The Outrage - Edge Series 3 (7 page)

‘How come we never saw the guy in town?’ Lacy asked indifferently after he grew bored with peering at the corpse of a man he did not know.

The woman looked as weary of the subject of the dead man as the deputy did. ‘Odd kind of guy. Kept himself to himself and used to bed down alone out at the old mill. And spent nearly all of his spare time on his own. Played the harmonica a lot.’ She shook her head ruefully, like she would miss the music more than she would the man who had provided it.

‘Anyway, Noah found him an hour or so ago. Him and his horse that was kicking up a hell of a racket. Noah had to shoot the animal. Jordan was already dead – of a broken neck, it looks like.’

Alice Cassidy’s accent originated from far south of the Mason-Dixon Line. More top drawer than most Edge had heard in Springdale although it seemed to him she made a conscious effort to roughen it.

She added: ‘I had to come in to do some business so it fell to me to bring Bob Jordan along.’

Meeker sighed deeply and told Lacy: ‘Max, you want to take the body over to Winter’s place? Mrs Cassidy, I’d like for you to step into the office so we can write up an official report. If you wouldn’t mind?’

‘No trouble, Vic.’

She swung down from the saddle and Meeker did likewise and took her reins while Lacy picked up the lead line of the corpse-burdened horse. Then, after taking several surreptitious glances at Edge, the woman now looked appraisingly at him and introduced herself.

‘I’m Alice Cassidy.’

‘Edge, ma’am.’ He tipped his hat.

‘With Jordan dead, Noah and me are short a hand out at our place, Mr Edge. It seems to me you’re new in town?’ Her big blue eyes continued their study of him while her full mouth showed just the hint of an enigmatic smile.

‘Fresh off the stage this morning.’

‘Well, if you’re in need of a job – ‘

‘I’ll maybe bear you in mind if the need arises, Mrs Cassidy.’

He wheeled his horse and saw her smile became a brief scowl as she read a double meaning play on words in his response and expressed displeasure at a possible trace of scorn implied by his tone.

He rode down River Road and if any of the people on the flanking sidewalks had been affected by the bringing to town of a third dead body today they had quickly recovered and were going about their errands and chores in the normal way. He reined in the horse and swung down from the saddle out front of the twin clapboard buildings linked over the mouth of the dividing alley by a sign across their facades:
SHELBY’S LIVERY AND BLACKSMITH SHOP.
The bearded, powerfully built, slightly lame owner of the joint businesses was engaged in shoeing a horse but he interrupted the work as one of his animals was returned. ‘You found the Quinn place okay, mister?’

‘No sweat.’

‘You gonna be in town for long?’

‘Maybe. Here.’ He handed the man the dollar he owed him.

Shelby took it and explained: ‘It’s just that if you are gonna be around for while, I got special rates by the week and month. And I got buggies for rent if that’s more your style?’

‘I don’t have much of a style any more, feller.’

He made to turn away but paused to peer across the smoke and steam fogged forge at the red headed woman who had stepped from a doorway in the back wall of the place. She clutched a glass of water in one hand while she fanned the smoke away from her face with the other. There were jewelled rings on two fingers of each of her finely shaped hands and she was expensively garbed in a riding habit that emphasised the fact that she was taller than the average woman. But she was certainly not gawky in the close fitting riding outfit and was decidedly feminine in how she looked and moved.

He tipped his hat toward the woman who Nicholas Quinn had called Sarah when she was on the verge of shedding tears as the stage arrived earlier. ‘Afternoon, ma’am.’

‘And to you.’ She nodded and showed a fleeting smile that was faintly coquettish. Or maybe he was mistaken about this because of how the smoke from the forge fire distorted the angles and curves of her attractive features.

‘It won’t be too long before I’m done now, Miss Farmer,’ Shelby reported.

‘That’s good,’ she told the blacksmith, but had green eyes only for Edge when she raised the glass to her full lips as he moved away from the front of the forge to take the gelding into the livery next door. Here he unsaddled the horse and put him in a stall while the hiss of hot metal plunged into cold water and the sound of hammering on the anvil masked any talk there may have been in the neighbouring building.

