HE ANGLED THE cigarette from the side of his thin-lipped mouth and put his back to the six buildings which comprised the town of Sanctuary: he hoped for the final time. Then paid less than usual attention to his surroundings as he worked at trying to ease the discomforts that now seemed to affect every part of his body. And within a few minutes he was able to virtually forget about his aches and pains: except when he felt an occasional twinge or for some reason was made aware of the blood crusted on his bristled face.
Then he was forced to admit to himself that the main hurt was to his pride.
Not that he had come close to losing a crazy fist fight with a cocky kid in front of an audience of Clinton’s eager friends and neighbors. Instead that he had in the first place allowed himself to be drawn into a brawl which, even if he could consider himself the winner, had gained him nothing. Unless he counted some cuts and bruises and his wounded pride. Which maybe could be remembered as a lesson for the future: in and around Sanctuary, or wherever else the trails led him.
By this time he had ridden through the barren, rock-littered landscape which yesterday had reminded him of the Dakota Badlands, and Sanctuary was lost to sight behind him beyond the crest of the long slope. And the canyon was starting to take shape, the walls getting higher and closing in on the trail as he slowly rode eastward.
Now he was reminded of something else that had come unbidden into his mind when, in the opposite direction, he first rode this stretch of trail. There was unlikely to be any trace still to be seen of where Earl Peppercorn backshot his brother Raymond four days ago. But this bright morning, with the air in the narrowing canyon still crowded with early shadows unwarmed by the direct rays of the rising sun, the situation was different.
There was the comforting bulge of two hundred dollars in his hip pocket. And in spite of feeling it was probably an inane line of reasoning, there was also a strongly held desire to take an invited hand in Peppercorn business against the wishes of most members of this community that in part was so close-knit in opposition.
Thus he had an incentive to search for sign now, in dust largely undisturbed since the last wind to blow through the canyon: whether from the north west or elsewhere.
On the trail he recognized the hoofprints of his own mount from when he had ridden through the canyon yesterday. There was also fresh sign left by Rosemary Peppercorn’s buggy which had travelled in both directions last night. Outside of these tracks there was a confusion of other, older sign on the trail. And he began to sweep his hooded-eyed gaze over the ground to either side: for some time saw the elongated, early morning shadows picking out only the tracks of an occasional small animal or bird. Until he came upon the point where one Peppercorn brother had backshot the other: according to their father.
It was closer to the ranch end of the canyon than to where it broadened and petered out at the foot of the slope which led up toward Sanctuary. But, Edge thought as he began to dismount, far enough to the west of the narrow mouth of the canyon for the sound of a revolver shot to be lost in the night.
The dismount for a closer look at the sign drew an involuntary groan from Edge. For movement rekindled sharp pains in areas of his body that had just been aching dully during the slow ride from town.
Two horses, coming from the direction of Sanctuary, had been angled off the trail to the north side. Likewise, two from the opposite end of the canyon. Everyone had dismounted near a heap of rocks from an ancient fall. Where there was a large brown stain on the ground that could have been caused by any number of different substances. But Edge elected to assume it was likely to be blood spilled from the fatal wound in Raymond Peppercorn’s back. This was amid a confusion of sign in the dust that could mean many things: but for the moment he considered it probably indicated a fight of some kind.
He made no more assumptions after these conjectures, which were based not so much on the sign as on what he had been told by Norman and Rosemary Peppercorn. Right now, anyway, none of it meant anything in terms of what he was required to do to earn the two hundred dollars he had been paid in advance. What had happened here in Cottonwood Canyon last Saturday night was not his concern. It was sign that pointed the way to where Earl Peppercorn had gone afterwards he had to find.
So he remounted and continued on through the canyon. Some fifteen minutes later emerged into the warm sunlight beyond its eastern end. Saw the Peppercorn property spread out alongside the trail where it straightened from the curve.
As yesterday, there was no free ranging stock in sight on the other side of the wire fence that paralleled the trail. This morning, also, there were no horses in the corral. Which in itself would not have given the half-breed pause for thought as he headed his mount around the bend in the trail from the mouth of the canyon to the double gates that gave access to the yard. That these gates were open struck a wrong note. A buggy was untidily parked under the shade oak in the middle of the yard. And there was no smoke curling up from the house chimney.
No longer was it early morning: after eight or even nearer nine now. Maybe some country people with a large piece of land and livestock to take care of chose to lie in bed until such an hour. But having met the Peppercorn husband and wife, Edge was sure they were not this kind.
Also from having met them he knew that all was not well with them: and because of their trouble it seemed even less likely they would not be up and about at such an hour. With the fire lit for cooking. The stable doors open so the horses could exercise after being sheltered from the chill bite of the night long frost.
Nor were they the kind of people to carelessly leave the gates of the place open. Or the buggy where it had come to rest.
In addition to what he saw, and failed to see, allied with his knowledge that certain aspects of the place did not tie in with the kind of people he knew the Peppercorns to be, Edge also simply sensed something was wrong here.
The silence.
