The Blue, the Grey and the Red Page 2

Edge turned slightly to look at Heffner. The dapper little man saw the ice in the blue eyes and the dull sheen of white teeth between slightly parted lips. He recognized the expression as a silent threat and stepped back a pace. His lips trembled. ''What happened?" Edge asked softly.

  Heffner swallowed hard. "I’ll tell it at the trial," he rasped.

  "Like it was?"

  "Like I have to." He couldn't hold Edge's steady gaze.

  "What happened to the woman?"

  There seemed to be something of intense interest in the floor. Heffner shuffled his feet and riveted his attention on it. ''What woman?"

  Edge sighed and sat down on the chair Shelby had vacated. He looked at the fat man in the doorway. "Appears San Francisco is turning into a ghost town," he muttered.

  "What?" the fat man asked.

  "Forget it. Like he forgot her."

  "Heffner would remember a woman," the saloon owner said. "He likes women."

  "That's what I thought," Edge said. "And this one was real pin-up material."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Edge guessed Railston was a big man when he heard the heavy footfalls in the quiet saloon, one stride to every two of the woman who had been sent to fetch the marshal. And he was able to judge something of the man's nature from the way the trembling saloon owner hurried into the back room to allow entrance to Railston.

  "He did it, Redl" Heffner wailed, raising an accusing finger towards Edge. "He blasted Lydia Eden's little boy."

  The malodorous kerosene lamp swayed at the end of its supporting chain, seemingly with vibration from Railston's anger but perhaps from a draught of ocean air through the rear door. Railston carried a Henry repeating rifle and he swung it towards Edge with the deliberate manner of one intent upon summary execution. But then he halted, feet apart, and stared with deep malevolence at the accused man.

  "You just bought enough trouble for ten thousand men, feller," he said with quiet hatred.

  Edge cracked his lips in a cold grin. "Into every life a little rain must fall."

  "Railston was surprised by the lightness in Edge's tone and it was obvious he had come to the Royal Flush expecting to find a cowering murderer. If the marshal had been raised from his bed, he slept in his clothes, for he was fully dressed, his better than six feet frame clothed in a predominantly light grey garb of pants, shirt and buckskin jacket. His boots were black, and so was the kerchief at his neck. The ring on the kerchief and the buttons on his jacket as well as the ornamentation on his boots seemed to be made of gold. As was the five-pointed star in a circle pinned to the left lapel of his jacket. In addition to the Henry, he was armed with two Manhattan Navy Model single-action revolvers, one hanging low on each thigh. Although the marshal was some two inches shorter than Edge, he had a lot more bulk which seemed to be built of muscle at the shoulders and chest, but of softer material at his belly. His nickname came from the long, but well-trimmed hair that topped his large, bullet head and spilled down his bulbous cheeks, just failing to reach the corners of his mouth. His features were cut from a similar but larger pattern to Edge's, a fusion of handsomeness and cruelty presenting varying aspects to different people. But the skin was pale and there was in the green eyes the hint of a coward lurking behind the bravado of a badge. He spoke with a slight accent which suggested Irish parents.

  "The sun has sure gone down for you, feller," Railston said, shaking his head.

  "I'm beginning to get the impression it shone out of the kid's ass."

  Heffner was get ing braver by the moment. He giggled.

  "On your feet," Railston demanded, jerking the Henry. Edge complied, noticing for the first time that Railston had not come to the Royal Flush alone. A slight, youngish-looking man stood in the shadows of the doorway, the tinny glint of a deputy's badge in the area of his left breast.

  "Take care of the cadavers, Vic," Railston told him, without taking his steady gaze off Edge. "Turn around, feller."

  Edge began to do so, slowly.

  "Who's going to tell Mrs. Eden?" the saloon owner asked nervously.

  The question distracted Railston for a moment and as he shot an angry glance towards the fat man, the rifle wavered. Edge interrupted his turning motion and launched himself into a sudden dive across the floor, his right hand stretching out and closing over the butt of the fallen Colt. He rolled onto his back and threw his body into a sitting position, the revolver aimed steadily at a point two inches below Bailston's gold badge.

  "You want me to find out if you've got any heart, marshal?" Edge murmured softly.

