Read Online The Outrage - Edge Series 3 by George G. Gilman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: George G. Gilman
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hotel?’
‘Charge is a buck a night. Food’s extra. And right now a dollar will buy you the pick of any room in the house.’
‘Business is bad, uh?’
The skinny man shrugged. ‘The place has had the boom times. Maybe they’ll come back some day.’
‘It doesn’t bother you one way or the other?’
‘Me? I’m sort of the same as you, I reckon: just passing through. The Grand’s owner is Mrs Violet Cantrell. An old lady who lives upstairs and hardly ever leaves the hotel. Too old and too rich already to care very much about making a profit these days, I guess.’
‘Obliged.’ Edge tried the beer and nodded his satisfaction with the taste. The bartender arranged his lanky frame into a more comfortable stance and grinned.
‘Yeah, just passing through. Course, I did show up here in Springdale more than two years ago and I ain’t moved on yet. But as long as I got free room and board and enough in wages to pay for what little extras I want from time to time . . . ‘
‘You’re a happy man?’
‘Yeah, I reckon that’s what I am.’
‘In an unhappy town, it seems to me?’
He shrugged once more. ‘It ain’t the best nor the worst town I ever stopped over in for a spell. Course, what happened to the Quinn women has put a damper on things around here today. But all in all, when that trouble’s blown over, it won’t be such a bad place again.’ He made to move away.
Edge asked: ‘You know a woman named Sarah Farmer?’
‘Sure do, sir. Miss Farmer is one of the teachers at the local school.’
‘She any kin to the Farmer who has the bakery across the street?’
‘Daughter of the guy that started it way back when. And sister to Alice Cassidy who just now brought in the body of the hired hand who got killed out on her and Noah’s place. I guess they’ve each got a piece of the bakery in partnership since their old man died awhile ago.’
‘Much obliged again.’
‘You got reason for asking?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Which you ain’t about to tell me, I guess?’
‘You guess right, feller.’
A short, fat, crimson faced, dark haired woman of fifty or so came into the saloon from under the hotel and dining room sign. She carried a tray on which was a steaming, good smelling bowl of chicken soup and a plate piled high with hunks of thickly buttered bread.
‘Maybe we got us a customer for one of the rooms, Mrs Wexler,’ the bartender announced and showed a mischievous glint in his deep-set eyes when he added: ‘This gentleman here, who was asking about the Farmer family.’
The overweight and seemingly overworked woman set down the tray of food on the table, glanced at Edge with disinterest and told the bartender: ‘Well, Fred, you know where to send him if he decides he wants to rent a room here at the hotel.’ She waddled away and went out through the archway as Fred whispered to Edge:
‘The Wexlers don’t like the Farmers over much.’
Edge started on the soup and found it better than he had expected: no worse than he had eaten in dozens of places similar to this saloon. When he was through eating he rose from the table, hefted his gear up from the floor and headed for the batwings. He nodded to the bartender who called a cheerful farewell but ignored the three doleful old men who had held no conversation while they unashamedly eavesdropped on every mundane exchange in which he had been involved.
The streets were sparsely populated and free of moving traffic at this time in the early afternoon. So he was in no danger of being run down by any local bigot with particularly strong feelings about a half Mexican Yankee as he angled across the centre town intersection, heading for the stage line depot.
Because the depot office was much smaller than the saloon the air inside was a great deal hotter. It was silent in there except for the irritable buzzing of a bluebottle as the insect banged against the large window beside the open doorway: and the eating sounds made by the fat, ruddy
‘Charge is a buck a night. Food’s extra. And right now a dollar will buy you the pick of any room in the house.’
‘Business is bad, uh?’
The skinny man shrugged. ‘The place has had the boom times. Maybe they’ll come back some day.’
‘It doesn’t bother you one way or the other?’
‘Me? I’m sort of the same as you, I reckon: just passing through. The Grand’s owner is Mrs Violet Cantrell. An old lady who lives upstairs and hardly ever leaves the hotel. Too old and too rich already to care very much about making a profit these days, I guess.’
‘Obliged.’ Edge tried the beer and nodded his satisfaction with the taste. The bartender arranged his lanky frame into a more comfortable stance and grinned.
‘Yeah, just passing through. Course, I did show up here in Springdale more than two years ago and I ain’t moved on yet. But as long as I got free room and board and enough in wages to pay for what little extras I want from time to time . . . ‘
‘You’re a happy man?’
‘Yeah, I reckon that’s what I am.’
‘In an unhappy town, it seems to me?’
He shrugged once more. ‘It ain’t the best nor the worst town I ever stopped over in for a spell. Course, what happened to the Quinn women has put a damper on things around here today. But all in all, when that trouble’s blown over, it won’t be such a bad place again.’ He made to move away.
Edge asked: ‘You know a woman named Sarah Farmer?’
‘Sure do, sir. Miss Farmer is one of the teachers at the local school.’
‘She any kin to the Farmer who has the bakery across the street?’
‘Daughter of the guy that started it way back when. And sister to Alice Cassidy who just now brought in the body of the hired hand who got killed out on her and Noah’s place. I guess they’ve each got a piece of the bakery in partnership since their old man died awhile ago.’
‘Much obliged again.’
‘You got reason for asking?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Which you ain’t about to tell me, I guess?’
‘You guess right, feller.’
A short, fat, crimson faced, dark haired woman of fifty or so came into the saloon from under the hotel and dining room sign. She carried a tray on which was a steaming, good smelling bowl of chicken soup and a plate piled high with hunks of thickly buttered bread.
‘Maybe we got us a customer for one of the rooms, Mrs Wexler,’ the bartender announced and showed a mischievous glint in his deep-set eyes when he added: ‘This gentleman here, who was asking about the Farmer family.’
The overweight and seemingly overworked woman set down the tray of food on the table, glanced at Edge with disinterest and told the bartender: ‘Well, Fred, you know where to send him if he decides he wants to rent a room here at the hotel.’ She waddled away and went out through the archway as Fred whispered to Edge:
‘The Wexlers don’t like the Farmers over much.’
Edge started on the soup and found it better than he had expected: no worse than he had eaten in dozens of places similar to this saloon. When he was through eating he rose from the table, hefted his gear up from the floor and headed for the batwings. He nodded to the bartender who called a cheerful farewell but ignored the three doleful old men who had held no conversation while they unashamedly eavesdropped on every mundane exchange in which he had been involved.
The streets were sparsely populated and free of moving traffic at this time in the early afternoon. So he was in no danger of being run down by any local bigot with particularly strong feelings about a half Mexican Yankee as he angled across the centre town intersection, heading for the stage line depot.
Because the depot office was much smaller than the saloon the air inside was a great deal hotter. It was silent in there except for the irritable buzzing of a bluebottle as the insect banged against the large window beside the open doorway: and the eating sounds made by the fat, ruddy
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