A silence that was absolute once he had reined his gelding to a halt alongside the stalled buggy under the newly leafing tree. But not the silence for its own sake. Beyond this was a strong suspicion of just what kind of silence it was. That kind which in its brooding quality carried a suggestion it existed because there was no living thing to break it.
But that was wrong!
As Edge made to dismount he heard a sound. It caused him to wrench his head around with a painful jerk that forced a groan from his throat. This a kind of distorted echo of the sound which had startled him.
Then his own horse imitated the sound far more accurately and the half-breed grinned. There was a horse in the stable. And he broadened his grin, pretending not to be perturbed at the way the animal had surprised him: rubbed his jaw where it had started to hurt again, and finished dismounting.
Hitched the reins of the gelding to a rear wheel of the buggy and moved across the yard to climb over the corral fence instead of using the gate. Figured that whatever mild exercise he got now might help to ease his aches and prevent necessary fast moves in the future from causing him so much discomfort.
He opened to the stable doors, saw just two of the at least three horses he knew the Peppercorns owned were installed inside. Now both animals snorted their desire to be released from the building and this served to set up a cackle from the chickens out back of the house.
So, living things there were in plenty: maybe there was even a quiet hog in the pen that was also behind the house.
But no humans: of this he was certain.
After he let the two horses out into the warm sunlight, he climbed back over the corral fence and, the same as yesterday, made use of the Peppercorn well.
Cranked the brim-full pail to the top of the shaft and sucked up a mouthful of water, swilled it around and spat it out. There was no blood to stain it now: but the bad taste of something else remained to taint his mouth. Next he set the pail on the well wall, ducked his face into it and relished the icy cold touch of the water on the skin that still burned at his jaw, nose and forehead. His face hurt worse when he scrubbed at it with the heels of his hands, to remove the crusting of congealed blood.
The water was by then darkly stained and he tipped it on the ground and allowed the empty pail to unwind down the shaft under its own weight.
Only then did he cross the yard and step up on to the porch. Saw the door was ajar, so there was a narrow gap between it and frame. Through this there oozed the brand of silence he had recognized from almost the first moment he rode into sight of the Peppercorn place this morning.
An empty silence, not disturbed by the shallow breathing of people who were sleeping. Or awake and watching him.
Or of a man who was sick and dying. Instead, the utterly inert silence of the already dead. But not the expected death of the old-before-his-time man who insisted he was not about to die until he had done what he felt he had to do.
Edge had pushed the door open wider so his narrowed, glinting eyes could make a swift but far-ranging survey of the once neat, clean, warm and snug parlor of this carefully tended house. He glimpsed in the mirror above the cold fireplace the expression of mixed anger and sorrow that spread across his battered and bristled face as he slowly shook his head.
Then he drew the door closed with a kind of reverence: to block off his view of Rosemary Peppercorn frozen in an attitude of violent death against the backdrop of the wreckage of her parlor.
He had seen violent death countless times. Had been responsible for strewing more than his share of wanton carnage over his back trails from a long ago, miles away Iowa farmstead. To this much larger but not entirely dissimilar spread on a Wyoming spring morning. So the scene on which he closed the door and turned his back was not etched deep into his memory by shock. But it was deeply etched there.
A no-longer-pretty, much-overweight, white haired woman of fifty who had carried herself with natural elegance. Who had once been attractive to men. When her hair was pure auburn, her brown eyes were not crowded by flesh, her snub nose was pert and her rosebud mouth was inviting.
Now she had been brutally beaten to death. Or maybe she had been battered to near unconsciousness. Or into total senselessness. Then had stumbled or been pushed. By accident or design. In such a way that her head struck the corner of a piece of the Peppercorns’ solid furniture. Which had shattered her skull to kill her. Or so much of her blood was spilled her pumping heart had run too low on the raw material to sustain life.
Edge stood on the porch, unshaded at this time of day, and just as out in Cottonwood Canyon acknowledged the details of what took place in the room behind him were of no concern to him. But this time, as his mind refused to dim the vivid image of the scene, he needed consciously to check the rising tide of rage that suddenly swamped sadness and threatened to cloud the issues that were important.
For some reason, and it was easy to think of an obvious one, Norman Peppercorn had again lost his temper with his wife. Started to beat up on her. With his fists, or whatever came readily to hand as a weapon. Improvised: or maybe one of the pair of Yellowboy Winchester rifles that was now gone from its accustomed place to the right of the mirror above the mantelshelf.
The struggling couple had staggered and plunged about the room, banging into furniture, overturning it. Scattering and shattering the bric-a-brac that had survived the sick man’s violent rage yesterday.
Or maybe Peppercorn had started in to smash up his home before his wife returned from her late trip to Sanctuary and beyond? Certainly he had not done it afterwards. Unless he had been badly injured. For there was more blood splattered around the wrecked room than he could have consumptively coughed up and survived.
But this was all conjecture once more, Edge chided himself, and began to search the ground again for sign. Found what he was looking for and then was able to block the line of thought involved with a reconstruction of the early hours struggle between a husband and wife. It was enough for his purpose to keep in mind a vivid image of the flabby form of Rosemary Peppercorn that would never again move so gracefully. And the fleshy face which would not smile in a way that tantalizingly suggested the kind of beauty this woman had once been.
