Read Online The Outrage - Edge Series 3 by George G. Gilman - Free Book Online
Authors: George G. Gilman
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toward an archway at the far right side of the barroom, under a sign that read: HOTEL AND DINING ROOM. ‘The luncheon hour in our restaurant is over, sir. But here in the saloon we can rustle up a bowl of soup; or some cold cuts if you prefer?’
‘Be obliged if you’d get me some soup with bread on the side. And a glass of beer.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Edge paid what was asked then turned away from the bar as the man went to the far end of the counter and came out from behind it to go for the food. The youngster named Sawyer used an ill-shod foot to push a chair away from the table where he sat and invited: ‘Why don’t you join me, mister? The name’s Eddie Sawyer and I’ll be glad to tell you anything you want to know about Springdale. You being a stranger to these parts, I guess?’
Edge remained where he was as he told the tall, skinny, greasy haired and bad complexioned young man: ‘I ain’t buying right now, kid.’
Sawyer shrugged and used his foot again to hook the chair back under the table. ‘Suit yourself. But I ain’t figuring to bum no free drinks. What I’d like is for you to answer me a question though?’
‘You can ask.’
‘That was Bob Jordan that Mrs Cassidy brought into town a little while back, ain’t that so?’
‘That’s who the lady said it was.’
‘The dumb cluck who rode his horse off the cliff at Timber Hill? Did I hear it right, mister?’
‘It sounds to me like you know as much about it as I do.’ Edge made to step away from the counter.
Sawyer quickly put another question: ‘Did you happen to see if there was a knife hung on Jordan’s belt?’
‘I didn’t take that much notice, kid.’ Edge felt like he was giving a performance in front of an audience, the way the other boy and the three old timers peered fixedly at him with as much intense interest as his questioner.
Sawyer hurried to explain: ‘See, Jordan’s got an old Bowie knife. Real proud of it he is –
was. On account of it’s got old Jim Bowie’s initials carved into the handle. So it’s supposed to have been Bowie’s very own. I ain’t so sure about that, but seeing as how Jordan’s got no more need for the knife, I wouldn’t mind having it anyway. So maybe I’ll take a stroll down to Mr Winter’s place and check if – ‘
‘What is it with you, Sawyer!’ the other youngster snarled. He was by far the better looking of the two, with deep blue eyes, perfect white teeth, a dimpled chin and waved blond hair that looked close to white above the dark burnish of his clear complexioned skin. He was an inch or so under six feet tall and only the start of a potbelly marred his otherwise fine physique.
‘This ain’t none of your business, Colman!’ Sawyer countered bitterly.
‘You’re acting like some kind of coyote or buzzard or something! That guy who worked for the Cassidys ain’t hardly cold yet and you want to pick over his corpse!’ He unfolded fast from the table and appeared to be rooted to the spot for stretched seconds as his chair toppled over backwards. And he swayed from the effects of more beer than he could comfortably handle while he looked ready to lunge at Sawyer. But then he suddenly whirled, strode across the saloon and crashed out between the batwings.
Sawyer rose more slowly, shrugged, made a scowling face and shared the expression among Edge and the trio of old timers as he muttered: ‘Guess we got to make allowances for poor old Matt Colman. I hear tell he was fixing to marry Nancy Quinn so it’s only natural he ain’t himself today. After what’s happened. Well, reckon I’ll get me down to the funeral parlour and see what I can find out about Jordan’s Bowie knife.’
Edge carried his gear to a table, dropped it to the floor and sat down, ignored now by the three old men. Shortly afterwards the bartender returned, drew a beer, brought it across to Edge and promised:
‘Food’s on it’s way, sir.’
‘What’s the price of a room in the
‘Be obliged if you’d get me some soup with bread on the side. And a glass of beer.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Edge paid what was asked then turned away from the bar as the man went to the far end of the counter and came out from behind it to go for the food. The youngster named Sawyer used an ill-shod foot to push a chair away from the table where he sat and invited: ‘Why don’t you join me, mister? The name’s Eddie Sawyer and I’ll be glad to tell you anything you want to know about Springdale. You being a stranger to these parts, I guess?’
Edge remained where he was as he told the tall, skinny, greasy haired and bad complexioned young man: ‘I ain’t buying right now, kid.’
Sawyer shrugged and used his foot again to hook the chair back under the table. ‘Suit yourself. But I ain’t figuring to bum no free drinks. What I’d like is for you to answer me a question though?’
‘You can ask.’
‘That was Bob Jordan that Mrs Cassidy brought into town a little while back, ain’t that so?’
‘That’s who the lady said it was.’
‘The dumb cluck who rode his horse off the cliff at Timber Hill? Did I hear it right, mister?’
‘It sounds to me like you know as much about it as I do.’ Edge made to step away from the counter.
Sawyer quickly put another question: ‘Did you happen to see if there was a knife hung on Jordan’s belt?’
‘I didn’t take that much notice, kid.’ Edge felt like he was giving a performance in front of an audience, the way the other boy and the three old timers peered fixedly at him with as much intense interest as his questioner.
Sawyer hurried to explain: ‘See, Jordan’s got an old Bowie knife. Real proud of it he is –
was. On account of it’s got old Jim Bowie’s initials carved into the handle. So it’s supposed to have been Bowie’s very own. I ain’t so sure about that, but seeing as how Jordan’s got no more need for the knife, I wouldn’t mind having it anyway. So maybe I’ll take a stroll down to Mr Winter’s place and check if – ‘
‘What is it with you, Sawyer!’ the other youngster snarled. He was by far the better looking of the two, with deep blue eyes, perfect white teeth, a dimpled chin and waved blond hair that looked close to white above the dark burnish of his clear complexioned skin. He was an inch or so under six feet tall and only the start of a potbelly marred his otherwise fine physique.
‘This ain’t none of your business, Colman!’ Sawyer countered bitterly.
‘You’re acting like some kind of coyote or buzzard or something! That guy who worked for the Cassidys ain’t hardly cold yet and you want to pick over his corpse!’ He unfolded fast from the table and appeared to be rooted to the spot for stretched seconds as his chair toppled over backwards. And he swayed from the effects of more beer than he could comfortably handle while he looked ready to lunge at Sawyer. But then he suddenly whirled, strode across the saloon and crashed out between the batwings.
Sawyer rose more slowly, shrugged, made a scowling face and shared the expression among Edge and the trio of old timers as he muttered: ‘Guess we got to make allowances for poor old Matt Colman. I hear tell he was fixing to marry Nancy Quinn so it’s only natural he ain’t himself today. After what’s happened. Well, reckon I’ll get me down to the funeral parlour and see what I can find out about Jordan’s Bowie knife.’
Edge carried his gear to a table, dropped it to the floor and sat down, ignored now by the three old men. Shortly afterwards the bartender returned, drew a beer, brought it across to Edge and promised:
‘Food’s on it’s way, sir.’
‘What’s the price of a room in the
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