Name On The Bullet - Edge Series 6 by George G. Gilman

attention was drawn way from the slow riding Edge and he peered toward the law office directly across the street, where no lamplight shone behind the window or the glass panel of the door now. But despite the solid darkness and total silence that enveloped the building, the storekeeper sensed watching eyes. Not fixed on him, though: instead on the figure of Edge until the rider and horse merged with the dark backdrop of the expanse of timber that covered the south eastern slope of the Stony River Valley.
    Edge was aware he was being watched by Hooper, which did not at all surprise him. For he had often been envied his ability to move on whenever he wanted by men with the kind of responsibilities that had shackled him so infrequently. Seldom, but often enough so he surely relished the freedom from ties he had lightly referred to as he took his leave of Earl Mann. Parents, a younger brother, the Union Army, a wife and a handful of favours owed for favours done. And a farming family who had been good to him for a whole summer so he had felt beholden to them: even though he had given a fair day’s work in exchange for a fair day’s pay during the time he was at the McGowan place.
    But now, once again, he was a loner: free to complete the chore that had drawn him to return to this part of the country. Beholden to nobody and owing nobody anything: except himself. And when he had achieved what he came here for – put the final touch to something he had been promising himself to complete for so long - then there truly would not be one single thing left undone to trouble his mind.
    As Mann had said of the people of Brogan Falls: to keep him awake at nights, put him off his supper whenever he thought about it, or feel the need to look the other way when people who knew what had happened . . .
    Hell no, that did not apply, he acknowledged to himself as he reined in his horse, swung out of the saddle and led the animal to the back of the clearing where earlier the posse had spotted the horses of Vic Munro and Hannah Foster. Nobody knew anything about the final matter he had to clear up before he could truly say he was turning over a new leaf: begin again with an almost totally clean sheet and have nothing but a few maverick regrets to disturb his peace of mind. And it was for sure that no man could get to be his age without having a handful of experiences that in retrospect he viewed with sorrow. No mortal man, anyway, and Edge was certainly that. Had reached a stage in life when he was increasingly reminded of his own mortality: and that the only second chance a mortal man got to right a past wrong was in his lifetime.
    It was not until he began to unsaddle the gelding that he realised how deep down wary he was at the end of a day when so much had happened in which there had been no good reason for him to take a hand. A day and half a night, he corrected for the time was by now well advanced into the small hours. And it could not be too much longer before the glittering light of the half moon faded from among the pine trees and the greyness of a new dawn would herald another chill day in northern California.
    But at least, he reflected contentedly as he unfurled his bedroll and used his saddlebag for a pillow, lay down and covered himself and the Winchester with a blanket and the sheepskin coat then set his Stetson over his bristled face, during the day to come he did not need to abide by the hidebound rules of regular country town society. He could get up when he liked, ride wherever he wanted and not have to pay attention to what other people did or what they said to him. For such a high degree of freedom it was entirely worthwhile foregoing the relative luxuries of the McGowan household for the few primitive comforts of his present circumstances.
    It was in this contented frame of mind that he drifted into sleep, listening to the night sounds of the timber start up again now the creatures whose province he had invaded accepted his