EDGE: The Blind Side Page 9

  Edge paid only scant attention to the depart­ing figure of O'Rouke—and to the trio of men coming along the street from the now darkened Cattlemen’s Association building. And he had already seen, as he drew closer, that Fallon's brightly lit but far from noisy nightlife was centered upon the Palace Saloon and the Gourmet Restaurant that was directly opposite each other. Both these were doing good business from the way in which their win­dows were fogged by condensation. Both hav­ing drawn some of their patrons from the earlier customers of the stores which were now starting to close for the night. Hardware and grocery, a bakery and a meat market, a hat shop and a toy shop. Already closed was a gun­smith, the barbering parlor and the bath house.

  Riding between the facades of the business premises, Edge was conscious that he was still of interest to the people of the street—men, women and a few children—who were loading supplies on to wagons, moving from one store to another with laden baskets, conversing in small groups, or already starting for home in all directions: on foot, astride horses and aboard rigs. Ordinary-looking, small-town people who were neither wealthy nor poverty stricken, in every age group from youth to old age. Living a good life in this lush Arizona valley to which trouble was no doubt an infre­quent visitor. Apprehensive then, when they saw how some of their number reacted to the appearance of this stranger so soon after the quartet of cattle rustlers had been brought to town and locked in the jailhouse. Their minds set almost to rest when the threat of blazing guns between the stranger and the C-bar-S men faded. And confident that the continued peace and safety of Fallon and its people was fully restored after their lawman had said what he had to—in no uncertain terms, from the way he took a hold of the stranger's horse and made him listen. So that now there was merely mild curiosity in the surreptitious glances sent in the half-breed's direction as he angled across the town's main intersection to head for the two-story Fallon House Hotel sited some two hundred yards along the quiet side street: the people who were interested at all in him were simply intrigued by why this travel-stained man in the rain-sodden clothing should have caused such a stir by his entry into town.

  Edge could understand why this should be, but then he paid no further attention to those who wondered about him—as he put his back to the peering eyes and rode at the same easy pace as before toward the brick and timber hotel which had a jutting sign above the second floor balcony advertising its name and the fact that it offered ROOMS, BATH, LIVERY SERVICE. Under the sign, which like the rest of the building was in dire need of repainting, the Rochford's covered wagon was parked. The mules were out of the traces and the rear off-side corner was jacked up on blocks, the wheel removed.

  Light from an upper floor window illumin­ated the sign and also spilled across the bal­cony and down on to the familiar wagon. This was augmented at street level by a little more light that escaped from the draped windows and opaque glass panels of the double doors to the lobby. Doors which were jerked open abruptly to lay a much brighter wedge of light across the stoop and over the wagon as Edge dismounted from the gelding. At the center of which was the elongated shadow of a man who stepped across the threshold and then came to an abrupt halt with a gasp. A tall and thin, old and sallow-skinned man who looked like he was irritable for most of the time—not just when he was in a hurry.

  "You startled me, sir!" he snapped when he had composed himself. "Which is not good for anybody, let me tell you! Especially not good for somebody of advanced years! Who on this occasion is already agitated at having cause to leave a fine supper unnecessarily!"

  He was hatless, wore a smoking jacket, baggy pants and carpet slippers. No tie and one side of his starched collar had escaped the stud and was sticking up under his ear. In one hand he was clutching the black, bulky bag of a medical man while the other was pressed to the left side of his chest.

  "If you want a second opinion, doc, I figure you'll live," Edge told the vexed old man evenly as he hitched the reins of the gelding to the railing of the stoop.

  "I was not joking!"

  "Guess that ain't your way. Same as scaring people to death ain't mine."

  The doctor dropped his free hand to his side and did a double take at the half-breed. Then grunted, and scowled as he moved away from the threshold, across the stoop and down the steps. And looked hard at Edge again as he swung around him, close to—snapped:

  "Yes, your kind prefer the more reliable methods, if I am not deceived! So I will be pre­pared for a call on my services for the duration of your stay in Fallon, young man!"

