Read The Outrage - Edge Series 3 for Free Online

impulsiveness as he held the steady gaze of the man up on the high seat. Then he showed a sardonic grin as he answered:
    ‘Getting old, I guess.’
    The puzzled driver asked: ‘What’s that got to do with it?’
    ‘Me not going all the way, feller. It’s getting so that these days there are more and more times when I have trouble finishing what I start.’
    CHAPTER • 3
    ___________________________________________________________________________
    NOBODY RAISED even a cynical smile as Edge walked alongside the limping Harry Shelby across the intersection toward the start of River Road. Which was not surprising amid the atmosphere of grim faced despondency that gripped the townspeople. Shelby, his dark eyes empty of emotion while the beard concealed the set of his mouth line, chose not to explain the tragedy that had taken place at the Quinn house. And he remained stoically taciturn until after Edge had saddled a strong looking pinto gelding and then offered terse directions in response to his customer’s query.
    West along Texas Avenue to where it swung north and became the Austin Trail. Two miles or so beyond the town limits was a sign that pointed left toward the Springdale River. Off this spur, that was called the Old Town Road, was a track that led to the Quinn house. As Edge rode slowly along River Road away from the ramshackle livery and blacksmith forge, then moved between the sprawl of buildings that housed businesses engaged in the cotton trade on either side of Texas Avenue he was aware of resentment quivering in the heat of the afternoon. Like the townspeople viewed him as a less than welcome stranger in their prosperous community.
    Which was becoming a familiar experience for him since an attempt to turn over a new leaf in his life had proved to be a futile exercise. Not so long ago it had happened in a town called Dalton Springs across in the Territory of Arizona. And then fate had directed him to Bishopsburg, south of San Antonio. In both these places his liking for poker had forced him to take up jobs of work that caused him to run foul of local feelings because others did not have the stomach for the dangerous chores that needed to be done.
    But here in Springdale he was in a different situation. He had no pressing need of money because the stake he had gotten together in Bishopsburg had been satisfying increased by an unexpected run of good luck at card games in a couple of San Antonio saloons. And he was on his way to Austin simply for a change of scene and maybe to find fresh games at which to win money or to explore the possibilities of a new business venture. So why the hell was he doing as he was now? With the blatant disapproval of the local population he had been forewarned were largely prejudiced against the kind of man his mixed race bloodline had fashioned him to be? For no good reason: that was the short and simple answer. He had acted on impulse that was totally out of character for him. But there again, wasn’t he something of a reformed character? At least, was he not attempting to become one?
    He directed a soft-spoken curse at himself for wasting time reflecting on a subject that had no logical conclusion beyond the fact that he was doing a favour for a man he hardly knew who was in trouble - and the kind of reformed character he was trying to become should not need to question such a motive. Or was he putting up some kind of half-ass challenge to the local people’s dislike of Mexicans and Yankees?
    What the hell . . !
    He got his first sight of the Quinn home from near the end of a track that cut off the Old Town Road when he glimpsed a steeply pitched red tile roof and section of stone upper story with a latticed window set into it. And soon he rode between freshly painted wrought iron gates held open by chains in a four feet high, two rail white painted wooden fence that separated rough meadowland and timber from mown grass, carefully maintained shrubbery and strategically placed