He just wanted to get in and get out. The moment he pushed open the door, the talk stopped. Silas Cooper was behind the counter polishing a glass jar. Three men were leaning against the far wall by the stove. Though it was unlit, he recognized them.
Clay Hackett and Jeb Smith, two hands from the Miller ranch, and a third man, a drifter he'd seen around. "Reed?" Silas said, his voice flat, not welcoming. "Silas," Daniel nodded. He walked past the men, grabbing a sack of flour and another of beans.
He moved to the counter, gathering salt, coffee, and two heavy boxes of.44 caliber cartridges. "Stocking up heavy," Clay Hackett had observed. His voice was lazy, but it carried across the small store. Daniel ignored him. Need corn seed, Silus and rye.
Silas moved to scoop the seed into brown paper sacks. Heard you got company up on that ridge. Reed. Jeb Smith chimed in, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the sawdust on the floor. Heard you ain't so lonely anymore.
Daniel's back stiffened. He kept his eyes on the counter. My business is my own, Jeb. Not when it concerns a Christian soul, Clay said, pushing himself off the wall. He was a big man, broad in the shoulders with a mean, pinched mouth.
We heard what you did. Took that little Apache girl from Reverend Pike. Reverend Pike bought her like cattle, Daniel said, his voice low and cold. She was half dead. She was a convert, Clay sneered, stepping closer.
He was saving her. And you? You took her. Heard you're keeping her up there for yourself. Ruining a good Christian girl.
She's not a girl, Daniel said, turning to face him. And she's not yours to save or his. She's a. Hackett spat. And you're no better than a buck for keeping her.
Bet you're having a fine time, ain't you? After your half-breed wife died, you just had to get another one. The mention of Elara was a lit match to dry tinder. Daniel felt the blood roar in his ears. A hot red tide that drowned out all reason.
He didn't think. He moved. He hit Clay Hackett at once. A straight hard right born of military training and fury. It connected with the man's jaw with a sickening crack of bone and cartilage.
Hackett went down like a felled tree, crashing into a barrel of pickles. Jeb and the drifter lunged. Daniel was a soldier, not a brawler, but he was fast. He ducked under Jeb's wild swing and drove his fist into the man's stomach, doubling him over. The drifter tried to grab him from behind, but Daniel spun, throwing him off and slammed his elbow into the man's face.
It was over in seconds. The store was a wreck. Flour dusted the floorboards, and the sharp scent of brine filled the air. Clay Hackett was groaning, holding his jaw. Jeb was on his knees, gasping for air.