Page 46 of The Gunslinger’s Bride (Montana Mavericks: Historicals #1)

“H e’ll never shoot with that hand again,” Ruth told Brock and James. Upon Laine’s request, she had visited the jail and assured the Chinese woman that she’d done all she could to heal him. Without a surgeon, luck wasn’t on the kid’s side.

Or perhaps it was. At least he’d stay alive for a while.

“He’ll learn to use the other one,” Brock told his cousin and Caleb.

“Not for a long time,” James assured them. “He killed a man in cold blood in front of fifty or more witnesses. He’s going to die in jail.”

Brock looked through the bars at the young man they spoke about. Stupidity. Foolish youthful stupidity. A wasted life.

The kid glared at him.

“What if he escaped?”

“He’s not going to escape. I take him to court, he gets sentenced. He’ll probably go to Helena.”

“Somebody has to take him, right?”

“A marshal will come for him.”

“You could hire me. I’ve marshaled.”

Ruth gave him a sideways stare. “Your wife would kill you.”

“Not if she doesn’t find out.”

“You’re talking crazy here,” Caleb said.

“Not at all. I take him, but he gets a jump on me, escapes. Nobody’s ever the wiser.”

“Except us,” James objected. “I can’t let a prisoner escape deliberately.”

“What is he, seventeen?” Brock asked. “Look at him.”

“You can be seventeen and still kill men.”

“Not if you’re scared spitless.”

“And you’re going to scare him spitless?”

“If you let me.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Benji Buchanen awoke with a start. Handcuffs weren’t the most comfortable bed partners. And this Kincaid fellow was so crazy, Benji slept with one eye open, watching him.

Now he was moving around the campfire, fishing in his saddlebags. He stepped over to Benji and knelt over him. “So, you wanna take your chances with me?”

Benji squinted up at him. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“You’n me. A shoot-out. Winner leaves free and clear. Loser…well, dies.”

The man had already shot his hand, but Benji had been too embarrassed to tell anyone.

He’d let ’em think it was Jack Spade, but truth was, Spade hadn’t even cleared his holster.

This maniac, on the other hand, had fired and sheathed his gun just like nothin’ had ever happened.

Benji still couldn’t figure that one out.

“What do you say, big gunfighter? You game?”

“I can’t draw now. You shot my right hand.”

“You can use your left, can’t you? You wear two guns.”

“Yeah, I can use it, but what kind of match is that— against a man with two good hands?”

“Hey, that’s a chance you take in the business you’re in. You get caught in a crossfire and get shot, you’ve still got to keep firing or you die.”

Seemed Benji didn’t have much choice. Still wasn’t much of one.

“Okay, we’ll make it fair. I’ll wrap my right hand up and keep it behind my back. Suit you?”

Refuse and live his life in jail, Benji thought. Go along and at least he had a fifty-fifty chance. He’d seen the man shoot, though. Maybe not fifty-fifty. But at least a chance. “Okay.”

He was sweatin’ by the time Kincaid had him released and handed him his guns. How he’d come by those, Benji couldn’t figure. Except that the sheriff had the same last name. Didn’t look nothin’ alike, though.

Warily, Benji strapped on his guns. What if he didn’t have any bullets and the man shot him to pieces?

“Go ahead,” Kincaid said. “Look.”

He checked for bullets: loaded. His heart hammered and his skin felt clammy.

Kincaid wrapped a strip of cowhide around his fingers and thumb, wrapped his whole right hand up and tightened a knot with his teeth. He placed the hand behind his back. “This is it, then.”

Kincaid backed up, his ivory-handled revolvers gleaming in the firelight. Wasn’t very good light to shoot by.

“Maybe we should wait till mornin’,” Benji suggested.

“When there’s more light.”

“Gunfights don’t happen under perfect conditions,” Kincaid told him. “Sometimes it’s raining. Sometimes the dust is blowing in your eyes. Sometimes you got more than one shooter aiming for you. Sometimes you get shot.” Benji swallowed.

“Killed many men yet?” Kincaid asked conversationally. He was crazy.

“Just the one. Jack Spade.”

“Thought you’d start out with the best, eh? Where you going to go from here? Nowhere to go but down.”

“Why don’t you shut your trap and let’s get to business.”

“Okay, okay. I was just trying to be friendly.” He shook his left wrist and took a loose-legged stance. “Ready when you are.”

“You gonna talk the whole damned time?”

Kincaid shook his head and showed he was ready.

Cold sweat poured from every pore in Benji’s body.

He observed the other man’s calm expression, the way he waited like a snake ready to strike. Benji shoulda stayed in Nebraska, and none of this woulda happened. He shoulda listened to his aunt Neda and his pa and stayed to plant. Now he might never see them again.

His only prayer was to shoot this crazy man and ride outta here and never look back. He calmed himself. Thought back over all his practice. All those bean cans and squash he’d murdered easy as you please. He might be able to do it if he didn’t throw up first.

This was it. Live or die. A twist of fate made in a second. His head grew light. He steadied his hand, calmed his nerves and cleared his mind.

He reached for his gun.

Bullets pelted the ground in front of him, spraying dirt and pebbles across his pant legs and boots. One bullet caught the end of his boot, another his sleeve. Benji jumped back, hobbled, and fell on his butt.

“You’re crazy!” he screeched, in shock that none of the shots had hit him. He hadn’t even gotten his gun out of the holster. He couldn’t think. He looked at himself. Nothing hurt.

“See that stain on your heel?”

“What?” He raised his boot to look.

Kincaid fired, hitting his boot and knocking his foot back with a stinging jerk. Benji yanked his wild gaze from the man to his boot, where a bullet lodged. The man could have killed him in a heartbeat.

“Why didn’t ya kill me?”

“I killed a boy your age before. It broke his father’s heart—his sister’s, too.

And I’ve lived with it for nearly eight years.

I’ll live with it until I die. Just like you’re going to live with the death of that man you killed in Whitehorn, wondering if he had a family, if they know what happened to him, if they’ll come after you. ”

“You ain’t gonna kill me?”

“No.” He unwrapped his hand and tossed the leather away. “Did you give the sheriff your real name?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

“Benji.”

“I’m setting you free, Benji. And I think you’re just smart enough to go home and make a new start.”

“I am. I’m real smart.” Tears of relief sprang to his eyes and he cried like a baby.

Kincaid strapped a bedroll to one of the horses, added a canteen and a saddlebag. “You got family at home?”

He nodded. “My pa. And my aunt Neda.”

“Well, you give your aunt Neda a hug. And be a good son to your pa. A father wants to be proud of his son.”

“I will. I swear I will.”

“I know you will.”

Benji pulled on his coat and hat, mounted the horse and looked down at the man who had just given him a second chance at life. “I won’t forget this, mister.”

“I don’t suppose you will.”

The stars stretched in all directions across the Montana sky. Wide-open spaces. Freedom. He turned the horse’s head toward Nebraska.

Brock watched the kid ride away, a feeling of rightness giving him peace about what he’d done. He and James would handle this with the marshals and the judge.

It was Abby to whom he had a lot of explaining to do. Chuckling, he threw dirt on the fire. He couldn’t wait to make up.