strangerâs face was more than enough to get Clint moving again. Using every bit of strength he had left, he cocked his arm back and then straightened his back. As his upper body came up, so did his fist. When his knuckles made contact with the strangerâs jaw, there was enough force behind them to snap the manâs head back and send him staggering backward a few steps.
Clint didnât have much of anything left. The effects of all that running, combined with the hits heâd taken, left him barely able to stand up straight.
The stranger appeared to be in the same boat, since he hunkered down with his hands on his knees and his breaths making him sound like a steam engine on its last legs.
Neither one of them was in any shape to take off running, and they didnât seem too eager to fight.
All that remained now was for Clint to figure out what the hell to do next.
FOURTEEN
Clintâs hand hovered over his holster. Even though he didnât recall the moment in which heâd dropped his Colt back into place, he knew it would be there when he needed it. Heâd lived by that gun for so long that it was as vital a piece of him as his own arm. Judging by the strangerâs stance and the caution in his eyes, Clint was sure the man was pretty much the same in that respect.
âWho the hell are you?â Clint asked.
The stranger didnât reply. Instead, he glared at Clint intently while waiting for one wrong move to be made.
âI know youâve been watching the Hasselmans,â Clint said. âI know youâve been watching them every night. I also know about the money you gave to them.â
Finally, something struck a nerve hard enough to elicit a response.
âNone of that is your business,â the stranger said. âYou can just forget about that money, because it ainât yours and it never will be.â
âIâm more concerned with you watching that family like a hawk.â
âWhy?â
âBecause they deserve to live in peace.â
âDo you know them?â the stranger asked.
âI know them well enough to know they should be able to rest easy in their own homes. Anyone deserves that much.â
âAnd why would you take such an interest in them?â
âBecause Iâm in a position where I can help, and I couldnât just ride away knowing some vulture is lurking around here waiting to sink his claws into a widow and a kid.â
The stranger eased up slightly, but the difference was almost invisible. Clint might have missed the subtle shift in the strangerâs face and posture if he hadnât been watching him so closely.
âYou ainât the law,â the stranger said.
Clint shook his head. âNope.â
âAnd you ainât a friend of Jed Hasselman.â
âIs he that boyâs father?â Clint asked.
The stranger shifted a bit more. This time, a questioning look drifted across his face. âYeah. He sure was.â
âThen I didnât know him. Something tells me you did, though.â
Bringing his eyes up to look at Clint, the stranger seemed as if heâd been caught napping. He no longer focused on Clint, but looked around at every bit of movement and every bit of noise that passed through the night. Finally, he muttered, âI knew him.â
Now that his blood wasnât racing through his veins and some of the pain from those blows had subsided, Clint was seeing things in a different light. The stranger himself had eased back and was now even starting to turn away from Clint. Even so, the strangerâs hand was still near his gun.
âHowâd you know Mr. Hasselman?â Clint asked.
âIt donât matter.â
âAnd why were you watching his family? If you were a friend looking in on them, I doubt the lady would have been so spooked.â
âSheâs got every right to be spooked,â the stranger said. âThatâs why I
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