"Get up!" he repeated, and kicked her again—harder.
She got up, gasping, a hand at her side. She felt as though one of her ribs was broken. His long fingers fastened on the tender flesh of her shoulder. He shoved her across the room. She brought up against the stove. Instinctively she thrust out a hand to save herself. Her bare palm smacked down upon the hottest stove lid.
She sprang back with a choked cry and clapped the burned hand to her mouth.
Dan Slike laughed merrily—for him. "Serve you right. You're too damn pernickety, anyway. Aw, whatcha blubberin' about, cry-baby? Dontcha know enough to put some bakin' soda on the burn and tie a rag round it? Ain't you got any brains a-tall? Pick up that kettle! Just pick it up!"
Her unburned hand fell away from the kettle. She had seen the six-shooter flash out at his last words. She knew now that this man meant what he said. He would kill her, even as he had killed her uncle.
With a shudder that began at her knees and ended at the nape of her neck she went to the cupboard and took out a carton of baking soda.
"Here," he said roughly, when he saw that she was making a poor job at bandaging, "here, you can't tie that one-handed. Lemme."
He bandaged the hand, made fast the bandage with a too-tight knot. He obviously lingered over the business, deriving pleasure from her state of terror.
It has been shown that Hazel was not lacking in courage. Indeed, she had more than the average woman's share of it. But this man staggered her mentally. She did not know what he would do next and was in a panic accordingly.
"Scared stiff," he remarked, as he twirled her about and headed her toward the stove. "You don't like me a-tall, do you? Nemmine. Lessee how your grub tastes."