Apache Death (4 page)

On the opposite bank the soldiers formed up two abreast again and angled across the final stretch of open country toward town, wet trousers and horseflesh already beginning to steam dry in the morning sun.

"Hey, feller," Edge called to the nearest cavalryman. “Where's the best place to stay in town?"

 The man spat and drew the back of a hand across his mouth. "With Injuns this close, the fort."

Edge grinned. "I've served my time in uniform and I hear the pay hasn't improved any since then."

The man shrugged. "Try Miss Ritchie's place. Ain't none too safe if the Injuns hit town, but the beds are soft."

"And if the Apaches don't get me, the clap will, uh?”

The soldier grinned. "You heard about it? Miss Ritchie don't force the girls on you, not unless you want."

"Where is it?"

They were on the edge of town now, entering the long, early-morning deserted street which led right up to the gates of the fort. The man pointed over to the left.

"There. First and last building in Rainbow."

"Obliged," Edge said and halted his horse as the cavalry patrol continued on up the street.

 It was a big, hulking, two-story building with a raised, covered sidewalk along the front. The door was closed and the windows shuttered and it looked deserted. There was a red and blue painted sign stretching the length of the first floor balcony. The largest letters read: MISS RITCHIE'S POT OF GOLD and there was smaller lettering at each end, one legend proclaiming: ROOMS FOR RENT, the other: DANCING, MUSIC AND GIRLS.

Edge grinned up at the sign, then dismounted and hitched his horse to the rail on the edge of the sidewalk. He sat down in one of the rocking chairs which flanked the main entrance and waited for the town to wake up for the new day. He continued to grin as the chair creaked evenly and regularly as he rocked.

"Last building in town," he muttered to himself. "A whorehouse madam with a sense of humor. Her own Pot of Gold at the end of the Rainbow. Jesus Christ!"

AFTER sitting in the rocker for thirty minutes and hearing no sounds of stirring from within the hotel, Edge rose and unhitched his horse, then began to lead him down the center of the street. It was apparent that Rainbow, whether the army liked it or not, had developed as a town with most of the amenities of life in the west. Next door to the Pot of Gold was a dry goods store, then the office of the
Rainbow News,
a Chinese laundry, a grain and feed store and the sheriff’s office. Across the street was a grocery store, the undertakers, the stage depot, livery stable and lawyer's office with a doctor's surgery above. The church was on the northeast comer of the intersection. On the cross street were houses, getting larger and more ostentatious the further away from the center of town they were. The length of the street from the intersection to the fort was lined on both sides with saloons and dancehalls, restaurants and supply stores.

It was the closest Edge had been to civilization for a long time, but it did not, impress him. It merely represented a place to rest up in a comfortable bed, the chance of a bath in hot water, an opportunity to drink something more palatable than raw tequila and mescal and time to survey the prospects of getting a bankroll.

He walked only as far as the intersection, then started back and hitched his horse to the rail in front of the undertaker's parlor. He stepped up on to the sidewalk and rapped his knuckles on the glass panel of the parlor's door. He had to knock twice more, threatening to shatter the glass, before a man yelled for him to be quiet and appeared from a doorway in the back of the dim interior. He was a small man of middle years, sour looking with mean, avaricious eyes. He was still prodding his shirt into his trousers as he jerked open the door and glowered out at Edge.

"What is it?" he demanded. "You know what time it is?"

Edge nodded toward the burro and its burden. "Past time to bury him," he answered. "He didn't smell too good when he was alive. Dead, he's a health hazard,”

The undertaker merely glanced at the blanket covered body. "Got' a death certificate?" he demanded of Edge.

The tall man grinned coldly. "He's got an arrowhead buried in his back and he ain't been breathing for a long time. He's dead."

Fear leaped into the man's eyes. "Apaches?"

Edge didn't answer and the little man licked dry lips. "Who’s paying for the funeral?"

"Not me. The burro was his. Sell him. Keep it simple. His name was Zeb Hanson. Just put that and today's date on the marker. How far do you go out for the dead?"

"I'm the only Undertaker between here and the Mexican border," the man said with what could have been a hint of pride.

"That takes in the Fawcett farmstead, I guess," Edge told him. "There's three dead people down there."

The man's mouth fell open. "The Apaches killed Jim Fawcett and his family?"

"Wife and one daughter anyway. Seems there was another girl, but she wasn't there—dead or alive."