  The deputy had advanced into the room and snapped out a revolver in a fast draw. The shotgun and rifle were aimed in the same direction.

  "Don't shoot!" Railston screamed and from the harsh looks he gave his deputy and the fat man it was obvious he wasn't talking to Edge.

  The saloon owner actually lowered his gun and it almost slipped from his trembling fingers. But the deputy held his aim steady.

  "Lydia wouldn't want him dead," Railston elaborated and from this Edge realized just how strong was the power wielded by Chadwick Eden's mother. Railston was less afraid for his own life than of the anger of the Woman.

  "You haven't got a chance," the young deputy said evenly.

  "More than in a courtroom," Edge answered. The coolness of Vic's expression seemed to be on the point of breaking up, like ice splintering under the pick, as he considered the validity of Edge's argument. But he held it together.

  ''You could get Red," he said. "But I'll get you."

  Edge showed his teeth, like chips of polished chalk in the darkness of the corner. "Mrs. Eden wouldn't like that."

  Vic's eyes flicked for a split second towards Railston, but it was long enough for the contempt to rise to the surface and be seen," She doesn't own me," he said.

  Heffner gasped, like a soul-deep Christian who had just heard blasphemy.

  Edge kept the Colt trained upon Railston as he spoke. "This gun has fired one shell," he said softly. "I killed Shelby in self-defense. He pulled a pepperbox. It's under the table. His shell ricocheted off the lamp and hit Eden. Heffner won't tell it like that. A whore named Emmeline Greer was here. Find her and get her to talk."

  "I'll find her," Vic said and although Edge was not looking at him, he heard enough in the tone to demand trust.

  Edge climbed carefully to his feet, maintaining his concentration upon the stoically enraged Railston. Then he suddenly reversed the Colt and tossed it underarm towards the deputy. "Check the load," he invited.

  "I’ll take that!" Railston snarled, sidestepping over to Vic and snatching the Colt from the young man's grasp. "It's evidence."

  Anger flared within Edge, but he checked it. He had made his play and put his trust in the only man who seemed to be beyond the powerful influence of Lydia Eden. And he also knew that no serious harm would come to him until they put a rope around his neck. Paradoxically, he had the woman to thank for that.

  "Here's Shelby's gun, Red," Heffner said excitedly, leaning down to reach beneath the table and handing he small pepperbox to the marshal. Railston grinned evilly and turned his back on his deputy as he checked the chambers. Then he looked at Edge and his grin brightened, emphasizing the evil within him. "Looks to me that your iron fired twice and Shelby's is as clean as a whistle, feller."

  Edge spat. "You ought to have been a locomotive engineer, marshal," he said softly. "You're a railroading expert."

  It was apparent from the deputy's expression that he agreed with the opinion. But Vic said nothing: just kept pointing his big Colt-Walker at Edge. Railston put down the two guns on the baize.

  "Turn around, feller," Railston ordered. "And no sudden moves this time. Fatso, if he so much as blinks, give him both barrels in the knees."

  Heffner giggled. "Then he won't have a leg to stand on.

  Nobody else laughed as Edge turned around, aware of the saloon owner's nervousness. Railston moved up behind him, holding the Henry easily in one hand as he drew a revolver. F
or a moment he was in both lines of fire, but Edge wasn't prepared to take the risk. The Colt swung, butt first, and crunched agonizingly upon the same spot where the woman had smashed the bottle. Edge pitched down hard, his forehead smashing into the wall. But there was no pain from the second impact because the blood-red mist had already blotted out the world.

  "He would have gone quiet, Red," Vic accused.

  "But now he ain't got no choice," Railston came back, holstering his gun, and swinging the Henry up to rest across his shoulder. "I run the law in this part of the city. And you remember that, Paxton. And you be respectful towards Mrs. Eden."

  Vic Paxton holstered his own revolver and refused to meet the marshal's steady, angry glare.

  "You goin' to tell Lydia, Red?" Fatso asked.

  RaiIston turned his anger towards the saloon owner. "Yeah, I'm going to tell her," he yelled. "After you and Heffner have carried this lousy killer down to the jailhouse. And I'm going to have to tell her that Chad was shot during a poker game in your saloon. Looks like you're finished in this town, Fatso."