An image of hair that was now a kind of red again, but the ugly shade of the dried blood which matted it. Of a sun-bronzed face so brutally beaten to a gruesome pulp the eyes were empty sockets, the nose no longer existed and the slackly open mouth showed just a few teeth remaining in the gums. The belly-up body, still wrapped in the coat she had worn when she came to find him last night, draped across the legs and seat front of an overturned chair: looking obscenely bloated rather than merely fat. And an arm and leg were twisted at angles which showed they were broken.
It was the kind of beating, Edge reflected as he followed the sign out through the gateway on foot, he might well have wanted to inflict on Dave Clinton for those stretched seconds while the kid was thudding his face into the ground. But he would have checked the impulse once he was in a position to carry it out. For although he was many things, the half-breed could not be driven to that point of insanity for long enough to lose the degree of self-control needed to pull himself back from that kind of brink.
From the gateway he crossed the trail. And walked perhaps a quarter mile to the south, in the tracks of the horse taken out of the traces of the buggy. Then he halted, to sit on a slab of rock. Rolled, lit and smoked a cigarette. By turns peered into the hill country that lay south and over his shoulder toward the cluster of buildings at one end of the good looking ranch where the evil of violence had paid an always unwelcome visit. To destroy the family that their distant neighbors beyond Cottonwood Canyon surely considered should have been as content as most people had any right to be this side of paradise.
The impulse to an anger which would serve no purpose had gone by then. And he was again aware of the dull aches in his right shoulder and his belly as he returned to the yard. Where he stood for a few moments in the broken shade of the oak tree, a hand resting on the reins of the gelding where they were hitched to the buggy wheel. Considered the possibility he was totally wrong.
But he was not. He was certain of this as he released the reins and did not even glance toward the L-shaped house with the porch in the angle of the corner. Where the door within was now firmly closed on the wrecked room and the inert, broken, blood-sodden body of the woman who he still considered his employer.
It was a simple matter to go back into the house. Make the obvious check, see that Norman Peppercorn was not just as dead as his wife. In bed, of natural causes from the consumption that was surely bound to kill him if nothing else did: like a maniac intent upon committing murder for whatever reason. No ...
He did not even grimace as he swung up into the saddle and felt a harsh stab of pain at his shoulder: if this was his due, he would accept it without complaint. It was little enough.
Rosemary Peppercorn had lied. Her husband had not sent her to find him. With all the spare cash in the house. To hire him to find the runaway Earl. It had been her idea entirely: after she saw how sick her husband had become. Drained by disease. Wracked by the images of one son killing the other. Twisted by an impassioned desire to see his own brand of justice carried out. Exhausted by the labor of digging the grave of the son who was not yet dead.
But there was life and strength in the man his wife had thought was almost done. Enough to take brutal revenge upon her for betraying him. Out of a sense of outrage that she had sought, in his view, to take advantage of his apparent weakness. To involve a passing-through stranger in Peppercorn business.
Now, in the view of the half-breed, there was scant doubt his conjectures in this instance were as close to correct as made no difference. And as he rode out between the open double gates and thudded his heels into the flanks of the gelding to command a canter the animal eagerly obeyed, his conviction grew. Only then, after he had given the matter this much consideration—sufficient so that it was not possible for him to contemplate any other explanation for the brutal killing of Rosemary Peppercorn—was he struck by a doubt which caused him instinctively to rein down the speed of his gelding.
Sure, he implicitly believed the woman’s husband had beaten her to death. But what of the people of Sanctuary and on the places around the tiny community at the far end of Cottonwood Canyon? What were they likely to think when they knew of the killing? Having seen how this stranger dealt with trouble: giving not too much of a damn how he treated his fellow men even when there was a bunch of witnesses? How might Jim Latimer, with a star pinned to his chest again, see—or be persuaded to see—the way in which events might have occurred at the Peppercorn place?
‘Aw, shit!’ Edge snarled, and reined the gelding to a halt.
Looked about him at the lushly-pastured valley. Part of a piece of country as good to look at as any he had seen since getting far enough west of Casper for the intrinsic, indefinable stink of a town to be lost in back of a whole lot of good, clean air.
Fine country. Empty country. Wyoming as far as he could ride in several days in any direction. And beyond the territorial lines to the north, south, east and west some more fine, empty country in which nobody he knew was dead. And so where nobody would be looking for him to blame for the killing.
Discount the Peppercorn place, Sanctuary and its immediate surroundings and wherever the sick man had gone after he killed his wife. There was a whole lot of emptiness left. But he could not discount the fact it was Peppercorn money bulging his hip pocket. No matter what else he could get away from.
‘Aw, shit,’ he repeated, less vehemently.
And the horse which Edge knew had hardly stretched his legs with the canter, snorted irritably. As if to complain the spurt of speed had merely whetted his appetite for more and faster of the same. But the rider stroked the gelding’s neck and told him grimly:
‘No boy, I ain’t running. I took the money and now I got to pay the price.’