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

unthreatening presence among them. And when he came abruptly awake and instantly knew all was not as right with his world as it had been when he bedded down, it was the absence of these familiar sounds of the night that alerted him to a changed situation. The fire continued to crackle and now it also spat and hissed softly in lightly falling rain. Beyond this, the sounds of his own breathing and the unobtrusive noises made by his horse there were no others.
    For stretched seconds he remained totally immobile, then snapped open his eyes and peered up into the pitch darkness of the underside of his hat: ears attuned to pick up any sounds that signalled the reason for his own tense alertness and the silent watchfulness of waiting nature. Then his horse whinnied: and an answering sound came from no more than a hundred yards off. Instinctively he tightened his grip around the frame of the Winchester that shared his bed, inched his other hand up and across his body, out from under the covers. Eased the Stetson from off his face, down on to his chest and cracked open his eyes to narrow slits now that they were exposed to the drizzle.
    His gelding had craned its neck around to look in the direction of the second whinny: over toward the northern stretch of the Sacramento Turnpike. Then the animal was at ease again, dipped its head and began to tear at the lush wet grass: gave no sign of concern when the hooves of two of its kind drew closer, urged cautiously forward by nervous voiced riders. Something about the voices signalled to him that there was no danger and he folded up into a sitting position, set the Stetson on his head, drew up his knees and rested the rifle against them.
    ‘Mr Edge? It is you, isn’t it?’ This intruder to his night camp was certainly a woman. And sounded no more at ease now than when he first heard her after he awoke.
    ‘Large as life and twice as ugly,’ he answered evenly. ‘And I guess you ladies ain’t going to turn around and ride on back to town? So life can start to look a little better to me?’
    ‘Thank God!’ the second rider said breathlessly.
    Edge’s surprise that both of the night callers were women had diminished and his newly awakened mind was perplexed as he recognised their voices. And next their faces as they swung to the ground then led the horses forward until both of them were illuminated in the faint glow from the gently guttering fire.
    Hannah Foster had been the first to speak. And Julia McGowan the one who gave thanks to the Almighty. Women of about the same age and build: neither of them particularly well favoured with striking looks. Both tonight caped from head to foot in dark coloured slickers that gleamed in the firelight and sparkled with the raindrops that coursed down the shiny oilskin surfaces. While he surveyed them for stretched seconds Edge reflected how they had something else in common – each had yesterday violently lost the man in her life. Albeit one had been enough in love with hers to marry him while the other showed little sign of grief at the time of his killing.
    ‘Is there something I can do for you?’ He gave a token tip of his hat to each of them and began to feel the cold of the rain-filled air now that just his legs were draped by the covers. ‘But even if I was in the right frame of mind to offer the usual hospitalities at this time on a dirty night, the home comforts are a little lacking hereabouts.’
    ‘Whatever’s around here is better than being locked up in that stinking jailhouse, mister.’ Hannah Foster’s growling tone sounded much more natural than her caution when she approached the camp.
    ‘All we want from you is help,’ the new widow said intently. ‘Everything legal and above board I can assure you. Marshal Hooper has released Miss Foster on my surety that she’ll return to Brogan Falls within a week.’
    ‘I want you to find the sonofabitch who killed Vic!’ Hannah rasped.
    ‘And I want you to track down the man