  The fat man began to tremble so much that the shotgun slipped from his fingers. Saliva trickled from the comer of his mouth and cut a course through the stubble on his many chins. In the saloon his wife, Sarah, began to sob.

  "I didn't know Chad was here," he blubbered.

  "And I didn't know it was the kid I was playing," Heffner put in, his voice pitched high.

  Railston snorted and gathered up the pepperbox and Edge's Colt. He nodded towards the unmoving form of the unconscious man. "Move him," he ordered.

  "I ain't dressed," Fatso protested.

  "You don't look any better when you are," RaiIston countered and jerked his head again. The two men went forward to do his bidding. "You take care of the dead men, Paxton," he said harshly to his deputy. "Get the mortician down here to make the arrangements. Lydia Eden will probably want something special for the kid."

  "You figure the stranger did it, Red?" Paxton asked. Heffner and Fatso had hoisted Edge between them and were carrying him through the doorway. ''You ever see a feller look more like a killer?" Railston asked, prodding the Henry across the front of Heffner's body, halting him.

  The marshal and deputy looked down into the unconscious face of Edge. Even in repose it was possible to see the years of violence and killing etched deeply into the darkened skin.

  "He sure don't look like any Sunday school teacher, does he?" Heffner suggested.

  Paxton nodded his agreement with that, and Heffner and his fellow beast of burden were allowed to go out into the saloon. Railston shot a final warning glance at Paxton and followed in their wake. Paxton stood where he was for several moments, listening to the sobs of Sarah from the saloon; feeling the anger rise within him. It was visible in an expression that rested easily on his good-looking young face, for he was well practiced in the experience of frustration that had no outlet.

  He had spent all of his twenty-two years in this section of San Francisco and his entire working life as a deputy in the office of a corrupt lawman. Another youngster with the same high ideals but a lack of patience would have moved on long ago, in search of less barren territory on which to sow the seeds of honest law and order. But Paxton's strength was in his roots and they were firmly implanted in the city by the ocean. It was, basically, a good and beautiful city and the people in it were, for the most part, decent and honest. He had, therefore chosen to stay and do what he could to triumph his ideals over the powerful corrupting influences which had their fountainhead in Lydia Eden and were manifested in the iron rule of Red Railston. And having made the choice, he required all his strength and patience to bide his time.

  He was a fresh-faced young man, but there was nothing about his open, even proportioned features that suggested weakness. He had brown, well-trimmed hair with no sideburns or moustache. His eyes were widely set, an open and intelligent blue. His cheekbones were high, his jawline firm and his mouth full of lip. He stood less than six feet, but his frame was solid and, when he had to, he had a speed of movement and quickness of reflex that had surprised many larger men who had provoked him with confidence.

  As he conquered his anger at Railston's methods and began to move about the room, his ever-watchful eyes missed nothing. He noted the bullet-scarred baize which indicated the positions of Edge and Shelby, the dent in the lamp where a bullet had been deflected, the shards of glass from a broken bottle, the utter lack of bills among the scattering of cards. And his nostrils caught the faint aroma of a heady perfume, the last remnants of which still remained to be wafted away by the soft breeze off the Pacific. Then he checked Shelby's inert body and found nothing of interest. But the side pocket of Eden's well-cut, expensive jacket was more productive. As he delved a hand inside, Paxton thought he had found a dozen or so silver dollars, but when he brought them out he saw he had been mistaken. They were the same size as coins, but seemed to be made of bronze. In the center of each was a dollar sign and the figure five. Around the edge was inscribed the legend: GOOD FOR ONE SCREW. Paxton counted them and discovered Eden had bought fifty dollars worth of time with the woman. He put one in his own pocket and returned the remainder to Eden. Then he went out into the darkened saloon, not sure whether the time had come to make his stand against Railston and the rule of Lydia Eden, but hopeful. Sarah had drained herself dry of tears and was sitting at a table, very erect, as if in a trance. Her eyes seemed dead in their sockets as they followed Paxton's easy progress across the empty saloon.

  "Mr. Paxton?" she called as he was about to push through the bats-wing doors. He halted and looked back. "Yes, Sarah," he anticipated. "Mrs. Eden really can run you out of the city if she has a mind to seek more revenge than hanging a man."

