Killing Time In Eternity - Edge Series 4

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4 • KILLING TIME IN ETERNITY

by

George G. Gilman

Terry Harknett

Spring Acre

Springhead Road

Uplyme

Lyme Regis

Dorset DT7 3RS

01297-445380

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An EDGE Western --• --83,000 Words

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For Eric

Even though he called

Westerns cowboy books!

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CHAPTER • 1

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THE CITY suited, middle aged and slightly drunk fat man who had gotten off the
west bound train two hours ago asked of the pre-occupied bartender: ‘You think I ought to have myself another belt of your fine rye whiskey, Buck?’

Buck Segal, who was blond haired and handsome, broad shouldered and narrow waisted and looked to be in perfect physical shape for a man in his mid-thirties, managed to suppress a sigh as he spread a professionally amiable smile across his blue-eyed, broad mouthed, evenly tanned face.

‘That’s for you to decide, Mr Shelby. If you want another whiskey, I’ll be pleased to pour it for you, sir.’

Shelby, who had a florid complexion and tiny eyes that seemed not to remain still in their sockets for a second, was in a sour mood that threatened to become more explosively belligerent with each fresh drink he took. Now as he continued to sit at a table near the end of the bar close to Segal he clutched the empty shot glass in both thick fingered hands, gave a dogged shake of his head and rasped to himself: ‘No, damnit, that’s not the answer!’

Segal settled back comfortably on to a stool behind the highly polished counter, pursed his lips in a mute whistle and stared into space. There was nothing in his pensive expression to offer a clue to what kind of scene he conjured up in his mind: one that was surely far removed from his present unprepossessing surroundings of the Second Chance Saloon on Main Street in the Kansas town of Eternity.

There were five customers in addition to Shelby in the dimly lit place this rainy and wind-swept early November night at the end of a seasonably stormy mid-western day. Two of these sat together in a front corner of the room that was large enough to comfortably accommodate eight tables each ringed by four chairs. Both local men between sixty and seventy, they each had a certain military look about them and wore Sunday-goto-meeting clothes that had seen better days: the pin-striped fabric of their suits as shiny as their largely bald heads. They were sharing a bottle of whiskey that would last them until Christmas at the cautious rate they poured from it. The older one, with square shoulders and a ramrod straight back, was in fact an ex-army man: Walter Benson, formerly a colonel in an artillery regiment. His drinking companion had also once worn a uniform though he was never in the military: he was a retired railroadman named John Dickens who was shorter, with a fleshier build and affected a bushy grey moustache with which he habitually toyed absently.

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The Colbert brother and sister sat at the opposite front corner table in the stove heated saloon where for long periods the only sounds were those of the wet and windy weather which were muted by the solid walls of the building. They were the last customers to enter the barroom, when Olivia had immediately made it known they had not come to the Second Chance for the company. Announced imperiously that she and Arthur had been attending the dramatic performance in the nearby theatre until she began to feel unwell: so her brother had escorted her to the saloon to take a medicinal brandy. She was about forty, a tall and slender woman just starting to lose her classical beauty to the ageing process, with long blonde hair that framed a pale face dominated by large dark eyes. She had chosen to wear a sombre hued, finely tailored silken dress and a severely cut topcoat with velvet trimming for tonight’s visit to the theatre. Arthur was fifteen years older and somewhat dude-like in his style of dress. He was also tall and thin, with a strong family resemblance to his sister that suggested he could have been girlishly good looking in his younger days. His complexion now was sallow and heavily lined while his thinning hair and the little more than a suggestion of a moustache was silver. They were reputed to be the wealthiest people in the Eternity area; owners of a large spread to the north west of town that Olivia took the principle part in running while her brother occasionally practised law from an office on Main Street. The man called Edge sat at a rear corner table at the other end of the bar counter from Shelby and was halfway through his second beer since he entered the saloon thirty minutes earlier. On his more than faintly Hispanic looking face with hooded, ice blue eyes and droop ended moustache above thin lips was an impassive expression even harder to read than that of the bartender. This was a detached look that had settled there since Shelby tried to open a conversation with him and was rebuffed with a brand of laconic civility to which a more aggressive drunk would maybe have taken exception. But at the time, shortly after Edge came in and removed his rain slicker to reveal that he wore dark hued trail-riding clothes and carried a walnut butted Colt in a tied-down holster, Shelby had chosen to accept the rejection with no more than a grunt and a brief glower. Which had been three further shots of rye ago, and he was clearly the sort of drinker whose demeanour did not mellow over a lengthy session. Shelby was in his early forties, six feet tall and about forty pounds overweight, the excess flesh evenly distributed on his frame. He had a slightly puffy face, its masculinity over-emphasised by a heavy moustache as solidly dark as the full head of short cut hair. His pale blue eyes were small enough to be almost porcine and he had a sullen, thin mouth, the teeth a little crooked.

