Read Online The Outrage - Edge Series 3 by George G. Gilman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: George G. Gilman
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complexioned, middle aged man in shirt sleeves and a waist apron who had been at the doorway of the place when the stage arrived this morning. He sat on a high backed chair behind a wall-to-wall counter that divided the room in two, sucking his teeth with noisy gusto as he made inroads into a large wedge of chocolate cake that oozed cream from both sides. He swallowed, licked his fingers, grinned broadly and greeted: ‘Afternoon to you, stranger.’ More finger licking. ‘Just having me a little snack. What can I do for you this fine Texas day?’
‘Like to know when the next stage to Austin is due?’
‘Not until next Wednesday, sir. Once a week service is what the company runs through Springdale in both directions. To Austin ever Wednesday. And the other way each Monday. You want to reserve a place on next Wednesday’s stage?’
‘Can I get a transfer?’ He dug into a shirt pocket and took out the ticket he purchased by barter at the way station.
The eager to please man wiped sticky fingers on his apron, took the ticket, peered at it, sucked his teeth, nodded and handed it back. ‘That’ll be no problem, sir. Your ticket’s good for any stage any day she runs through here to Austin. You got any baggage?’
Edge glanced down at the saddle and gear he carried. ‘I travel light.’
‘So there’s no problem there, either. Stage will leave the depot here at noon or near as makes no difference next Wednesday. I’ll see you then if I don’t run into you before, Mr Edge.’
‘Much obliged.’
‘My pleasure, sir.’ He took another bite of the chocolate cake as Edge went out of the cramped, stuffy office and the fly follow him and circled high into the sunlit air toward the cloudless bright blue sky.
‘Ah, Mr Edge, is it not?’ The speaker was yet another polite sounding citizen of Springdale, his manner like that of the bartender and the stage depot man, contrasting sharply with the outspoken crassness of Max Lacy and tacit antipathy of some other townspeople. Edge looked quizzically at the man who stood on the sidewalk between the stage depot and the law office. Dressed in a stained and threadbare pale grey suit and derby hat, he was about sixty with a scrawny build and a long narrow face, the skin heavily wrinkled and sallow. He had deep set watery blue eyes and a weak mouth line. And bony hands that he clasped in front of him as if to keep them from shaking. The expression on his under-fleshed face was of nervous indecision.
‘Something I can do for you, feller?’
The skinny, doleful faced man hooked a thumb over a shoulder to indicate Meeker’s office and explained: ‘I’ve just been speaking with the sheriff. Andrew Devlin is my name, attorney at law my profession. Nicholas Quinn is a client of mine. The sheriff informs me you are a friend of his?’
‘No, that’s not so.’
The unexpected response perturbed the already diffident lawyer. ‘Oh? I was given to understand by Mr Meeker that you and my client struck up a friendship during a stage trip and that you and he . . . ‘ He hunted for words.
Edge helped him out. ‘We share the stage between Pine Wells and here and on the way Quinn invited me to visit his house. But he was drunk at the time and the news he got when he reached town knocked him for a loop. He forgot his valise so I took it out to him. None of that makes us bosom buddies.’
‘Oh, I see. Yes . . . Well . . . It’s a . . . If you are to see him again shortly perhaps you would broach the subject of a visit from me? Or, of course, if Mr Quinn would rather come to my office in these tragic circumstances . . ?’
‘I don’t plan on going to – ‘ Edge broke off when he saw that Devlin’s attention had been distracted, when the man suddenly peered across the intersection and along the western length of Texas Avenue. And Edge turned to look in the same direction and saw a slow moving buggy had rounded the curve of the Austin Trail. Was now rolling along the street
‘Like to know when the next stage to Austin is due?’
‘Not until next Wednesday, sir. Once a week service is what the company runs through Springdale in both directions. To Austin ever Wednesday. And the other way each Monday. You want to reserve a place on next Wednesday’s stage?’
‘Can I get a transfer?’ He dug into a shirt pocket and took out the ticket he purchased by barter at the way station.
The eager to please man wiped sticky fingers on his apron, took the ticket, peered at it, sucked his teeth, nodded and handed it back. ‘That’ll be no problem, sir. Your ticket’s good for any stage any day she runs through here to Austin. You got any baggage?’
Edge glanced down at the saddle and gear he carried. ‘I travel light.’
‘So there’s no problem there, either. Stage will leave the depot here at noon or near as makes no difference next Wednesday. I’ll see you then if I don’t run into you before, Mr Edge.’
‘Much obliged.’
‘My pleasure, sir.’ He took another bite of the chocolate cake as Edge went out of the cramped, stuffy office and the fly follow him and circled high into the sunlit air toward the cloudless bright blue sky.
‘Ah, Mr Edge, is it not?’ The speaker was yet another polite sounding citizen of Springdale, his manner like that of the bartender and the stage depot man, contrasting sharply with the outspoken crassness of Max Lacy and tacit antipathy of some other townspeople. Edge looked quizzically at the man who stood on the sidewalk between the stage depot and the law office. Dressed in a stained and threadbare pale grey suit and derby hat, he was about sixty with a scrawny build and a long narrow face, the skin heavily wrinkled and sallow. He had deep set watery blue eyes and a weak mouth line. And bony hands that he clasped in front of him as if to keep them from shaking. The expression on his under-fleshed face was of nervous indecision.
‘Something I can do for you, feller?’
The skinny, doleful faced man hooked a thumb over a shoulder to indicate Meeker’s office and explained: ‘I’ve just been speaking with the sheriff. Andrew Devlin is my name, attorney at law my profession. Nicholas Quinn is a client of mine. The sheriff informs me you are a friend of his?’
‘No, that’s not so.’
The unexpected response perturbed the already diffident lawyer. ‘Oh? I was given to understand by Mr Meeker that you and my client struck up a friendship during a stage trip and that you and he . . . ‘ He hunted for words.
Edge helped him out. ‘We share the stage between Pine Wells and here and on the way Quinn invited me to visit his house. But he was drunk at the time and the news he got when he reached town knocked him for a loop. He forgot his valise so I took it out to him. None of that makes us bosom buddies.’
‘Oh, I see. Yes . . . Well . . . It’s a . . . If you are to see him again shortly perhaps you would broach the subject of a visit from me? Or, of course, if Mr Quinn would rather come to my office in these tragic circumstances . . ?’
‘I don’t plan on going to – ‘ Edge broke off when he saw that Devlin’s attention had been distracted, when the man suddenly peered across the intersection and along the western length of Texas Avenue. And Edge turned to look in the same direction and saw a slow moving buggy had rounded the curve of the Austin Trail. Was now rolling along the street
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