Cotton's Devil (9781101618523) by Phil Dunlap Page A

they come, but they don’t give up trying.”
    Mrs. Hardin turned and left the room. She reappeared only a couple minutes later with a bowl—from which athin cloud of steam curled—and a spoon. She held out a cloth napkin that had stitching around the sides to stop it from fraying. It had
mostly
worked. She handed the bowl to Delilah.
    â€œHere, child, he’ll surely need some help.”
    Delilah took the bowl from her, spooned out a bit of stew, and thrust it toward Thorn. He sheepishly leaned forward and slurped it, his face growing pink from being fed by a woman. The memory rushed back of being spoon-fed as a young boy after he’d come down with a fever his mother said could have killed him. While his mother was long gone, that same feeling of dependence on another came upon him like a sudden shower. He’d not felt anything akin to this need for any other woman, and yet here he was gazing into Delilah’s eyes and experiencing a strange fullness in his heart. That was just before the roar of a shotgun blasted him out of his reverie.
    â€œThey’ve killed him! Those bastards have shot my Jeremiah!” Mrs. Hardin’s screams could have likely been heard for a mile.
    Delilah raced to the door and opened it just enough to see two Indians standing over Jeremiah’s bloody form. He was lying facedown in the dirt. One Indian had a rifle. The other had obviously wrestled Jeremiah Hardin’s twelve-gauge away from his aged hands and turned it on him. The old man had had no chance to save himself. Mrs. Hardin was running to her husband when one of the Indians pulled a long knife from his high boot top. Just as he was about to slash it across her throat, another shot rang out.
    The Indian’s legs went out from under him as he was tossed over backward. His companion looked shocked as a sudden realization came over him: there had been someone other than the old woman inside. The two Apaches hadn’t counted on any deadly resistance. He raised his rifle to combat whatever threat showed itself, but was just as quickly dispatched by another deadly shot from inside the building. Mrs. Hardin looked up through tear-filled eyes to see ThornMcCann leaning on the door frame, a still-smoking revolver hanging limply from his hand. He dropped the gun as he slid to the floor with a groan.
    Delilah grabbed him by the arm before he hit his head on a heavy bench. She eased him down. His breathing was labored and coming in short, desperate gasps. Delilah pulled and pulled, trying to lift him up to get him back to bed, but her efforts were fruitless. He was too big a man for such a slight lady to ever hope to even drag across the floor. He closed his eyes and quickly lost consciousness.
    Mrs. Hardin stumbled through the door, sobbing and dabbing at her eyes with her apron. Torn over what she should do, Delilah turned her attention to the distraught woman, helping her to a chair nearby. Delilah could feel the tears welling up as she wiped the hair out of her eyes, leaned against the wall, and slid to a sitting position on the floor. She had never known such fear and desperation in her life. She found herself conjuring up images of many more Apaches swooping down on the relay station in retaliation for their two dead comrades outside. Her heart was in her throat and she could feel it pounding in her chest. She glanced over at Thorn’s revolver lying near the door. She began to question if she could even lift it, let alone hit anything with it. Her little .41-caliber Remington derringer was easy. It was small, light, and it took no more effort than pulling back the hammer and squeezing the trigger.
    Thorn groaned and tried to move.
    â€œLie still, Thorn, or you’ll open those wounds.”
    He mumbled something unintelligible. She leaned down to try to understand, and heard only the weakest attempt at a whisper—no words came out.

Chapter 16

    S itting at the breakfast table, Emily