  Then he hurried off along the street, heading for the intersection, his soured attitude to the world in general—and no longer Edge in partic­ular—emphasized in every movement of his frame and limbs.

  "Evenin' to you, mister," a woman greeted cheerfully from the open doorway of the hotel. "Don't pay no attention to Doc McCall. His trouble is that he's as mad as they come, but since he's the only one around here got the qualifications to say if a person's crazy, ain't nothin' can be done about him. You want a room?”

  Edge looked from the angrily striding form of McCall to the full-blown, provocatively posed figure of the painted-faced, blond-haired, perfume-smelling woman of forty some who stood in the doorway—displaying a smile that had perhaps been alluring twenty or even fif­teen years ago.

  "A room, a bath and a livery for my horse, ma'am," the half-breed answered. "Just what the sign says."

  "And like the sign says, mister," she said, moving her body so that the red dress she wore more closely contoured her large breasts and broad hips, "a room, a bath and a livery is all you get at Rosie Shay's place since a long time gone. I've risen above the old ways of the old days. But some habits die hard."

  She straightened up from the doorframe and the whore's smile altered into something close to an embarrassed grin. As Edge drew back his lips to reveal his teeth in a grin of his own that used to be ice cold—lately got something close to warmth into the slitted eyed—and answered:

  "Ain't much that is like it used to be, Rosie. Heard tell how these days doctors don't make house calls."

  Chapter Eleven

  The Rochfords had a second story room at the rear of the Fallon House Hotel, Rosie Shay told Edge without him needing to ask. All he did say to her was:

  "Like to get my horse in the stable before I get fixed up myself, Rosie."

  "My livery's across the street and a couple of buildin's along, mister. But I'll take care of your animal if you want to get yourself settled in and cleaned up some. You can take any room in the place that's got a number on the door. Exceptin' for seven upstairs at the back. Couple that come to town aboard this wagon got that one. Poor man had some kinda accident that hurt his eyes—made him blind. Doc McCall that was just up to see him says as how maybe the unfortunate man will be able to see again. If he gets the right kinda treatment. Which can't be had no place around here. Maybe closest place is some hospital back east.

  " 'Best we can do here is let him rest quiet until he's strong enough to do some more travellin', is what Doc McCall says. Englishman, he is. And got a wife the same. Talk real well, the both of them. Like they was out of the very top drawer, you know what I mean? But if you ask me, she ain't no better than she should be. When they reaches here, it's just before a buckled up wheel on the wagon was about to give out and collapse. Her and me get her hus­band who's out like a light up to my quietest room and then she seems to be more concerned about the busted wheel than the man.

  "I have to tell her where she can find Silas Reeves who's Fallon's blacksmith and wheelwright. And ladykiller, you know what I mean? Silas Reeves don't only come with her to take off the wheel. He takes her off as well. Leavin' me to fret about her poor husband. Who lays quiet for awhile, but then comes outta it and starts to moan with the pain. Which frightens me, mister. On account of I think that maybe he'll die. And dead people give me the creeps. So I goes runnin' for Doc McCall, but by the time he gets back here with me, Mr. Rochford is passed out again. And Doc
McCall can't do nothin' except say the Englishman has gotta see some special eye doctor. Then he bawls me out for disturbin' his lousy supper . . . and I'm takin' too damn much which is what a person on her own is inclined to do when there's a willin' listener. But a person that's on her own don't ever have anythin' of interest to say. Aw, shit, I'll go put your horse in the livery."

  The half-breed had unsaddled the gelding while Rosie Shay directed the fast-spoken barrage of words at him, the expression on h fleshy and over-painted face rapidly changing to match her subject. Then, with the saddle under one arm and the bedroll draped over the other shoulder, he waited patiently at the foot; of the steep steps for her to finish. Which she, did, with another embarrassed grin.

  "Obliged," Edge said as she came down the steps and he went up them.

