Page 4

“Shit.”

Slinging his shotgun onto his back, Marshall ran for Everett.

The bandage around his arm was already soaked through, dark and dripping.

But he was still breathing, his pulse rapid and thready but there, so Marshall left the creature where it had fallen and dragged Everett inside.

His skin was clammy by the time Marshall deposited him back in bed.

Marshall had expected the fever, but he’d hoped it wouldn’t hit until the next day.

He’d lied about the injury.

Even if Everett survived infection, there was no saving that hand.

Marshall was no surgeon.

Best he could do was clean it out and wrap it up, and hope and pray that if he kept the bandage tight enough, the skin might knit itself together.

He’d tried to put the torn flesh and muscle back in place but it was like pushing river clay around with his fingers.

It hadn’t looked like an arm at all, flayed open and hanging in tatters like something rejected from a butcher’s shop.

A goddamn mess.

But he couldn’t say that to Everett.

Couldn’t tell the man the thing had good as killed him.

He didn’t have the words for it.

Didn’t want to believe it himself.

“It’s dead,”

Everett moaned through gritted teeth as Marshall pulled the rough wool blankets over his legs.

“Yeah, it’s dead,”

Marshall promised, hoping it was true.

“But it’s still here. Got its teeth in me. Feels like a hole inside, like that thing was living in behind my ribs ever since—”

Everett swallowed. It sounded painful. “You killed it and pulled it out but now there’s nothing left ’cept this hunger. Am I dead?”

He was raving. When Marshall put one hand to his forehead to push him down against the pillow, Everett turned into the touch, open mouth panting against Marshall’s wrist.

Marshall flinched back. “You’re running a fever, that’s all. Sleep it off and I’ll take care of you.”

“I’m starving, Marshall. This awful hunger—”

“Water’s the best thing for you, now. Especially after all that drink.”

“I need meat. Something fresh, something raw. Please…”

If he had it, Marshall would give it to him. Who the hell was he to deny a dying man his last meal? Hell, if they’d stayed out on the range, he’d have carved a steak from that steer and put the poor fucker’s death to use.

But Everett had eaten supper the same time Marshall had. Maybe it was the blood loss making him so hungry, his body trying to repair itself with red meat, but something about it unsettled Marshall.

Finally, Everett fell back, his eyes drifting restlessly behind half-closed lids, jaw working as the fingers of his good hand clenched spasmodically in the sheets.

He drank the water Marshall offered but couldn’t relax, shaking and shivering as the sweat got heavier, running in rivers down his face.

Marshall couldn’t watch.

“Rest up,”

he said, patting Everett’s knee through the blankets. “I’ll be back in just a minute, okay?”

Everett managed a short nod, not opening his eyes.

Reloading his shotgun and his revolver, Marshall confirmed that he had his knife on him, then took up the lamp and left to find where he’d shot the creature.