Quinn house. And he remained stoically taciturn until after Edge had saddled a strong looking pinto gelding and then offered terse directions in response to his customer’s query.

West along Texas Avenue to where it swung north and became the Austin Trail. Two miles or so beyond the town limits was a sign that pointed left toward the Springdale River. Off this spur, that was called the Old Town Road, was a track that led to the Quinn house. As Edge rode slowly along River Road away from the ramshackle livery and blacksmith forge, then moved between the sprawl of buildings that housed businesses engaged in the cotton trade on either side of Texas Avenue he was aware of resentment quivering in the heat of the afternoon. Like the townspeople viewed him as a less than welcome stranger in their prosperous community.

Which was becoming a familiar experience for him since an attempt to turn over a new leaf in his life had proved to be a futile exercise. Not so long ago it had happened in a town called Dalton Springs across in the Territory of Arizona. And then fate had directed him to Bishopsburg, south of San Antonio. In both these places his liking for poker had forced him to take up jobs of work that caused him to run foul of local feelings because others did not have the stomach for the dangerous chores that needed to be done.

But here in Springdale he was in a different situation. He had no pressing need of money because the stake he had gotten together in Bishopsburg had been satisfying increased by an unexpected run of good luck at card games in a couple of San Antonio saloons. And he was on his way to Austin simply for a change of scene and maybe to find fresh games at which to win money or to explore the possibilities of a new business venture. So why the hell was he doing as he was now? With the blatant disapproval of the local population he had been forewarned were largely prejudiced against the kind of man his mixed race bloodline had fashioned him to be? For no good reason: that was the short and simple answer. He had acted on impulse that was totally out of character for him. But there again, wasn’t he something of a reformed character? At least, was he not attempting to become one?

He directed a soft-spoken curse at himself for wasting time reflecting on a subject that had no logical conclusion beyond the fact that he was doing a favour for a man he hardly knew who was in trouble - and the kind of reformed character he was trying to become should not need to question such a motive. Or was he putting up some kind of half-ass challenge to the local people’s dislike of Mexicans and Yankees?

What the hell . . !

He got his first sight of the Quinn home from near the end of a track that cut off the Old Town Road when he glimpsed a steeply pitched red tile roof and section of stone upper story with a latticed window set into it. And soon he rode between freshly painted wrought iron gates held open by chains in a four feet high, two rail white painted wooden fence that separated rough meadowland and timber from mown grass, carefully maintained shrubbery and strategically placed young trees.

The surface beneath the horse’s hooves had changed from hard packed dirt to gravel after he started to ride along the driveway flanked by lawns. Which swung first to the left and then to the right until the entire sun-bathed façade of the fine looking house came into view, in back of a broad half-circular expanse of gravel that was large enough for wagons to turn without difficulty.

Here an enclosed vehicle drawn by two horses was starting to move away from the foot of some broad cement steps that rose to a terraced guarded by an ornate balustrade. The team, the wagon and the worse-for-wear clothing of the middle-aged man who held the reins were all black. And although there was no sign painted on the side panels of the rig it seemed likely that it was Jed Winter who acknowledged Edge with a curt nod. Edge tipped his Stetson toward the cherubic featured little fat man who was surely the Springdale undertaker and glanced at the rear double doors of the wagon as it rolled by. Wondered which of the two Quinn women was travelling to town for a final time. He dismounted where three animals were hitched to a rail at one side of the steps – the roan Quinn had ridden from Springdale and two tough looking quarter horses with rifles in the forward hung boots. He carried the valise up the steps and then across the flagstones between some rustic furniture and several planters filled with brightly coloured blooms. As he neared the brass studded oak door within a porch it was swung partially open and a tall, broadly built, darkly tanned man in his mid-forties looked at the caller with a hard eyed stare that held a latent threat of violence. He was dressed in a check shirt and black pants, wore a deputy’s badge on his chest and packed an ivory butted Colt .45 in the holster on his right hip.

‘What d’you want?’ The man’s Deep South voice, more prominently accented than any Edge had heard in town, was as mean as his expression and warned he was as irascibly hard as he looked.

Edge held out the valise. ‘Came to return this to the feller who left it behind. That was at the stage depot in Springdale.’

The deputy took the bag. ‘That’ll be Mr Quinn. I’ll see he gets it.’

He started to close the door and Edge needed to make a conscious effort not to thrust a foot forward to block the move. But then he figured it would have been a dumb thing to do. His purpose in coming here was complete he kidded himself. And whatever had happened behind the door that was about to be closed by the glowering lawman was no business of his.

‘If you ever get sociable enough to talk with Quinn, tell him I brought my condolences as well as his bag. Name’s Edge.’

The lawman’s scowl darkened as he readied himself to snarl a caustic response but bit back on the words when Quinn called from deep inside the big house:

‘Edge? Is that you, Edge? It’s all right, Lacy! Kindly show my good friend Mr Edge inside!’

Springdale’s glowering deputy sheriff swung the door open wider and jerked his head to signal Edge should enter. Said in a low tone that continued to express enmity born of his instant dislike for the stranger to town: ‘If you ain’t heard all the details yet, his wife and daughter have both been killed. Real messy. Sheriff says we gotta take it easy with him, okay?’

Edge replied out of the side of his mouth: ‘I’ll do what I can, feller. You’re welcome to listen: maybe pick up a tip or two?

Quinn called: ‘We’re here in the parlour.’

Edge followed the sound of the icily calm voice: crossed the hall and went through an open doorway opposite the foot of a staircase that rose to a galleried landing. The stark whiteness of the walls and ceiling and the faint smell of furniture polish in the air made him overly aware of this travel stained condition.