Then he shouldered his gear and left Shelby’s premises. And as he moved back toward the centre of Springdale on foot he saw the name Farmer on a stone-built store between the red brick Avery County Bank and the Springdale Cotton Company office at the top of River Road, across from the saloon entrance of the Grand Hotel.

THE FAMOUS FARMER BAKERY
was the full legend sign-written across a double fronted store with a glass panelled door set back between bow windows each filled with a display of cakes and cookies and bread. The appetising aroma that emerged from the store doorway along with a prim looking middle-aged woman reminded Edge it was a long time since he ate breakfast at the Pine Wells way station. But only the loaves in the windows appealed to his taste and he stepped down off the sidewalk and angled across the street toward the place that had been his intended destination before he was distracted by the Farmer name on the bakery. And entered the batwinged doorway of the saloon at a time when it was surely not at its busiest for there were just five customers in there.

Two of them were the younger men he had seen earlier at the stage depot who now showed overt interest in him from where they sat at separate tables, each with a near empty beer glass in front of him. One was the acne-faced twenty-year-old who Quinn had called Sawyer and the second the similarly aged Matt who had been having his hair cut when the stage arrived. The other patrons were three old timers, one of these the bespectacled and cane carrying Virgil, who all sat at another cigarette burned and liquor stained table sharing a bottle of rye that was less than half full.

The mistreated tables were in keeping with the furnishings and décor of the entire saloon interior that, like the outside of the hotel building had seen better days. Here and there in the wider than it was deep barroom that had a counter along the back wall facing the row of windows that looked out on River Road, there were occasional surviving remnants left from the heyday of the place. The gold painted scrollwork was peeling and there were sections missing along the front of the counter. Likewise the brass foot rail had several lengths removed and a mirror in a once ornate frame on the wall at a midway point behind the bar was cracked and mottled. Immediately below this mirror were some bottles and mismatched glasses on shelves that were otherwise empty.

It was in front of these that the broadly smiling bartender stood: the greater length of the counter to either side clearly no longer needed to serve the small number of customers the saloon attracted these days.

‘Good afternoon to you, sir. State your pleasure and I’ll be mighty pleased to supply it. If I’ve got it in stock.’ The effusive man was tall and skinny with a small head, sunken cheeks, hollow eyes and slack mouth with protruding teeth. Perhaps he was not so far advanced into his forties as he looked on account of his premature baldness. The loose fit of his shirt and vest and the way his belt was cinched in at his narrow waist suggested he had lost a lot of weight since he bought the dark hued clothing.

‘You got anything to eat at this time of day?’ Edge had not put down his saddle and accoutrements so he was ready to leave if his query drew the wrong response. The bartender’s bright smile faltered but he kept the expression from deteriorating into utter misery as he gestured with a bony hand toward an archway at the far right side of the barroom, under a sign that read:
HOTEL AND DINING ROOM.
‘The luncheon hour in our restaurant is over, sir. But here in the saloon we can rustle up a bowl of soup; or some cold cuts if you prefer?’

‘Be obliged if you’d get me some soup with bread on the side. And a glass of beer.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

Edge paid what was asked then turned away from the bar as the man went to the far end of the counter and came out from behind it to go for the food. The youngster named Sawyer used an ill-shod foot to push a chair away from the table where he sat and invited: ‘Why don’t you join me, mister? The name’s Eddie Sawyer and I’ll be glad to tell you anything you want to know about Springdale. You being a stranger to these parts, I guess?’

Edge remained where he was as he told the tall, skinny, greasy haired and bad complexioned young man: ‘I ain’t buying right now, kid.’

Sawyer shrugged and used his foot again to hook the chair back under the table. ‘Suit yourself. But I ain’t figuring to bum no free drinks. What I’d like is for you to answer me a question though?’

‘You can ask.’

‘That was Bob Jordan that Mrs Cassidy brought into town a little while back, ain’t that so?’

‘That’s who the lady said it was.’

