The Deputy - Edge Series 2 by George G. Gilman

7
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    TO GET to the Brady place it was necessary to head five miles out of Bishopsburg along the east trail that began where Mossman Road ended. Then make a right turn and ride a further half mile down the Creek Road spur.
    This trail followed the line of a trickling watercourse to where, many years ago, a man named Jack Brady had panned for gold.
    He found enough of it to begin building what he planned to be a fine house. But the sparse grains of gold ran out before the work to make his dream come true was barely started and Brady moved on to try his luck elsewhere.
    Since then the partially built house and single out-building had been left to weather and decay because nobody had ever felt inclined to complete what Brady began on such a remote and infertile piece of land.
    And his place had eventually become no more than a well known reference point when Bishopsburg people spoke about the hill country that lay to the east of town. Edge, again wearing a tin star on his chest, heard about this that Wednesday evening in the law office, aware without being concerned by it, of the resentment harboured by Ted Straker who was being left to guard Jose Martinez because North had not chosen him to be his cover. The deputy’s ill feeling similar to that directed at him earlier by an unusually quiet Otis Logan over supper in the dining room, of the Hyams Guest House. After the precise location of the meeting place had been explained and its history briefly told, the senior lawman instructed: ‘Need you to leave an hour after I do, Edge. And ride slow and easy, which is what I plan on doing. It figures they’ll be sure to be watching at some point between here and there.’
    ‘They’ve played it real smart up to now, feller.’
    ‘Right. So don’t close up on me in open country. And when you get to the house, only come on in if I signal you to. Or you see there’s trouble I can’t handle on my own.’
    From where he leaned against the wall behind the desk at which North sat Straker complained sullenly: ‘I reckon I can more or less understand why Edge didn’t let me read the letter from the Mexicans, George. But it’s a damn sight harder to figure why you won’t trust me to do what you’re asking of a gunsl . . . of him.’
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    North turned toward the good looking younger man and expressed earnest sympathy. ‘Ted, you’re my regular deputy. You know the town and the folks who live in and around it.’
    ‘Hell, that’s for sure, but – ‘
    North cut in: ‘If something goes badly wrong out there tonight – something untoward happens to me and Edge – you’ll have to take over the whole business of seeing the law’s upheld in Bishopsburg and the county.’
    He rose from behind the desk and signalled for Straker to have his chair as he went to get his gunbelt from the table beside which Edge stood. After he had carefully buckled on the belt and fastened the holster ties he said as he moved to the door:
    ‘Most important part of your job now – and in the event of unforeseen circumstances, Ted – is to see that Martinez stays where he is until he stands trial for raping and killing that young Crowell girl. And there ain’t no one else in this town I’d trust to do that.’
    ‘Yeah, I guess . . . ‘ Straker started then shook his head and moderated his tone from irritation to resignation as he dropped heavily into the chair behind the desk. ‘Yeah, I can appreciate what you’re saying, George.’
    He looked grimly at Edge as North swung open the door. ‘You be sure to take real good care of him in the event he needs help, mister.’
    After North left the office with just a raised hand to signal farewell there was a hard silence between Straker and Edge as the clock’s minute hand marked the passing of maybe thirty stretched seconds. Ended when Martinez called caustically from his cell:
    ‘That was real touching, uh amigo? Those two,