The Quiet Gun - Edge Series 1 by George G. Gilman

beans. And a cup of strong coffee to wash it all down? And maybe a hunk of bread on the side.’
    He added this last as he caught the scent in the warming and brightening air of sunrise of the tantalising aroma of baking bread from somewhere down the street. And as the tension drained out of Bannerman’s bulky frame and heavily bristled face the saloonkeeper looked like an ungainly tame bear anxious to do whatever was asked of him.
    ‘You heard I cook good, Mr Edge?’ He backed off the threshold and dragged open one of the batwings.
    ‘McCall spoke highly of your cooking, feller. He also said he figured you might like to make amends with a free breakfast?’
    ‘Okay, why not.’ Bannerman nodded eagerly. ‘Yeah. I’d like to do that for you.’
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    The empty-bellied Edge and the man keen to rectify that situation paused in the doorway of the saloon as the group across the street – each of them now armed with a booted Winchester as well as his holstered revolver – swung astride their mounts and set them moving. Wheeled the horses to go toward the corner of the side street that led to the open trail to the west.
    Then, as Edge made to turn away and follow Bannerman inside he glimpsed something from the corner of his eye that caused him to hold back out on the porch. His attention captured by a woman framed at the open upper story window of a house opposite the end of the street along which the posse was riding, spurring their horses from an easy walk to a trot.
    She appeared over the distance from which Edge saw her to be a young and petty redhead. She was waving, which was not unusual. What was odd was how she was tenderly smiling: in that special way a woman reserves for a man of whom she is deeply fond. Which did not seem in keeping with the present circumstances as she bade farewell to a loved one setting out to do a dangerous job.
    Then, to compound the strangeness of her actions, the redhead lowered her arm, pressed the fingertips to her mouth and tipped the hand forward, pursed her lips to blow a kiss toward one of the departing riders.
    ‘Something wrong?’ Bannerman asked over his meaty shoulder as he moved between the tables stacked with chairs, heading toward the open end of the bar counter. Edge pushed between the batwings and followed the massively built saloonkeeper as he asked: ‘Who’s the good looking redhead lives in the house with the green picket fence down the street?’
    Bannerman was no longer amiable as he pulled up sharply and peered hard at Edge.
    ‘Why?’
    Edge started to paraphrase himself: ‘She’s a good looking red – ‘
    ‘She sure is a fine looking woman and no mistake, mister. But it’ll be awhile before she shows any interest in the likes of you. Or any other man itching to get the glad eye from her.’
    ‘It seems to me that – ‘
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    ‘She’s Dalton Springs’ newest widow,’ Bannerman cut in. ‘Kitty Raine.’ He started for an open doorway at the end of the bar counter. ‘Make yourself comfortable out here. Stove fire’s burning real good in the kitchen so it won’t take long to rustle up some breakfast. Holler out if any paying customers show up.’
    Edge gestured an acknowledgement and after Bannerman disappeared into the back, whistling happily to signal his pleasure that this day was starting out better than the last one ended, he returned to the front of the saloon. Peered through a smeared window and saw Kitty Raine had withdrawn from where he saw her. Then he took the four chairs off the table nearest the batwings and sat down on one of them, facing the entrance. Nobody came in, but from elsewhere in the town he heard sounds of people beginning their mundane daily routine irrespective of the violence that had disturbed their slumbers. Stores opened up, deliveries began to be made and people with business outside of Dalton Springs started to leave on horseback or driving rigs. Breakfast smelled good, the appetising aromas of its cooking acting to