The Final Shot — George G. Gilman

Even from a distance he looked deadly. His lean, towering frame measured at least three inches over six feet. About two hundred pounds of mean muscle and bone. His dark clothes were coated with a gray film of trail dust, from his worn and scarred boots, to the sweat-stained, low-crowned hat on his head. The butt of a Frontier Colt jutted from the holster tied to his right thigh. Like his clothes, the gun was far from new.

The approaching stranger's face was a tough, ageless mask, framed by long black hair. Almost like an Indian. Leathery skin, too. Like an Indian's. Deeply etched by sun and wind, and a past that would defy description. Out of this chilling countenance two ice-blue eyes flashed from beneath hooded eyelids, reduced to slits against the desert glare. Like no Indian that ever lived.

As many people before had learned, the inhabitants of Monksville would soon realize that this grim visitor would change their lives ... and a few would end their lives. Chapter sixteen of the Book of Edge would be no less violent or relentless than the first fifteen chapters ...