‘The dumb cluck who rode his horse off the cliff at Timber Hill? Did I hear it right, mister?’

‘It sounds to me like you know as much about it as I do.’ Edge made to step away from the counter.

Sawyer quickly put another question: ‘Did you happen to see if there was a knife hung on Jordan’s belt?’

‘I didn’t take that much notice, kid.’ Edge felt like he was giving a performance in front of an audience, the way the other boy and the three old timers peered fixedly at him with as much intense interest as his questioner.

Sawyer hurried to explain: ‘See, Jordan’s got an old Bowie knife. Real proud of it he is –

was. On account of it’s got old Jim Bowie’s initials carved into the handle. So it’s supposed to have been Bowie’s very own. I ain’t so sure about that, but seeing as how Jordan’s got no more need for the knife, I wouldn’t mind having it anyway. So maybe I’ll take a stroll down to Mr Winter’s place and check if – ‘

‘What is it with you, Sawyer!’ the other youngster snarled. He was by far the better looking of the two, with deep blue eyes, perfect white teeth, a dimpled chin and waved blond hair that looked close to white above the dark burnish of his clear complexioned skin. He was an inch or so under six feet tall and only the start of a potbelly marred his otherwise fine physique.

‘This ain’t none of your business, Colman!’ Sawyer countered bitterly.

‘You’re acting like some kind of coyote or buzzard or something! That guy who worked for the Cassidys ain’t hardly cold yet and you want to pick over his corpse!’ He unfolded fast from the table and appeared to be rooted to the spot for stretched seconds as his chair toppled over backwards. And he swayed from the effects of more beer than he could comfortably handle while he looked ready to lunge at Sawyer. But then he suddenly whirled, strode across the saloon and crashed out between the batwings.

Sawyer rose more slowly, shrugged, made a scowling face and shared the expression among Edge and the trio of old timers as he muttered: ‘Guess we got to make allowances for poor old Matt Colman. I hear tell he was fixing to marry Nancy Quinn so it’s only natural he ain’t himself today. After what’s happened. Well, reckon I’ll get me down to the funeral parlour and see what I can find out about Jordan’s Bowie knife.’

Edge carried his gear to a table, dropped it to the floor and sat down, ignored now by the three old men. Shortly afterwards the bartender returned, drew a beer, brought it across to Edge and promised:

‘Food’s on it’s way, sir.’

‘What’s the price of a room in the hotel?’

‘Charge is a buck a night. Food’s extra. And right now a dollar will buy you the pick of any room in the house.’

‘Business is bad, uh?’

The skinny man shrugged. ‘The place has had the boom times. Maybe they’ll come back some day.’

‘It doesn’t bother you one way or the other?’

‘Me? I’m sort of the same as you, I reckon: just passing through. The Grand’s owner is Mrs Violet Cantrell. An old lady who lives upstairs and hardly ever leaves the hotel. Too old and too rich already to care very much about making a profit these days, I guess.’

‘Obliged.’ Edge tried the beer and nodded his satisfaction with the taste. The bartender arranged his lanky frame into a more comfortable stance and grinned.

‘Yeah, just passing through. Course, I did show up here in Springdale more than two years ago and I ain’t moved on yet. But as long as I got free room and board and enough in wages to pay for what little extras I want from time to time . . . ‘

‘You’re a happy man?’

‘Yeah, I reckon that’s what I am.’

‘In an unhappy town, it seems to me?’

He shrugged once more. ‘It ain’t the best nor the worst town I ever stopped over in for a spell. Course, what happened to the Quinn women has put a damper on things around here today. But all in all, when that trouble’s blown over, it won’t be such a bad place again.’ He made to move away.

Edge asked: ‘You know a woman named Sarah Farmer?’

‘Sure do, sir. Miss Farmer is one of the teachers at the local school.’

‘She any kin to the Farmer who has the bakery across the street?’

‘Daughter of the guy that started it way back when. And sister to Alice Cassidy who just now brought in the body of the hired hand who got killed out on her and Noah’s place. I guess they’ve each got a piece of the bakery in partnership since their old man died awhile ago.’