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young trees.
    The surface beneath the horse’s hooves had changed from hard packed dirt to gravel after he started to ride along the driveway flanked by lawns. Which swung first to the left and then to the right until the entire sun-bathed façade of the fine looking house came into view, in back of a broad half-circular expanse of gravel that was large enough for wagons to turn without difficulty.
    Here an enclosed vehicle drawn by two horses was starting to move away from the foot of some broad cement steps that rose to a terraced guarded by an ornate balustrade. The team, the wagon and the worse-for-wear clothing of the middle-aged man who held the reins were all black. And although there was no sign painted on the side panels of the rig it seemed likely that it was Jed Winter who acknowledged Edge with a curt nod. Edge tipped his Stetson toward the cherubic featured little fat man who was surely the Springdale undertaker and glanced at the rear double doors of the wagon as it rolled by. Wondered which of the two Quinn women was travelling to town for a final time. He dismounted where three animals were hitched to a rail at one side of the steps – the roan Quinn had ridden from Springdale and two tough looking quarter horses with rifles in the forward hung boots. He carried the valise up the steps and then across the flagstones between some rustic furniture and several planters filled with brightly coloured blooms. As he neared the brass studded oak door within a porch it was swung partially open and a tall, broadly built, darkly tanned man in his mid-forties looked at the caller with a hard eyed stare that held a latent threat of violence. He was dressed in a check shirt and black pants, wore a deputy’s badge on his chest and packed an ivory butted Colt .45 in the holster on his right hip.
    ‘What d’you want?’ The man’s Deep South voice, more prominently accented than any Edge had heard in town, was as mean as his expression and warned he was as irascibly hard as he looked.
    Edge held out the valise. ‘Came to return this to the feller who left it behind. That was at the stage depot in Springdale.’
    The deputy took the bag. ‘That’ll be Mr Quinn. I’ll see he gets it.’
    He started to close the door and Edge needed to make a conscious effort not to thrust a foot forward to block the move. But then he figured it would have been a dumb thing to do. His purpose in coming here was complete he kidded himself. And whatever had happened behind the door that was about to be closed by the glowering lawman was no business of his.
    ‘If you ever get sociable enough to talk with Quinn, tell him I brought my condolences as well as his bag. Name’s Edge.’
    The lawman’s scowl darkened as he readied himself to snarl a caustic response but bit back on the words when Quinn called from deep inside the big house:
    ‘Edge? Is that you, Edge? It’s all right, Lacy! Kindly show my good friend Mr Edge inside!’
    Springdale’s glowering deputy sheriff swung the door open wider and jerked his head to signal Edge should enter. Said in a low tone that continued to express enmity born of his instant dislike for the stranger to town: ‘If you ain’t heard all the details yet, his wife and daughter have both been killed. Real messy. Sheriff says we gotta take it easy with him, okay?’
    Edge replied out of the side of his mouth: ‘I’ll do what I can, feller. You’re welcome to listen: maybe pick up a tip or two?
    Quinn called: ‘We’re here in the parlour.’
    Edge followed the sound of the icily calm voice: crossed the hall and went through an open doorway opposite the foot of a staircase that rose to a galleried landing. The stark whiteness of the walls and ceiling and the faint smell of furniture polish in the air made him overly aware of this travel stained condition.
    Quinn, who looked as calm as he had sounded, sat in a comfortable armchair to one side of an impressive fireplace, as fully dressed as he had