California Killing by George G. Gilman Page A

he started towards the foot of the stairway.
    "You been acting might tough since you got to town," Murphy said, watching Edge like a hungry bird of prey. "We got enough with Hood making trouble out in the valley. We don't figure to put up with no smart ass gunslingers shooting up the town."
    Edge acted as if he could neither hear nor see the man on the stairs, taking a great deal longer than usual to roll the cigarette, ensuring that his hands stayed far from his gun.
    "You gonna draw, mister?" Murphy hooked both thumbs over the front of his gunbelt.
    Now, as Edge began to mount the steps, he inched them along so that his hands hovered over the gun butts.
    "Leave it, Murph," a man in the saloon called. "Don't mess with him."
    There was a twelve tread distance between Edge and Murphy and it was narrowing. Murphy held his position, beginning to sweat, as Edge looked at him at last and ran his tongue along the length of cigarette paper. He smoothed the cigarette into a perfect cylinder and hung it from the comer of his mouth. He pushed his hat on to the back of his head.
    "Same army as you," Edge said easily. "Had to kill a few of them but they were yellow." He sighed. "Ain't a lot of difference between being yellow and being stupid."
    Up close, Murphy still looked deceptively young. But he was not so composed any more, as he met Edge's slitted eyes and saw the animalistic expression of the folded back lips. The war hero oozed more sweat and the clearness of his eyes began to cloud. His lower lip trembled.
    "Don't kill him, Edge," Cooper called flatly. "Folks like him."
    Murphy snapped his head around angrily to glare down into the anxious faces below. "Shut your goddamn mouth!" he snarled.
    Edge moved. He leapt out of his easy lazy stance, diving forward with incredible speed and pushing his hands under Murphy's arms. He lashed to the sides, sending the man's hands high in the air, away from the fancy guns. Then Edge dropped his head, forcing himself between the man's legs, instantly straightening. Murphy's cry was a high-pitched mixture of alarm andpain as he was lifted bodily, from the stairway and then pitched sideways, off Edge's shoulders and over the banister rail.
    A dealer leapt back from his baize covered poker table as Murphy crashed on to it. It gave way under his weight, the legs splintering. Murphy's cry was curtailed and he lay still amid the wreckage of the table. He breathed raggedly through his slackly open mouth, his body bent double.
    Edge looked down impassively into the startled face of the dealer. "He's folded," he announced. "Couldn't get the draw to back his bluff."
    Then Edge turned and continued up the stairs, pushing his hat forward. Below, the dealer and a croupier went to the aid of the unconscious Murphy as the barflies returned to their drinking, generating a buzz of excited conversation.
    A man stood in a doorway two down from room five: a slight figure with soft skin and nondescript features. He was dressed in Eastern garb, all black except for his white starched shirt. He eyed Edge with melancholy curiosity and after a moment's thought, the half-breed recognized him as the injured man who had been under the wagon.
    "I'm John Stricklyn," he said. "I understand you helped bring me in yesterday - and my wife's body."
    Edge nodded, his expression wooden as he examined the man's clothes for the tell-tale bulge of a concealed weapon. He was wary of Stricklyn's reaction to the manner of his wife's death.
    "I needed your water and your wagon," he said. "I still need your gun."
    A flicker of hurt showed in Stricklyn's bland grey eyes. "You're welcome. Magda's being buried today."
    Edge suspected he was being invited to express sympathy, but he didn't even try to form the words. For he knew they would be meaningless and empty in their tone. For to Edge, death - particularly violent death - had become a constant accessory of his life: virtually a necessity if he were to survive. And because of this, it