Quinn, who looked as calm as he had sounded, sat in a comfortable armchair to one side of an impressive fireplace, as fully dressed as he had been on the stage. Sheriff Meeker stood with his back to the fireplace and was also dressed in a business suit but it was a shabby three-piece of a cheap pin stripe fabric. Either out of respect or by coincidence he wore a funereal black tie. He held a cold pipe by the bowl in his right hand while the fingertips of his left traced the heavily fleshed line of his jaw.

Meeker was in his late fifties, maybe five and a half feet tall and flabbily broad at the shoulders and hips. Above his bulky frame his face was round and variegated. The shape because he was a fat man, the dull red and blue coloration probably on account of an unhealthy lifestyle. He had three chins that stepped down from his thick lipped mouth into his short neck and a full head of tightly curled, black and grey hair neatly trimmed at the back and sides. Contrasting with the frayed and stained suit his shoes were new looking and had a high shine. If he had a revolver it was a small weapon and one not carried on a holstered gunbelt.

‘This is Vic Meeker, our county sheriff, Edge. Vic, this is Mr Edge. He shared the stage with me from Pine Wells to town. Edge, both Martha and Nancy are dead: assaulted and murdered. They didn’t deserve to die that way.’

The lawman and Edge exchanged a nod as the introductions were made then Edge looked about him as Quinn gestured with a tremulous hand that was the only overt sign he may at any moment lose his eerily calm composure. First glanced at where two blankets were draped over the sofa facing the fireplace, contouring it closely enough to outline the shape of the piece of furniture and three loose cushions upon it. Then at another blanket spread on the floor just inside the doorway, near a sideboard from which a bottle of liquor and several glasses had been jolted to the carpet, some of them broken. A bottle and two glasses were still on top.

‘Bad business.’ Meeker both looked and sounded uncomfortably out of his depth in the situation.

Edge said to Quinn: ‘You left your bag at the stage depot, feller. I just now gave it to the deputy.’

‘Thanks. It was good of you to take the trouble. This wasn’t why I asked you to give Austin a miss for awhile, was it, my friend?’ He interlocked his fingers in his lap but not quite soon enough to stop his hands from shaking. He was clearly in deep shock but the groundwork for learning bad news had been laid when the stage arrived. So maybe the passing of time had lessened the anguish to some extent and now he was numb. There was a stiffly automatic manner about the way he rose from the chair and looked from Edge to Meeker as he asked: ‘A drink, gentlemen?’

Meeker said: ‘Not for me.’

Edge shook his head.

The bereaved man moved rigidly to the sideboard, uncaring that broken glass crunched under his feet. Then carefully, as if afraid a more violent shuddering would attack him, he uncorked the bottle of bourbon and splashed a shot into a crystal tumbler. He took a drink, not too much, and peered fixedly at Edge who was now closer to him than Meeker.

‘We have a beat up old wreck of a buckboard, Edge. For some reason whenever my wife went to town she always preferred to drive it instead of the new buggy. This morning she went by way of the Old Town Road instead of taking the main trail and a spoke snapped. It seemed she tried to change the wheel but the spare was busted, too. If only I’d remembered to get the damn thing fixed when I said I would weeks ago it’s likely Martha would still be . . . ‘

He took another gulp of his drink.

Meeker advised as he struck a match: ‘You sure it’s a good idea, Mr Quinn: going over it again so soon? If you reckon it’s necessary for Edge to know the details, I can tell him everything that’s happened.’

‘No, I need to talk about it, Vic. If it’s all the same to you?’

The lawman shrugged his thick shoulders. ‘Whatever you want.’ He lit the pipe. Quinn drained his glass and set it back on the sideboard. ‘Way it turned out, the broken down buckboard caused the alarm to be raised. The Widow Travis – that’s Mabel Travis who teaches school in Springdale with Sarah Farmer – was taking a walk along the Old Town Road. She saw the rig blocking the way but was able to get by okay on foot. Then she met Tod Bell driving his buggy. Bell’s our closest neighbour. Retired now, he used to be a house builder.’

Quinn was obviously talking for the sake of it but neither Edge nor the lawman could think of any way to cut him off in mid flow.

‘The Widow Travis told him how the road was blocked by our buckboard and both of them came up to the house to see if Martha had arranged to have it moved. Old Man Bell recalled passing Martha at just about the place where she left the buckboard and it was probably him who caused the wheel to snap. He’s got a reputation around here for driving like a maniac and running people off the road. He’s pretty old and half blind and really shouldn’t be allowed to drive a buggy.’

Now Meeker interrupted the distraught man’s talking jag as his voice rose and his expression became vitriolic. ‘Take it easy, Mr Quinn. Even if that’s what happened, you can’t blame Tod Bell for your wife and daughter being . . . And anyway, the chances are it was a straightforward accident. The wheel snapping out in the gully. The fact that Mrs Quinn came back here to – ‘

‘All right. Sure, I’m sorry.’ He made to reach for the bourbon bottle again but withdrew his hand as he gave an adamant shake of his head. ‘Anyway, they came up to the house and hammered on the door. And when they couldn’t get an answer they looked in through that window.’ He pointed to one of the two windows in the room: the one that looked out over the terrace. ‘And saw Nancy on the sofa. Martha was on the floor where this other blanket is.’

Edge glanced impassively at the areas Quinn indicated while the bereaved, tautly controlled man took several deep breaths and the uncomfortable sheriff re-lit his pipe.

‘I’m okay,’ Quinn responded to an unasked question as he looked from Edge to Meeker before he gazed into the middle distance and continued to give an account of the double killing. ‘The way Vic has figured it out from what he found after Bell and Mabel Travis went to town to get him, Martha or Nancy let two men into the house. There’s no sign of any broken windows or door locks. And people around here have kept their houses shut up tight since the area was hit by a spate of robberies.’