"I'm not going way down there if the Apaches are stirred up," the little man said aghast. "Why' didn't you I do the decent thing by them?"

Edge was tiring of the man's whining tone and accusative stare. With a fast, fluid motion Edge drew his revolver and pushed the muzzle hard against the undertaker's nostrils. The man's small eyes gaped wide and he tried to back away, but Edge clutched at his shirt front.

"Because I ain't decent," Edge said softly, coldly. "I got better things to do than waste time digging holes for people who had no right to be in this neck of the woods if they' didn't know how to defend themselves." He jerked his head sideways toward the burro. "Quit talking, undertaker, and undertake."

"Yes, sir!" the man said.

Edge nodded, holstered his Colt and released the shirt front. Then he turned on his heels, unhitched his horse and led the animal down to the livery stable. When he banged on this door there was no response except for the whinnying of horses inside. There was a big padlock on a central bolt. Edge looped one end of his lariat through the lock, looped the other end around his saddle horn and urged the big stallion forward. The bolt was tom clean off the door as the screws came free. As he climbed down from the horse, Edge heard a door open across the street, then spurs jingling as a man came toward him. But he ignored the newcomer as he began to loop in the lariat, untying it from the lock.

"That's called breaking in, mister," the man said sternly.

Edge hooked the lariat back on his saddle and turned to face the man. He was tall and broad, but not powerful because it was fat, not muscle, that coated his big frame. He had a round, florid face with bulbous cheeks, thick lips and wide nose. His eyes were bright and glittered from between swelled lids. He was dressed like a dude, in highly polished boots, sharp creased gray pants, a red shirt and a high-crowned hat the same color as his boots. He wore two pearl-handled six shooters slung low in ornate holsters on a belt ringed with shells. The shells shone almost as brightly as the five pointed star pinned above his heart.

"My horse needs feed and rest out of the sun," Edge said easily. "He's carried me a long way and I owe him that."

Emphasizing this opinion, Edge picked up the trailing reins and led the animal into the shaded interior of the livery stable.

"Fred Olson will be here to open up in an hour," the sheriff said, following Edge inside.

"So I saved him the trouble," Edge answered.

"Fred's liable to press charges for the damage you caused," the sheriff insisted as Edge began to unsaddle his horse.

"He can put it on my bill."

The sheriff shook his head. Might not be so easy as that. I could square it, though. Fred's a friend of mine. I could talk to him,"

Edge, his back to the man, grinned, swung the saddle free and hefted it on to a hook on the wall. He backed the horse into a stall, closed the door and broke open a bale of hay, tossing half of it to the animal. Then he turned to face the sheriff, showing the man his grin. "That how you buy those fancy" clothes?" he asked."With kickbacks for fixing things?"

The fat man glowered. "Rainbow's a nice town, stranger. I run it smooth. Ain't no room for awkward customers."   

Edge made a move toward his saddle, but as he drew close to the sheriff he half pivoted and sent a short arm jab deep into the fat man's mid-section. Air rushed out of the man's mouth with a soft whooshing sound and he started to double. As
he did so, Edge stepped behind him and pulled the two revolvers from their holsters. They were 1860 streamline Colts, .44 caliber with the original plain ivory grips replaced by carved pearl. Edge grimaced with distaste, figuring the modification had ruined the balance. "Listen, you barrel of lard," he said-softly, lips curled back in a snarl as the sheriff turned to face him, trying to pull upright. "I ain't no greenhorn fresh off the stage
from New York City. I've had dealings with your kind before and I ain't never greased any palms." He spun the cylinder of each revolver in turn and emptied them of their loads, the bullets as shiny as the ones in the sheriff’s belt. "Don't threaten me, fat man, or I might just beat you over the head with these pretty guns and you might spill blood on your pretty clothes. Get it?"

The sheriff stared hate, but nodded his head as he still leaned forward slightly, clutching at his stomach. Edge grinned and slid the Spencer from his saddle-boot, then headed for the door. There was a pile of horse manure swept into a comer and with a sidelong glance at the sheriff he dropped the Colts on top, used a pitchfork to prod them deep down inside.

"Just a little something for trying to drop me in. it, sheriff," he said as he went out on to the street.

A bugler was sounding reveille at the fort and somewhere at the back of one of the buildings a woman was singing. Two Chinese were taking down the shutters from the laundry windows and a horse and buggy was parked outside the church. A woman stood beside a tombstone in the graveyard, holding a wreath of flowers. The burro and body of Zeb Hanson was no longer in front of the undertaker's parlor. An elderly but still attractive woman looked down at Edge from a first-floor window of the Pot of Gold. She was wearing a blue diaphanous nightgown that hinted at a body not yet past its prime.

