Read Online Name On The Bullet - Edge Series 6 by George G. Gilman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: George G. Gilman
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parts real fast, Edge. In case I forgot who he was and killed him with my bare hands. Which about puts the right kind of ending to the dealings me and him have had over the years, wouldn’t you say?’ He raised the bottle and made to refill Edge’s glass.
‘None for me.’
‘Whatever you say. I’m gonna have another, though. To toast the bride: for that was surely what my daughter was for a couple of minutes today, right?’ His voice was a little slurred as he poured, lifted the glass and looked at Edge for a response.
‘Whatever.’ Edge moved from the range to the door. ‘There’s not a thing I can say or do to help you, feller. I hope you find some kind of answer in the bottom of the bottle, though I never did the times I tried to go that route myself. But I figure for awhile it can be the right kind of medicine for what ails a man who feels as bad as you do.’
McGowan turned sharply in the chair, a non-drinker who was already drunk after so few belts. And he seemed about to snarl an angry retort, but was not too liquored up to recognise the futility of this. ‘Yeah, like I said, it’ll have to be time that does the healing: slow as that cure is. But there’s no substitute for it.’
‘Night to you.’ Edge pulled open the door.
‘And to you, if you really won’t stay and drink with me,’ the disgruntled farmer muttered. ‘After I’ve toasted the bride, maybe I’ll drink a few more to the memory of Wendell.’
Edge closed the door gently and started toward the foot of the stairs as he murmured in the silent house: ‘A wake sounds right for you, McGowan. Me, I need sleep’
CHAPTER • 4
__________________________________________________________________________
EDGE EXPERIENCED a disconcertingly unfamiliar feeling of incompetence after he had abandoned the liquored-up farmer to his lonesome mourning and headed for his room to make preparations to leave. And as he climbed the stairs he was troubled by regrets he had not left earlier. Before he became enmeshed as an ineffectual outsider in the family’s grief: allowed himself to take a helping hand in trouble that was none of his concern after he’d done what he could to track down the pair everyone else was convinced killed Quaid. It ought to have ended right there and then. He should have made his deposition to the weary marshal, gotten Earl Mann to open his grocery for long enough to buy some trail rations, returned to the house for the few personal belongings stowed in his room and ridden off into the night. Held his hunger in check until he was far enough out along the Sacramento turnpike to make camp without feeling a fool for turning his back on the comforts of the nearby McGowan house. All it needed was the strength of purpose to ignore his feelings for the grieving family. Hell, in the old days he would not have thought twice about indulging his own needs to the exclusion of whatever anyone else felt. But he . . . He cursed under his breath as he reached the top of the stairs, irritated yet again with himself for recollecting the kind of man he once had been and what he may well have done in days long gone. Those days would never return, that was for sure: but if he wanted to be again like the man who lived through them, he had to change his way of thinking. Then, as he started along the landing and heard a woman softly weeping and the low tone of another speaking comforting words, he resolved to do just that right here and now. Get the hell away from this house so he would at least be able to make a fresh start on being his own man again: a long way from the remnants of the violent trouble that had ended his peaceful, summer-long stay in Brogan Falls.
It took him no more than five minutes to collect his meagre belongings together and leave the small, neat, immaculately clean room where he had slept so contentedly and comfortably for so many nights. Then he retraced his recent steps, carrying a lightweight carpetbag and taking
‘None for me.’
‘Whatever you say. I’m gonna have another, though. To toast the bride: for that was surely what my daughter was for a couple of minutes today, right?’ His voice was a little slurred as he poured, lifted the glass and looked at Edge for a response.
‘Whatever.’ Edge moved from the range to the door. ‘There’s not a thing I can say or do to help you, feller. I hope you find some kind of answer in the bottom of the bottle, though I never did the times I tried to go that route myself. But I figure for awhile it can be the right kind of medicine for what ails a man who feels as bad as you do.’
McGowan turned sharply in the chair, a non-drinker who was already drunk after so few belts. And he seemed about to snarl an angry retort, but was not too liquored up to recognise the futility of this. ‘Yeah, like I said, it’ll have to be time that does the healing: slow as that cure is. But there’s no substitute for it.’
‘Night to you.’ Edge pulled open the door.
‘And to you, if you really won’t stay and drink with me,’ the disgruntled farmer muttered. ‘After I’ve toasted the bride, maybe I’ll drink a few more to the memory of Wendell.’
Edge closed the door gently and started toward the foot of the stairs as he murmured in the silent house: ‘A wake sounds right for you, McGowan. Me, I need sleep’
CHAPTER • 4
__________________________________________________________________________
EDGE EXPERIENCED a disconcertingly unfamiliar feeling of incompetence after he had abandoned the liquored-up farmer to his lonesome mourning and headed for his room to make preparations to leave. And as he climbed the stairs he was troubled by regrets he had not left earlier. Before he became enmeshed as an ineffectual outsider in the family’s grief: allowed himself to take a helping hand in trouble that was none of his concern after he’d done what he could to track down the pair everyone else was convinced killed Quaid. It ought to have ended right there and then. He should have made his deposition to the weary marshal, gotten Earl Mann to open his grocery for long enough to buy some trail rations, returned to the house for the few personal belongings stowed in his room and ridden off into the night. Held his hunger in check until he was far enough out along the Sacramento turnpike to make camp without feeling a fool for turning his back on the comforts of the nearby McGowan house. All it needed was the strength of purpose to ignore his feelings for the grieving family. Hell, in the old days he would not have thought twice about indulging his own needs to the exclusion of whatever anyone else felt. But he . . . He cursed under his breath as he reached the top of the stairs, irritated yet again with himself for recollecting the kind of man he once had been and what he may well have done in days long gone. Those days would never return, that was for sure: but if he wanted to be again like the man who lived through them, he had to change his way of thinking. Then, as he started along the landing and heard a woman softly weeping and the low tone of another speaking comforting words, he resolved to do just that right here and now. Get the hell away from this house so he would at least be able to make a fresh start on being his own man again: a long way from the remnants of the violent trouble that had ended his peaceful, summer-long stay in Brogan Falls.
It took him no more than five minutes to collect his meagre belongings together and leave the small, neat, immaculately clean room where he had slept so contentedly and comfortably for so many nights. Then he retraced his recent steps, carrying a lightweight carpetbag and taking
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