“What’s wrong with her?” I said.

“She’s in shock.”

“Will she be okay?”

“Would you be?”

I didn’t answer, but figured I probably would, had I gotten this far, like Hannah had. Whatever terrible things had befallen this tragic girl, she seemed to weather it pretty well. In the shit hole that was Hannah’s life, this was just another turd.  

“We’ll hope for the best,” I said.

From behind us a voice called out, “We’ll take your whores, now, and your water, and any money you got.”

We turned to find four gunmen on horses enterin’ the camp. One had a pearl-handled six shooter in his hand, and he was aimin’ it at the center of my chest. The others had shotguns trained on Shrug and the women.

The guy with the hand gun did the talkin’. He was slim and sat tall in the saddle, and had on a brown derby hat. His eyes were enormous, twice the size of a normal man’s, and crazy lookin’. They put me in mind of a stone killer named Bose Rennick, who used to travel with Sam Hartman. Hartman was a regular curly wolf, often considered the cruelest man who ever lived. I’d seen Bose once, six years ago, when I was ridin’ through Jacksboro, Texas. He was chained to a tree on the edge of town, with three lawmen guardin’ him. I only saw him a few seconds that day, but he had the same giant and crazy-lookin’ eyes as this hombre. Somehow Bose managed to escape from Jacksboro, and he and Sam lit out for Mexico, where they raised a ruckus ’til the Federales threw ’em in prison. I heard they were killed tryin’ to break out, which meant the guy in front of me weren’t him.

But that didn’t make his eyes any less frightenin’ than Bose Rennick’s. If there was anythin’ on the other side of this man’s eyes, well, he weren’t sharin’ it with the rest of us.

The first time he’d spoke, his voice was rough and scratchy. This time it was clear as a bell, and the words came out of his mouth rich and deep, and sounded like they’d been basted in honey. It was far and away the nicest voice I ever heard on a man.

“I’m Bose Rennick,” he said. “And this here’s Sam Hartman.”

“Never heard a’ you,” I said.

Sam Hartman pulled the hammer back on his shotgun. He looked—not just eager, but like he couldn’t wait to pull the trigger. I thought about the look in Rose’s eyes just before the bull charged her. She must have seen, or sensed these fellers comin’ up behind us.

Bose cast a watchful eye on Shrug. His eyebrow went up.

“What the fuck happened to him?” he said, his voice as sweet as if he’d sung the words. You hear Bose Rennick’s voice and decide the good Lord must a’ felt the need to make it up to him for puttin’ them double-sized crazy eyes on his face.

Sam Hartman said, “Who gives a shit about the cripple?” To me, he said, “You and him, get the dead one and the kid outta the wagon. Then hitch it up and put the whores in it, and two of the water barrels.”

“Them barrels are mostly empty,” I said.

Bose flipped his gun toward the supply wagon as casually as I might shoo a fly, and shot a hole in one of the barrels. When no water spurted out, he said, “You got water somewhere.”

“We’ve got some,” I said.

“Put what you have in the wagon, along with your canteens,” he said.

“We’ll be needin’ them canteens for our journey,” I said.

Sam and Bose looked at each other.

“I’m afraid your journey has come to an end,” Bose said.

I marveled at the man’s voice.