  "I know," the drained woman answered. "I was going to ask you. Will you take in Mint Julep? He'll be more comfortable in one of the cells."

  He looked where she was looking and saw what seemed to be a pile of rags on the floor at one end of the bar. He sighed and moved across to the man, sleeping peacefully in a drunken stupor.

  "We must have the quietest town drunk in the Far West," he said, showing his wiry strength in the ease with which he tossed the unconscious man over his shoulder. "He'll miss this place when we're closed up," Sarah said plaintively. "He was always sure of an hour pushing broom here."

  Paxton wanted to tell her not to worry, but the slight store of self-confidence he had generated in the back room was already beginning to ebb. For the dirty grey of a new dawn was lightening the darkness of the night out in the street. Alone in the dark hours the mind is capable of triumphing over the greatest adversity: but in the cold light of a new day the harshness of reality calls upon a man for more than the tenuous abstraction of the mere desire to do what is right. So he held his silence as he carried the sleeping drunk out of the saloon and crossed to the opposite sidewalk to thud a fist against the glass door of the undertaker's parlor. The funereal old timer was by turns angry at being aroused so early, shocked by the fact of two violent deaths, and delighted to learn that he would have the profitable privilege of handling the arrangements for Chadwick Eden's interment.

  When Paxton reached the jail behind the courthouse he found it was empty, save for the still unconscious Edge who was sprawled carelessly upon the straw mattress in the strongest cell. The young deputy put Mint Julep in the adjacent cell, then sat down in Railston's comfortable swivel chair behind the large oak desk. He turned up the wick in the lamp and took out the token he had removed from Chadwick Eden's body, studying it intently as he held it in the circle of his thumb and index finger.

  In his cell, Edge did not move. But his subconscious was aware of the abrupt brightening of the light level. It received this as a kind of signal and triggered an impulse into the forefront of the inert mind. Edge's eyes snapped open and immediately reacted to a great bolt of pain that exploded behind them. The lids fell back as the mind refused to accept the agony of awareness and the man's physical body was forced involu
ntarily down into the depths of insensitive unconsciousness. But in the split-second when they had been focused upon the world outside, the retinas of the eyes had been imprinted with a face that was familiar but which did not at once register into a pattern of memory. And the mind was no longer allowed to lay dormant for the face was part of a nightmare and there could be no waking until the veils of the past were ripped aside and the memory placed in its proper context.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The bloody battle of Shiloh was over and although Captain Josiah C. Hedges had learned from an official briefing that the total losses to both the Union and Rebel armies exceeded twenty thousand men he could feel nothing more than a mild sense of anger at the wretched uselessness of the war. He had survived, and whatever fatalities had decimated his cavalry troop was caused through no fault of his. He had come to terms with the war, seeing himself in the role of a man with a job to do. And the job was to kill the enemy and to survive in order to kill more of them. Shiloh, like every other battle and each skirmish in which he had been engaged, had served to prove him able in the task and taught him new ways to be better at it.* (*See: Edge #4, Killers Breed.)

  The summer of 1862 had run its course and throughout the ungentle autumn that followed there were rumors of the war coming to an end. Few placed any credence in the stories, accepting them for what they were: desperate fantasies called up by miserable minds to act as props to sagging morale in the cold, shortening days. But every man needed hope and it was the desire to see some grain of truth in the rumors that kept them proliferating.

  "I hear there's going to be a truce starting Christmas Day," Roger Bell said to Bill Seward as the cavalry troop picked its slow way down a rutted, frozen trail on a hillside in central Tennessee.

  They were both young troopers who might have grown up to be honest, hard-working farmers had not the United States erupted into civil war. Now they had been aged and embittered by the fighting and the future would never be good enough for them, because underlying their disenchantment with the war was the knowledge that killing came easy. And their bitterness was created out of the fact that after each murderous encounter with the enemy they had gained nothing. They had joined the Union cause without a cause of their own except perhaps to search for adventure. But the adventure had turned sour because achievement, if such existed, was experienced solely by the staff generals who were able to move a map marker back or forth at the conclusion of each battle. So they grew visibly older every time they killed and with the hardening of their hearts there came a strengthening of their determination to put their newly acquired skills to good use when the time was ripe.