Read Online Silver in the Blood by George G. Gilman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: George G. Gilman
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rutted streets. But a muted, far-off din and a halo-like glow in the sky over the rooftops signaled the location of the tenderloin section. In a town the drunk maintained was dying because of mine cave-ins and flooding, one street was very much alive and kicking. Windows blazed with light, pianos rattled out raucous music, girls sang hoarsely and men laughed and cheered and shouted. There were six saloons on the lower end of Main Street and in each of them a horde of barflies was acting as if there were no tomorrow.
Edge walked his horse down the center of the street, glancing to left and right through the misted windows, relishing the prospect of the warm, smoke-laden atmosphere behind them and the glow of whisky in his throat and stomach. But none of the saloons had the name Ritz over the batwings He passed the sheriff's office which was only dimly lit, the lawman sleeping peacefully behind his desk. Then two livery stables advertising the same rates, a barber's shop and dress store closed but displaying lights. Then came the Ritz Hotel.
It was a three-story building, as wide as it was tall. The top two floors were blacked out but below, the action was still happening, albeit in a more subdued tone than further down the street. There were maybe two dozen horses tied to the long hitching rail at the edge of the canopied sidewalk and some buggies were parked on the vacant lot next to the hotel.
After hitching his horse among the others, Edge went through the plate glass doors and, if he had been of such a nature, would immediately have felt conspicuous by his travel-stained appearance. He was in a lobby with deep pile carpet on the floor and framed pictures on the paneled walls. Through an archway on the left was a restaurant furnished with elegantly laid, white-covered tables around which expensively clad men and women used silver cutlery to eat from bone china plates as a three-piece band of piano, violin and cello aided their digestions with subdued music. A second archway to the right gave on to a high-class gambling saloon, fitted with a long mahogany bar complete with stools, and tables for poker, faro, roulette and craps. The drinkers and gamblers were as well turned out as the diners across the lobby. Edge spared a mere glance through each archway before heading between the over-stuffed chairs and sofas towards the hotel desk tended by a blue-liveried porter. It was apparent from the expression on the smooth, very pale face of the young porter that he recognized Edge as an intruder amid such surroundings.
But the arrogance died from his eyes as the stranger drew close enough to reveal his latent threat.
"Yes, sir?" the porter asked, with a rasp in his tone.
"Wilder," Edge said softly.
The porter swallowed hard. "Mr. Wilder is the owner of the Ritz, sir."
"He around?"
The porter was about twenty-five but looked a lot younger as he glanced nervously from side to side, as if, seeking aid in potential trouble. "In his office, I think."
"Where's that?" Edge locked his narrowed eyes on the porter's gaze and the young man felt compelled to meet the look, as if hypnotized. It was obvious to Edge that he had crossed some invisible demarcation line which existed in town. People were supposed to know their place and stay with it.
The porter hooked a finger between his starched collar and his neck. "Mr. Wilder does not like to be disturbed at night, sir."
Edge leaned across the highly polished top of the desk until the tip of his nose was only inches from that of the porter. The porter's lower lip trembled. "There's a guy out on the mountain," Edge said softly. "It is cold out there and he looks like a man used to the sun. He did me a favor and I wouldn't like to see him die of exposure. I want to see Wilder."
"What is it, John?" The, woman spoke quickly but with no hint of nervousness in her tone.
Edge sighed and turned to look at her. The porter gave a gasp of relief. "Gentleman wishes to see your father, Miss
Edge walked his horse down the center of the street, glancing to left and right through the misted windows, relishing the prospect of the warm, smoke-laden atmosphere behind them and the glow of whisky in his throat and stomach. But none of the saloons had the name Ritz over the batwings He passed the sheriff's office which was only dimly lit, the lawman sleeping peacefully behind his desk. Then two livery stables advertising the same rates, a barber's shop and dress store closed but displaying lights. Then came the Ritz Hotel.
It was a three-story building, as wide as it was tall. The top two floors were blacked out but below, the action was still happening, albeit in a more subdued tone than further down the street. There were maybe two dozen horses tied to the long hitching rail at the edge of the canopied sidewalk and some buggies were parked on the vacant lot next to the hotel.
After hitching his horse among the others, Edge went through the plate glass doors and, if he had been of such a nature, would immediately have felt conspicuous by his travel-stained appearance. He was in a lobby with deep pile carpet on the floor and framed pictures on the paneled walls. Through an archway on the left was a restaurant furnished with elegantly laid, white-covered tables around which expensively clad men and women used silver cutlery to eat from bone china plates as a three-piece band of piano, violin and cello aided their digestions with subdued music. A second archway to the right gave on to a high-class gambling saloon, fitted with a long mahogany bar complete with stools, and tables for poker, faro, roulette and craps. The drinkers and gamblers were as well turned out as the diners across the lobby. Edge spared a mere glance through each archway before heading between the over-stuffed chairs and sofas towards the hotel desk tended by a blue-liveried porter. It was apparent from the expression on the smooth, very pale face of the young porter that he recognized Edge as an intruder amid such surroundings.
But the arrogance died from his eyes as the stranger drew close enough to reveal his latent threat.
"Yes, sir?" the porter asked, with a rasp in his tone.
"Wilder," Edge said softly.
The porter swallowed hard. "Mr. Wilder is the owner of the Ritz, sir."
"He around?"
The porter was about twenty-five but looked a lot younger as he glanced nervously from side to side, as if, seeking aid in potential trouble. "In his office, I think."
"Where's that?" Edge locked his narrowed eyes on the porter's gaze and the young man felt compelled to meet the look, as if hypnotized. It was obvious to Edge that he had crossed some invisible demarcation line which existed in town. People were supposed to know their place and stay with it.
The porter hooked a finger between his starched collar and his neck. "Mr. Wilder does not like to be disturbed at night, sir."
Edge leaned across the highly polished top of the desk until the tip of his nose was only inches from that of the porter. The porter's lower lip trembled. "There's a guy out on the mountain," Edge said softly. "It is cold out there and he looks like a man used to the sun. He did me a favor and I wouldn't like to see him die of exposure. I want to see Wilder."
"What is it, John?" The, woman spoke quickly but with no hint of nervousness in her tone.
Edge sighed and turned to look at her. The porter gave a gasp of relief. "Gentleman wishes to see your father, Miss
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