California Killing by George G. Gilman Page B
Authors: George G. Gilman
aroused no emotion within him. The long years of Civil War had shown him killing in all its vile forms* ( * See Edge: Killers Breed, Edge; The Blue, The Grey And the Red * See Edge: The Loner ) and the bloody end of his younger brother had drained him of the last vestiges of pity.
"Has to be done quick out here," he answered. "Due to the heat" He pushed open the door of his room and stepped inside. Then he kicked the door closed with his heel as he looked down the muzzle of a Winchester 66 aimed at him by the vigilante named Eddy.
"One of Hood's merry men?"
"I got a message for you, Edge." Outside on the balcony, John Stricklyn pressed his ear against the door panel of room five.
Chapter Ten
E DDY was about twenty-five with a slender frame which hinted at a compact toughness. He had a crooked mouth and sucked-in cheeks. His unruly mop of straw-colored hair moved slightly in the warm breeze which sighed in through the open window. He looked tense, but not nervous as he sat on the bed cradling the Winchester with easy readiness.
"You knew I was here?"
Edge leaned his back against the door and spoke around his unlit cigarette. "Windows are like eyes, feller. Man knows if his are open or shut. I'm listening."
"Sam wants to deal," Eddy said. "He don't reckon to get caught. But if he does, he don't want no incriminating picture showing up in court."
"I figured it that way. Where and when?"
"Out at the old R.K.O. Ranch," Eddy answered. "Eleven o'clock. One man'll bring your money. You bring the picture."
Edge nodded. "Tell Hood okay."
Eddy shook his head. "No need. Sam figured you'd go for it."
"How'd I know there'll only be just the one man?"
"Hood needs the picture real bad. He knows you're smart. He won't pull anything. "
Edge pondered the point as he rasped the back of his hand along his jawline.
"Anybody work the R.KO spread?"
Eddy got to his feet and shook his head. "No. Guy named Hughes made a lot of money outta it, then moved on. Nobody knows where he went. Ain't bin back."
"Okay, beat it," Edge ordered.
The aim of the Winchester held Edge hard against the door as Eddy backed around the bed and over to the window. As he swung his legs over the sill and stepped out on to the hotel porch, the rifle continued to hold a bead on Edge's chest. The half-breed showed his passive agreement to the departure by taking out a match and striking it on the doorframe. He fired the cigarette.
But as soon as Eddy had gone from sight, Edge slid into fluid motion, cocking his head to listen for the sounds of the man hauling himself up on to the flat roof of the Paramount. Then he reached the chair in two strides, listened again, and set it down just off center of the room. He stepped up on to it, drawing the Walker-Colt and pressing the muzzle against the ceiling. The boards creaked under Eddy's weight and Edge moved the revolver muzzle to the left. A heel scraped against wood and Edge squeezed the trigger. Eddy was moving on all fours to keep below the roofline. The .44 bullet smashed out through the wood at a deflected angle and ploughed into his throat. He died without making a sound as the shell burst open his jugular vein to undam a deluge of blood. A swarm of purple-bodied flies zoomed in to feed before the sun congealed their meal.
John Stricklyn moved quickly away from the door and headed along the balcony towards his own room. Edge replaced the chair in its accustomed position, holstered his gun and grimaced at the drips of blood bubbling through the bullet hole and splashing on to the floor. Then he went out of the room. There were more customers in the saloon now: more pairs of anxious eyes on him as he moved down the stairway and across to where Cooper stood behind the bar. He noted that the wrecked table had been replaced.
"Hole in my roof," he told the bartender. "Get it fixed, will you?"
"Yep," Cooper said, and Edge spun and headed for the batwings.
Across the street the four dwarfs were
"Has to be done quick out here," he answered. "Due to the heat" He pushed open the door of his room and stepped inside. Then he kicked the door closed with his heel as he looked down the muzzle of a Winchester 66 aimed at him by the vigilante named Eddy.
"One of Hood's merry men?"
"I got a message for you, Edge." Outside on the balcony, John Stricklyn pressed his ear against the door panel of room five.
Chapter Ten
E DDY was about twenty-five with a slender frame which hinted at a compact toughness. He had a crooked mouth and sucked-in cheeks. His unruly mop of straw-colored hair moved slightly in the warm breeze which sighed in through the open window. He looked tense, but not nervous as he sat on the bed cradling the Winchester with easy readiness.
"You knew I was here?"
Edge leaned his back against the door and spoke around his unlit cigarette. "Windows are like eyes, feller. Man knows if his are open or shut. I'm listening."
"Sam wants to deal," Eddy said. "He don't reckon to get caught. But if he does, he don't want no incriminating picture showing up in court."
"I figured it that way. Where and when?"
"Out at the old R.K.O. Ranch," Eddy answered. "Eleven o'clock. One man'll bring your money. You bring the picture."
Edge nodded. "Tell Hood okay."
Eddy shook his head. "No need. Sam figured you'd go for it."
"How'd I know there'll only be just the one man?"
"Hood needs the picture real bad. He knows you're smart. He won't pull anything. "
Edge pondered the point as he rasped the back of his hand along his jawline.
"Anybody work the R.KO spread?"
Eddy got to his feet and shook his head. "No. Guy named Hughes made a lot of money outta it, then moved on. Nobody knows where he went. Ain't bin back."
"Okay, beat it," Edge ordered.
The aim of the Winchester held Edge hard against the door as Eddy backed around the bed and over to the window. As he swung his legs over the sill and stepped out on to the hotel porch, the rifle continued to hold a bead on Edge's chest. The half-breed showed his passive agreement to the departure by taking out a match and striking it on the doorframe. He fired the cigarette.
But as soon as Eddy had gone from sight, Edge slid into fluid motion, cocking his head to listen for the sounds of the man hauling himself up on to the flat roof of the Paramount. Then he reached the chair in two strides, listened again, and set it down just off center of the room. He stepped up on to it, drawing the Walker-Colt and pressing the muzzle against the ceiling. The boards creaked under Eddy's weight and Edge moved the revolver muzzle to the left. A heel scraped against wood and Edge squeezed the trigger. Eddy was moving on all fours to keep below the roofline. The .44 bullet smashed out through the wood at a deflected angle and ploughed into his throat. He died without making a sound as the shell burst open his jugular vein to undam a deluge of blood. A swarm of purple-bodied flies zoomed in to feed before the sun congealed their meal.
John Stricklyn moved quickly away from the door and headed along the balcony towards his own room. Edge replaced the chair in its accustomed position, holstered his gun and grimaced at the drips of blood bubbling through the bullet hole and splashing on to the floor. Then he went out of the room. There were more customers in the saloon now: more pairs of anxious eyes on him as he moved down the stairway and across to where Cooper stood behind the bar. He noted that the wrecked table had been replaced.
"Hole in my roof," he told the bartender. "Get it fixed, will you?"
"Yep," Cooper said, and Edge spun and headed for the batwings.
Across the street the four dwarfs were
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