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pinned to the front of the hat. The cause of Edge's abrupt halt and of Wood's anxiety was the way Breen rested the barrel of a Starr .54 across the top of the desk, aimed at the door. The man's eyes and the muzzle bore of the rifle were equally steady, and the same impenetrable black.
    "Friendly town, ain't it, Justin?" Edge muttered, hooking his thumbs over his gun-belt at the front, well clear of the holstered Walker-Colt. "Get held up on the way, you're met by an unwelcome committee and then the law holds a gun on you."
    A flicker of interest showed in Breen's eyes, but disappeared as quickly as it had come. "You got a complaint?" He had a rasping voice, devoid of emotion.
    "I ain't the kind," Edge replied. "I handle my own trouble. Figured you ought to know. Stage held up and three men killed. Driver, guard and a guy who should have known better."
    "Out in the valley? North of the hills?"
    "You've heard already?" Wood put in. A half-finished cigar was smoking in a tin ashtray. Breen reached for it and clamped it between his teeth without diverting his attention from his visitors. "Always happens there. Hood hit the waystation this morning. Anything else?"
    Angry voices sounded out on the street. Edge jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Set the record straight," he said. "Guy on the wagon's' been roughed up by Hood. Woman killed. Looking for an accident. It happened."
    Breen sent more evil-smelling smoke streaming out into the rancid air. "Makes a change. Hard to recall last time anyone died around here wasn't natural or something to do with Sam Hood."
    "You keep the record," Edge said. "The Hood gang made her into an accident by raping her."
    "Thanks. Now get out of here and let me think."
    "Hey, Breen!" Mayer boomed from the street, silencing the disgruntled voices of his fellow demonstrators. "The Mex and the drummer tell you what happened?"
    Edge's hooded eyes narrowed to slits and the line of his mouth tightened. He started to turn and Breen stood up so abruptly his chair tipped over backwards and it slammed against the rifle rack.
    "Freeze!" the lawman snapped.
    Breen was not so tall as he had looked when slumped in the chair. But the leveled rifle compensated for his physical disadvantages.
    "I don't like having guns pointed at me, sheriff," Edge hissed softly. "There's a lot of it about today."
    The implied threat had no effect on Breen's cool composure. "You ain't in no position to do anything about it, citizen," he said evenly, his hat badge shining in the lamp light. "Just walk out of here slow and easy. Mayer's a troublemaker, but that's my department. Lead the way, drummer."
    "I'm not a salesman, I keep telling everyone," Wood said, showing his irritation behind the solid shield of Edge's body.
    "You hear me, Breen?" Mayer shouted.
    "Move it, citizens," the sheriff demanded. Wood sighed, pulled open the door and stepped out on to the sidewalk. Edge followed and the sheriff brought up the rear. Night had fallen almost completely now and more kerosene lamps glowed up and down the street, fighting the darkness. A piano jangled from one of the saloons. Two men were moving away from the wagon with the body of Magda Stricklyn swinging between them. Her widower sat on the edge of the sidewalk with his head in his hands, emitting dry sobs as two women crouched in front of him, offering comfort.
    "It was Hood and his gang again," a man hurled at the stone-faced Breen. "How much longer you gonna sit on your fat ass and let them get away with it?"
    "You're pretty good at holding a gun on law-abiding people," a woman accused scornfully, thrusting her placard into the light. It was the one accusing the lawman of having a yellow streak.
    Breen motioned with the gun, first at Edge and then at Wood, gesturing that they should join the group. Wood waited for Edge to make the first move, then followed him. The tall, cruel-faced half-breed stepped down from the sidewalk and moved casually up behind the angry-looking Mayer, who was