"You open yet?" he called up, halting in the center of the street in front of the hotel.

She laughed and it was a tinkering sound, without harshness. "Depends what for:"

“Just a room with bed and bath."

"Sure, but it's a little early to get somebody to scrub your back." Again the laugh. She had black hair, probably too dark to be natural, framing a face that had once been beautiful, but showing too many lines and wrinkles in the unflattering sunlight.

"I've got long arms," he told her; "Just room and bath."

"Then I'd better open-the door for you, mister. I saw how you got into the livery. Bad advertising if a man has to break down the door to get in my place."

"You're Miss Ritchie?"

"The one and only. Be right down."

It took longer than that, of course, but Edge waited patiently, sitting in the rocker and smoking a cigarette as he watched and listened to further evidence of Rainbow coming to life. For most of the time his expression was impassive, but he did allow a grin to curl up the corners 'of his mouth as he saw the sheriff emerge from the livery stable and head for his office, carrying a cloth bundle which he was careful to keep away from him.

When the door was finally opened, it was by the Pot of Gold's owner, fully dressed in a low-cut, full-length gown of green trimmed with white. She had made up her face, too, hiding the aging lines. Edge hauled himself out of the chair.

"This town sure takes a long time getting itself up in the morning," he said as he followed the woman into an elaborately furnished and decorated saloon. There was a bar down the length of one wall and the rest of the floor area was taken up with tables and chairs. At the far end was a-raised platform with curtains drawn back to show a stage setting of a metropolitan street that looked foreign. The walls were wood-paneled, hung with studies of voluptuous nudes, and red velvet drapes. Two enormous crystal chandeliers swung from the ceiling on which was a highly colored mural of more nudes. Edge thought the place looked what it was, but that it also looked clean.

"That's because Rainbow takes a long time getting to bed," Miss Ritchie answered, swaying between the tables, leading him toward the foot of a staircase which went up at one side of the stage. Then she glanced back over her shoulder with a leering smile. "To bed to sleep, that is."

She led him up the stairs at the top of which was a desk with a landing beyond. She sat down in a chair behind the desk and opened the register, swinging it around. "Two and a half dollars a day without meals," she said as she delved into a drawer of the desk and came out with pen and ink. "No private arrangements with the girls. All business goes through me and I set the charge."

"Room and bath," Edge said, scrawling his one word name in the register.

Miss Ritchie shrugged. "Suit yourself. Sheriff Beale give you a bad time over at the livery?"

"He started to try," Edge replied, falling in behind her again as she took a key from the desk and began walking along the hallway. "But then he got an attack of stomach cramps."

She stopped in front of a doorway and turned to face him, her eyebrows arched in surprise. "You slugged Beale?"

"Should that bother me?"

"He ain't much, but he's rich. Keep out of dark alleys, Mr. Edge. Life is cheap in Rainbow and Beale gets enough graft to have a hundred men killed every week."

"Obliged," Edge said, turned the key and pushed open the door. The room was neat and clean, cheerful with sunlight from the window overlooking the street, which shone on a bed, polished board floor with two rugs on it, a bureau, tallboy and wardrobe. A door gave on to a tiny bathroom with a fixed tub and piped water. The water was hot. Edge wasted no time, pumping the tub three quarters full with steaming water, then stripping off his boots, socks, pants, shirt and grubby red underwear. He grunted as scalding water engulfed his powerfully lean, olive-brown body and he sat unmoving for more than a minute, simply enjoying the feel of the water. But he was tired; had not realized just how tired until the relaxing balm of the water threatened to lull him into sleep. So he soaped himself vigorously, then watched the water turn black with the dust and sweat of four days' riding. Then he shaved, using soap and the razor from his pouch and thirty minutes after getting into the tub, pulled himself out feeling more relaxed than he could ever remember. He dried himself and then padded, naked, into the bedroom. He looked at the bed and sighed in anticipation, but took time to return to the bathroom and get his gunbelt and the Spencer, recalling Miss Ritchie's warning about Sheriff Beale's hired gunmen. He placed the belt on the bureau top, Colt butt toward the bed and lay the Spencer on the floor. Then he checked that the door was locked, the window securely fastened, and finally stretched out full length on the bed, on top of the covers.