In the instant his attention shifts away from me, I yank out my revolver and fire twice, center mass. Kaufman jolts, red blooming just above his hip. The rifle clatters to the floor. He goes to one knee. I’m in the process of holstering my .38 when he launches himself at me, catching me off guard. His shoulder rams my midsection. I reel backward, nearly go down. With stunning speed, he snatches up the rifle, brings it up. But I’m faster, and I grab the barrel and stock with both hands, ram him with it. He’s not much bigger than me. Despite his age and at least one gunshot wound, he’s stronger. I yank the rifle toward me, try to topple his balance. He stumbles forward but doesn’t fall. I twist the rifle right, try to wrench it from him. He counters by twisting left. I lose my grip on the muzzle. He swings it toward me. His finger slips into the trigger guard.

In the periphery of my vision, I see Abigail moving. I hear a shout, but I can’t make out her words. A high-pitched zing! sounds from the rafters above. I glance up, see the hay pulley quiver.

Kaufman looks up. Too late, I see the massive load of hay barreling toward us. I try to get out of the way, but I’m not fast enough.

The hay plows into us like a giant battering ram. It strikes me in the face and chest and knocks me off my feet. My boots leave the floor. And then I’m falling backward into nothingness.

Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

The first thing I’m aware of is the sounds of the hogs all around. Wet concrete against my back. Not quite knowing where I am. The stench of manure. The shuffle of cloven hooves against the ground. I’m cognizant of pain, but I can’t pinpoint its exact location. My head. My left wrist. The small of my back …

I open my eyes. For an instant, I’m not sure what I’m looking at. But as my senses return, I recognize the load of hay dangling twelve feet above me. Around me, hogs scamper about, rooting around and eating the fallen stems. My presence has caught the attention of the animals. A big boar with a single tusk. A large sow with a bloody stump for a tail and a chunk of flesh taken out of her rump.

I grew up around farm animals—cattle, hogs, horses, and sheep—and I’ve never been afraid of them. But I don’t like the looks of these hogs. They’re skinny and feral looking. Judging from the enthusiasm with which they’re eating the fallen hay, they’re hungry, too.