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Occasionally in recent years Edge had begun to view men like Shelby as a warning of the kind he could become if he did not take more care of himself. But in the case of this particular running-to-seed man here and now, he drew a degree of comfort as well as the usual warning. For although he was some ten years older than this more recent stranger to town he was just a few pounds overweight. Too, he was able to endure the unwelcome circumstances in which he found himself without seeking temporary solace in hard liquor.

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’

Along with everyone else in the saloon, Edge looked toward the entrance where a newcomer stood, holding open the full-length doors so that a stream of coldly damp evening air and the sounds of wind and rain flowed over and under the batwings into the warm and silence barroom.

This was a short and thin, forty something man with sparse grey hair and alcohol glazed eyes wearing a crumpled, rain-spattered suit and an askew necktie. Edge nodded curtly toward Doctor Charles Childs as the bartender, the pair of old timers and the Colbert brother and sister greeted the man respectfully by name or his professional title.

Shelby obviously had some difficulty focussing on the new arrival as Childs acknowledged the greetings with a raised hand and closed the doors at this back. Then he suddenly smiled broadly as Childs pushed between the batwings and moved eagerly toward where he sat.

‘As I live and breathe, if it isn’t Ethan Shelby!’ Childs staggered slightly when he crossed the saloon, his voice a little slurred as it spilled from a mouth formed into the crooked line of an insecure grin. ‘Detective Shelby, one of New York’s finest! What the hell are you doing here, my old friend?’

Shelby’s smile faltered as he peered around, like he expected an adverse reaction to the revelation he was a big city lawman from the east. But as the second worse-for-liquor man drew closer and he was able to confirm recognition of a familiar figure from the past, the smile became more firmly fixed on his fleshy features and he thrust out his right hand.

‘Of all people, Charlie Childs!’

Each man attempted to outdo the other in the strength of his handshake as they matched expressions of delight at the unexpected meeting.

‘Well, I live right here in Eternity, Ethan.’ Childs was no longer slurring and was able to remain rock steady on his feet now. And the liquor-kindled dull glaze in his dark brown eyes had become a sparkle at the welcome surprise of seeing Shelby. ‘Been doctoring hereabouts for more than a dozen years. So, what brought you this far away from New 6

York? But first off, have a drink? Buck, whatever my old friend here wants! And the usual for me, if you please!’

‘Coming right up, doc!’ The bartender was genuinely pleased to see Childs. ‘And another shot of rye for you, Mr Shelby sir?’

The old timers made no attempt to conceal their eager curiosity about the unforeseen meeting between the well-known local doctor and a police detective from New York who was a total stranger. Neither did the more circumspect Arthur Colbert, while his sister gave a haughty impression of being totally disinterested in everything that was happening in the saloon.

Edge resumed reading the newspaper he had brought in with him: this week’s edition of the
Eternity Post Despatch
that carried in the prime position on its front pager a lengthy report concerning the violent death of Doc Childs’ only son eight days ago. Segal called out that he would bring the drinks to the table and Childs dropped into the chair opposite Shelby. Then the slightly built doctor gave an incredulous shake of his head, vented a short gust of laughter and reached out a hand to briefly grip the upper arm of the other man. Like he needed this further contact to prove to himself that his eyes and ears did not deceive him and his friend from many years ago truly was right here in the flesh before him.

The two glasses of rye were brought to the table and the men tacitly toasted each other and peered at one another in the kind of elongated and unembarrassed silence that few are able to share comfortably except for happily married couples and friends who are very close.

‘So, Ethan, what in tarnation are you doing in my neck of the woods? Aside from getting drunk, unless I’m mistaken?’ He saw Shelby start to frown, abandoned the final remnants of his own grin and went on in a sombre tone: ‘Have you got yourself a bad problem, old friend?’

Shelby’s own expression became more troubled as he eyed the smaller framed man across the table, who was at least fifteen pounds underweight, most noticeably from the way his suit was more than a size too large for him. Also, his cheekbones were too prominent and there was slack skin hanging at his throat. His dark eyes, bloodshot from too much liquor tonight, were deeply set and his bushy eyebrows and dishevelled thinning hair had prematurely greyed almost to the extinction of its former brown colour. His hands were skeletal so he was easily able to indulge in the nervous mannerism of frequently twisting his wedding band with the fingers and thumb of his right hand when he was not clutching his glass.