anâ gun him.â
âHell, let him fry.â The words came unbidden out of Kaneâs mouth and he instantly regretted them. Lorraine looked at him, but said nothing. He sighed and shook his head. âHell, Iâll get him into the back of the wagon.â
The marshal walked across the clearing under a sky that roared as it was being torn apart, and rain drove hard into his face. Barnabas Hook meant nothing to him, but in some strange way he felt he had a duty to help his woman and her daughter. As a man, Hook was nothing much, but the fact remained that he was Lorraineâs husband and the little girlâs pa, and nothing could change that.
Hook saw Kane coming and spoke first. âTell my wife to fog it the hell over here.â
Kane ignored that and said, âSam thinks Nellieâs fever is breaking. Heâs seen it afore.â
âI already told you the kid means nothing to me. Sheâs some other manâs get, not mine.â The eyes Hook lifted to Kane, a hard-faced man standing tall and grim in the rain, were filled with hatred. âSend Lorraine over here.â
âSheâs busy trying to save her childâs life,â Kane said. He didnât wait for Hook to make a comment. âIâll roll you to the back of the wagon and itâs up to you from thar.â
âThink youâre tough, Kane, donât you? Mighty tough.â
âIâm as tough as I need to be.â
âMaybe so, but one day Iâll cut you down to size.â
Kane smiled, anger hacking at his insides like a knife. âThatâs big talk, Hook, coming from a man in a wheelchair.â
Lightning shimmered on Hookâs face, deepening the shadowed hollows in his eyes and cheeks. When he grinned, showing bared teeth, he looked like a dead man, and he spoke with the voice of a dead man. âKane . . . Iâm hell on wheels.â
Walking through a wall of thunder, the marshal pushed Hook to the rear of the wagon, feeling an emotion heâd never experienced before.
Was it fear? Kane dismissed the notion. If his years as a puncher and then a lawman had taught him anything, it was that he was a hard man to scare.
Dread? A good word and maybe that was it. It was as if death had just spoken to him and had written his name in the book. For a moment, in the harsh glare of lightning, Barnabas Hook had looked less than human, a thing of rancid evil.
As he watched the man struggle out of the wheelchair, Kane shivered and his fingertips touched the cold blue steel of his Colt. That, at least, was reassuring. He had killed eight men with the revolver and it represented security. With a gun in his hand Kane believed he could handle anything the world threw at him, and that included Hook.
âAre you just going to stand there watching me, or are you going to help?â Hook was trying to lift himself into the back of the wagon and under the canvas cover, noisy with the drumroll of the rain.
âYouâre doinâ all right,â Kane said. âI got to be heading back to heâp Sam.â
His useless legs dangling, Hook managed to lift himself onto the wagon gate. Behind the man, Kane saw a couple of blanket-covered pallets and an oil lamp. Only a small part of the wagon was covered, but it looked dry and snug enough.
âThanks for the help, Kane,â Hook said, his tone spiteful.
The marshal grinned under his dripping mustache and waved a careless hand. âAnytime.â He pointed to Hookâs scowling face. âThe sovereign remedy fer them burn blisters is fresh butter. If you got none oâ that, then axle grease will do in a pinch.â
Heâd tried to sound relaxed, but as he walked away from the wagon, the skin on his back felt like it was crawling with ants.
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âWeâre winning, Logan.â Sam Shaver grinned when Kane took a knee beside him. âThe young âunâs fever is down fer sure.â
Kane felt