Free The Deputy - Edge Series 2 by George G. Gilman

place.’
    ‘I’ll keep that in mind, feller,’ Edge told the man gripping two mugs of good smelling coffee, then headed toward the saloon. Was halted again, this time by the old timer hunched on the bench beside the entrance of the building that had seen better days and was in sore need of maintenance.
    ‘Guess you figured out for yourself that the Carter kid ain’t none too bright, son?’
    ‘The boy did what he was asked to,’ Edge growled, disconcertingly aware of how he was starting to get irritated by the way Logan kept referring to him as son.
    ‘He give you a letter, it appeared to me?’ There was a crafty glint in the old man’s weak looking brown eyes as he tightly gripped the metal knob of his cane with both liver spotted hands.
    ‘You saw it right.’
    ‘That’s what I told Ted Straker he did. Seemed to me you didn’t show Ted what was in the letter?’
    ‘He didn’t ask.’
    49
    Logan shook his head, looking rueful. ‘That’s the reason why Ted won’t ever make sheriff from deputy if ever George North decided to quit the post. That young man just ain’t curious enough and he ain’t at all pushy.’
    ‘You practising to be sheriff, feller?’
    ‘What?’ Logan looked perplexed for a moment, then scowled as he defended: ‘It just seems kinda funny to me, son. A stranger like you getting a letter. Especially one delivered by that lame brained Carter kid who ain’t hardly ever allowed by his pa to come into town. Only natural a man’s gonna be curious about that.’
    Edge nodded, not a trace of humour in the glittering slits of his hooded eyes as he said: ‘I’ve mostly found that in small towns like Bishopsburg it sure seems to come natural for about everyone to mind everyone else’s business, old timer.’
    He tipped his hat to the sour faced Logan and stepped into the saloon. Saw the interior was as rundown as the ill cared for façade suggested it would be: with a short bar counter running part way along the rear wall and some chair ringed tables that took up most of the floor space in front. With the exception of an area around a piano that was set at an angle at the right hand end of the counter.
    This was presumably where Rose Riley was paid to provide free public entertainment so she could afford to pick and choose the men she entertained in a different way for a price in private.
    At this early hour Edge was the only customer in the place that seemed to have been superficially cleaned since it was last open. For there were just faint traces of stale tobacco smoke, liquor and sweat in the slightly soap scented atmosphere. The man behind the counter, who was short, paunchy, fifty some, newly shaved and cleanly dressed, showed a broken toothed smile as he greeted:
    ‘Howdy, stranger. And welcome to the Dancing Horse. The name’s Jake Carr and it’ll be my pleasure to serve you with whatever’s your pleasure, sir.’
    ‘Did the deputy empty the coffee pot?’
    ‘No, there’s plenty left. Coming right up. Fresh made not ten minutes ago.’
    Edge waited at the counter for the coffee to be brought from a room out back, paid for it and went to sit at a table from where he could look out through a smeared and dusty window across the street toward the law office.
    Carr, having delivered the welcoming speech that had a tone of being over used, settled back into a kind of neutral contentment. Took up a position at the centre of the counter and peered into space, ignoring his lone customer who made it clear he was not in a talkative frame of mind.
    50
    Some fifteen minutes later when the only sounds in the saloon was the intermittent buzzing of a fly and the monotonously regular ticking of a well clock, the timepiece struck ten off key times.
    When the marking of the hour ended Otis Logan entered the place and bore down heavily on his cane with every step as he crossed to the counter. Halted where Carr, without being asked, had set up a shot glass and a bottle of rye. The homely