  "Bath house is out back, mister. Guess the fire'11 be nearly out now. Lit it in the event the English couple ... aw shit, there I go again!"!

  She took hold of the reins, unhitched them from around the railing and led the horse around the rear of the jacked-up wagon and across the street. While Edge crossed the stoop, entered the hotel and experienced the pleasant touch of stove-heated air against the heavily bristled flesh of his face. This wafted into the small lobby through an open doorway to one side. From a stove in a corner of what was ob­viously the one-time whore's living quarters—where she had been sitting in a comfortable armchair close to an ornate lamp, knitting a shawl, before the pained moans of a badly injured man interrupted her.

  Geoffrey Rochford was quiet now, and the only sounds in the hotel were made by the flames in the stove and the footfalls of Edge-as he veered away from the inviting-looking scene beyond the open doorway to Rosie Shay's room and headed for the closed door in the rear wall of the lobby. Beyond this there was a windowless room that, with the door closed at his back, felt luxuriously warm. For the fire in its stove had not yet gone out—gave off a faint glow from the grate and caused wisps of steam to rise from the undisturbed surface of the large pot of water on its top. There was a kerosene lamp suspended from the ceiling, but Edge did not light it. Instead, stir­red the ashes into more forceful life and in their brighter glow transferred the water from the pot to a hip bath. Stripped himself naked except for the beaded thong and razor pouch at his neck and sat for maybe a full two minutes in the off-the-boil but nonetheless still steam­ing water—with his eyes closed, his lips drawn back in a grin and his nude body totally unmoving. Wallowing in the sheer pleasure of feeling warm, unthreatened and at ease. Then he soaped himself all over, and rinsed off all the suds except for those on his face—which he scraped off along with the bristles. Needed no mirror as he drew the blade of the straight razor over his flesh with the deft and fast movements of long practice.

  Then he tipped the scummed water from the tub into a drain in the corner beside the stove and just for a moment or so regretted he had no fresh clothes to put on after drying himself and finger-combing his hair. But although his crumpled and trail-dirtied clothing struck damply chill against his flesh, at least when he stepped out of the bath house he felt considerably better than when he went in thirty minutes earlier.

  Rosie Shay had obviously been waiting and listening for him to emerge, for she opened the door of her private room as soon as he stepped into the lobby.

  "Horse has got feed and water and a dry stall, mister," she reported. "As a widow woman on her own, I usually eat the Gour­met Restaurant unless I'm havin' somethin' cold. As cheap and less trouble than cookin' for one. But if you want a home-cooked meal, I'll be happy to—"

  "Just what the sign says, Rosie," Edge cut in on her as he started up the stairs that angled up the side wall across from where the lonely woman stood on the threshold of her company-lacking room, trying to conceal the melancholy dejection she felt behind a too-bright smile.

  "The customer's always right, mister. And it's the truth. Home cookin' kinda has to be cooked in a home, don't it? And this place ain't neither a house nor a home. Now when Harry Shay brought me here from that crib at San Antone and ... aw shit, there I go again."

  Edge had reached the top of the stairs and was out of sight. And thus did not see the tears that spilled down the artificially pink cheeks of the woman as she closed the door and faced up again to the desolation that was made worse because of the times that had been so much better. He merely heard the sob that she was unable to keep from blurting out of her throat until after the door was closed—and this meant no more to him than had her words.

  Just a low level of light from the ceiling hung lamp in the center of the lobby reached up the stairway and part way along the landing that ran from one side of the building to the other at its center—with four rooms at either side. Number seven was the second room down on the right, directly across the landing from number three: into which Edge stepped briefly to set down his saddle and bedroll before he entered the Rochfords' room without knocking.

  Both rooms were furnished precisely the same with a double bed, a closet, a bureau, two straight back chairs, a rug at the foot of the bed and a framed picture on the wall above the head of the bed. The walls were painted white, like the ceiling. Thus were the rooms as spartanly comfortable and as reasonably clean as transient guests could expect of a hotel in a town like Fallon.

