Kinkaid was no longer in sight, but Morgan stared after the marshal for a long time. Finally, realizing he wasn’t going to see him again, he moved to the back of the store. He leaned back against the shelves behind the counter, wondering whether Kinkaid had just threatened him, or not. The mind-set of a man who lived with a gun in his hand was a peculiar one. Used to offense, he had a tendency to find one where none was intended. But Kinkaid was not a subtle man. And there had been nothing subtle about the exchange. Or had there been? To get his mind off it, Morgan grabbed the ladder and the paint can. He walked out into the heat and unfolded the heavy wooden ladder. It was old, covered with drips of a dozen colors of paint, scarred and nicked on every rung. “It’s seen almost as much wear and tear as I have,” Morgan mumbled, as he knelt to open the paint. He took the can in both hands and shook it rapidly, like an angry parent trying to shake some sense into a wayward child. When he was satisfied the paint would be mixed, he fished a pocket knife out of his jeans and pried the lid off.
