Ryder wound the bull rope hard, leather grinding into his palm, the sting rolling up through bone and sinew until it felt like fire. He smacked it again with his fist, tasting grit and sweat, letting the sharp pain center him, sharpen him. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the slack over Hannibal’s thick, trembling neck, pressing the brim of his black felt hat low until shadow cut across his eyes. He inhaled deep, lungs filling with the mingled scent of dust, sweat, and the metallic tang ...