Edge: Apache Death

"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!"

CHAPTER FOUR

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.