  Geoffrey Rochford was totally oblivious to the conditions of his surroundings as he lay in the very center of the bed, on his back with his head on a pillow and just the narrow shoulders of his tall and skinny frame not covered by the linen and blankets of the bedclothes. The local doctor, despite being in a bad mood, had dressed the wound on the Englishman's fore­head and had done so expertly, the bandage that encircled the head as starkly white as the pillowcase: both contrasting vividly with the darkly bristled face of the unconscious who breathed shallowly but regularly.

  It was cold in the room and Edge rearrange the bedclothes enough so that they covered the naked shoulders of Rochford. He felt strangely self-conscious as he did so, and continued to be ill at ease until he was out on the landing again with the door to room seven closed. Where he remained for as long as it took to roll and light a cigarette, when he went back down the stairway, making no attempt to move quietly in the hotel that was so hushed he could hear the click of the needles as Rosie Shay continued to knit the shawl.

  Out on the street, where the night air struck seemingly much colder than before, there was more noise: that rose in volume as he got closer to the intersection of this street with the main one. Not raucous noise—just a kind of hum that people in a crowd generate with talk and movement. In this case trickling out under and over the batwing doors of the Palace Saloon at a constant low key pitch against the mournful counterpoint of a guitar being strummed by a player who seemed not quite sure of the melody.

  The saloon and the restaurant across from it were now the only places open for business in Fallon's downtown area—and the light that es­caped from them made the neighboring premises appear that much more dark and empty by contrast. While the lights that gleamed at some windows of distant buildings —houses and, Edge thought, maybe the jail-showed up much more brightly along the traffic-free streets on which he walked alone. Then appeared even more bright in the clean air of night after rain when, as he came within a few feet of the door of the restaurant, its misted up windows were abruptly darkened—a few seconds later while he stood still and vented a low sigh on a stream of cigarette smoke, first one and then another bolt were shot at the foot and the top of the door.

  "It's nothing personal, Edge," a man assured evenly as the half-breed turned around to face the doorway of the saloon from which the comment was spoken. "They always close up the restaurant this time every night. If she takes to you, Rosie Shay ain't averse to fixin' a man up with a meal."

  "She's just made the offer, Mr. Selmar," the half-breed told the short, overweight rancher who seemed to be a little unsteady on his feet as he pushed out through the batwings—and would have been hit in the back by the swing­ing doors had not
Floyd and Whitney been be­hind him to each catch hold of one.

  "But you didn't have the fancy for what Rosie might force on you for dessert, uh?" Selmar growled, and vented a gust of belly laughter that confirmed he was drunk.

  "Celebrating bringing in the rustlers?" Edge countered as he started for the saloon entrance.

  "You bet," the tall and thin, gaunt-faced Floyd answered.

  "But you ain't missed nothin', stranger," the shorter and stockier, white-haired Whitney added in a harsh tone that matched his scowl.”

  "You didn't have no invite to the party."

  Clark Selmar and his foreman had been happily drunk. And now they became suddenly sourly sober: as both swung to glare at the ag­gressively challenging Whitney. Floyd was first to snap:

  "Damn you, you crazy—"

  "Shut up, Floyd!" his boss snarled, and even thrust out an arm as if he expected one of his men to direct more than just words at the other. Then: "What is it with you, Whitney? You tired of livin'? You're a cowpuncher is all. This guy's a gunslinger if ever I seen one. And all you want to do is goad him into a shoot-out. Whatever business we had with him is con­cluded. To my satisfaction and I guess to his."

  Edge closed unhurriedly on the doorway of the saloon with the three men standing close together out front of it.

  "Ain't that right, Edge?" Selmar demanded in the same tone of voice, head coming around so that he was looking at the half-breed.

  "Some of it, feller. I ain't a gunslinger. Be obliged now if you and your hands will step aside so I can get me a drink."

  "Sure thing. Fine and dandy. And don't pay no mind to what Whitney says. You have your first drink on me. Gesture of appreciation for your cooperation in the matter of them four rustlers."