The door of room fifteen was at the end, on the opposite side from his own and he used the muzzle of the rifle to rap on the panel. The silence he had interrupted continued when he finished.
He tried the handle, which rattled but refused to turn. His expression impassive, he leaned his back against the opposite wall, raised his long leg and sent the heel of his boot crashing against the outside of the lock. There is never much to protect in a whorehouse and this lock was a mere token. The door swung wide and thudded against the inner wall. Edge stepped across the threshold and glanced around a room which was identical to his own. Even when he had spent a few moments allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness, he could recognize nothing that made it different in any way. He closed the door behind him and stood, whistling in low key for perhaps a half minute before starting his search. It didn't take long because the Englishman traveled light: the tallboy, wardrobe and bureau were all empty. None of the floorboards or wooden panels on the wall showed signs of having been prized up to form a hiding place and thus there was only the double bed to merit close attention. With a casual lack of haste, Edge stripped it of coverlet, blanket and sheet, shaking each and tossing them into a comer. There was no slit in the pillow until he made one and shook out the filling. It contained nothing else. There was only the mattress under the bottom sheet and Edge emitted a grunt of satisfaction when he saw the knife scar on the side: a neat slit some six inches long.
He knelt down and drove a hand inside, had to probe with his long fingers for several moments before he found a square of thick paper. He withdrew his discovery and carried it across to the window. He bad to lean his rifle against the wall to open the paper from its two folds, turning it toward the light from a kerosene lamp which spluttered outside, illuminating the bordello's sign. His lips parted in a grin when he saw he had found a map, old and stained, faded in parts and ragged at the edges. It was crudely drawn and bore no lettering but was clearly a map of the valley in which Rainbow was situated, the position of the town marked by a childish drawing of the army fort. The course of the river was marked, and the lines of the two ridges to north and south which formed the valley. There was no stage trail, perhaps because one had not existed at the time the map was drawn. But there wasa dotted line which led from just east of the fort, on a zig-zagged course up and over, or perhaps through, the northern ridge, ending at a heavily inscribed cross.
"X marks the spot, old boy."
Edge spun, his right hand streaking toward his holstered Colt and it was in his hand and cocked as he finished the turn, his narrowed eyes fastening on the .Englishman as a clearly outlined silhouette framed in the open doorway with the lighted hallway beyond. But the Englishman's hands hung loosely by his sides and Edge halted his finger' on the trigger, a sliver away from the kill.
"You ought to be dead," Edge said softly.
The Englishman shook his head, smiled and stepped into the room. "You're fast, Edge. A man who shoots as fast as you do has to have good reflexes in other directions." He glanced around at the pile of bedclothes and scattering of filling from the pillow, making a sound of distaste from deep within his throat. "But you aren't very tidy, are you? Not subtle at, all."
Edge waved the paper. "But like the Apaches, effective. What does it mark?"
The Englishman sat on the edge of the mattress, wearing the easy smile again. "You really don't know?"
Edge was still holding the gun. "No."
"Of course, it's obvious you don't. If you did I really would be dead, wouldn't I?" The smile was suddenly replaced by his expression of deadliness. "You must realize then, that I'm not going to tell you."
Edge grunted, folded the map and pushed it inside his shirt front. He stood for a moment
He tried the handle, which rattled but refused to turn. His expression impassive, he leaned his back against the opposite wall, raised his long leg and sent the heel of his boot crashing against the outside of the lock. There is never much to protect in a whorehouse and this lock was a mere token. The door swung wide and thudded against the inner wall. Edge stepped across the threshold and glanced around a room which was identical to his own. Even when he had spent a few moments allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness, he could recognize nothing that made it different in any way. He closed the door behind him and stood, whistling in low key for perhaps a half minute before starting his search. It didn't take long because the Englishman traveled light: the tallboy, wardrobe and bureau were all empty. None of the floorboards or wooden panels on the wall showed signs of having been prized up to form a hiding place and thus there was only the double bed to merit close attention. With a casual lack of haste, Edge stripped it of coverlet, blanket and sheet, shaking each and tossing them into a comer. There was no slit in the pillow until he made one and shook out the filling. It contained nothing else. There was only the mattress under the bottom sheet and Edge emitted a grunt of satisfaction when he saw the knife scar on the side: a neat slit some six inches long.
He knelt down and drove a hand inside, had to probe with his long fingers for several moments before he found a square of thick paper. He withdrew his discovery and carried it across to the window. He bad to lean his rifle against the wall to open the paper from its two folds, turning it toward the light from a kerosene lamp which spluttered outside, illuminating the bordello's sign. His lips parted in a grin when he saw he had found a map, old and stained, faded in parts and ragged at the edges. It was crudely drawn and bore no lettering but was clearly a map of the valley in which Rainbow was situated, the position of the town marked by a childish drawing of the army fort. The course of the river was marked, and the lines of the two ridges to north and south which formed the valley. There was no stage trail, perhaps because one had not existed at the time the map was drawn. But there wasa dotted line which led from just east of the fort, on a zig-zagged course up and over, or perhaps through, the northern ridge, ending at a heavily inscribed cross.
"X marks the spot, old boy."
Edge spun, his right hand streaking toward his holstered Colt and it was in his hand and cocked as he finished the turn, his narrowed eyes fastening on the .Englishman as a clearly outlined silhouette framed in the open doorway with the lighted hallway beyond. But the Englishman's hands hung loosely by his sides and Edge halted his finger' on the trigger, a sliver away from the kill.
"You ought to be dead," Edge said softly.
The Englishman shook his head, smiled and stepped into the room. "You're fast, Edge. A man who shoots as fast as you do has to have good reflexes in other directions." He glanced around at the pile of bedclothes and scattering of filling from the pillow, making a sound of distaste from deep within his throat. "But you aren't very tidy, are you? Not subtle at, all."
Edge waved the paper. "But like the Apaches, effective. What does it mark?"
The Englishman sat on the edge of the mattress, wearing the easy smile again. "You really don't know?"
Edge was still holding the gun. "No."
"Of course, it's obvious you don't. If you did I really would be dead, wouldn't I?" The smile was suddenly replaced by his expression of deadliness. "You must realize then, that I'm not going to tell you."
Edge grunted, folded the map and pushed it inside his shirt front. He stood for a moment
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