Return to Massacre Mesa - Edge Series 5 by George G. Gilman Read Free Book Online

riding western trails in clothing that was far from new: the garb of the two men alike only in terms of a Stetson apiece – for Billy Russell spent his working day in a grey business suit, white shirt and black bootlace tie. Then the 34
    lawman sighed, leaned against the backrest of the bench again and felt once more a sense of frustration as yet another drifter rode into town: maybe to cause trouble or maybe not. For he had lost the knack of spotting the troublemakers. Which he used to be able to do, nine times out of ten, and it was for sure that if this newcomer was going to step out of line, Russell was in no state of health to do very much about it.
    ‘Good morning to you, mister,’ the local man greeted after the stranger had reined his horse to a halt outside the law office.
    Close enough for Russell to see for certain the man had something of the Mexican about him: in the sculpturing of his features, emphasised by an underplayed moustache styled in the manner favoured by so many hombres from south of the border some thirty miles away from town. But the glittering blueness of his eyes set in narrowed slits under hooded lids was not at all Latino.
    ‘And to you, sheriff.’ The stranger offered an amiable smile as he reciprocated the greeting but Russell continued to sense a latent menace that warned if he was not himself a troublemaker he was well able to handle any aggravation that came his way. So he was the same type as countless other men who drifted along the trails of the Southwest and occasionally rode through Lakewood: friendless loners living on their wits and, as often as not, by the gun. This one packed a walnut butted Colt .45 in a tied down holster on the right and there was a far from new Winchester repeating rifle slid into the boot hung forward on the same side of his saddle. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and asked evenly:
    ‘Is that the only place in town a stranger can bed down?’
    Russell showed a grimace as he glanced across the vacant lot between his office and the Wild Dog Hotel, past the Lakewood limits marker that meant the establishment that had changed its name slightly, but not its line of business, was now considered to be out of town. As he directed his jaundiced gaze at the place still operated by Sam Tree, a man emerged from the former lock up that now served as a privy. The lawman’s sour expression was not triggered by physical discomfort this time. 35
    With the passing of the years and the expansion of the community from a huddle of crude shacks huddled close to an army post into a regular town he had come to share the views of many other citizens concerning the Wild Dog and the dubious pleasure that could be purchased there. Dubious outside of liquor, of course, which often went some way to ease the pains in his arthritic joints.
    ‘It sure is, unless you step over the line of the law and wind up in one of my back rooms, Mr . . ?’
    ‘Edge.’
    ‘I hope it turns out that I’ll be glad to know you, Mr Edge.’ Russell vented a sardonic chuckle. ‘But don’t you pay no mind to me. If you do break any laws around here, there won’t be a hell of a lot I can do about it. A man like you are and one like I am these days.’ As he struggled to push himself to his feet he showed a series of grimaces but managed to keep in check any vocal response to his discomfort. Then blew out pent up breath when he was finally standing at his full height and needed to lean heavily on the cane to remain so. ‘Damn rheumatics, Mr Edge: the climate out here in the Southwest is supposed to be good for curing them, the way it’s so dry for most of the time. But I’m living proof that ain’t so in every case.’
    ‘I’m sorry to hear about your condition, sheriff.’ Edge’s even toned response drew a suspicious double take as the lawman checked on the level of sincerity in the glittering hooded eyes and the shape of the wide mouth. Then Russell nodded his approval and