But both of the room’s doors, I thought, were closed, and could hardly be opened without showing gray rectangles. People moved in the blackness, but none got between me and the lighter square of windows.
Something clicked softly in front of me—too thin a click for the cocking of a gun—but it could have been the opening of a spring-knife, and I remembered that Tin-Star Joplin had a fondness for that weapon.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” A harsh whisper that cut through the dark like a blow.
Sounds of motion, muffled, indistinguishable … one sound not far away. …
Abruptly a strong hand clamped one of my shoulders, a hard-muscled body strained against me. I stabbed out with my gun, and heard a grunt.
The hand moved up my shoulder toward my throat.
I snapped up a knee, and heard another grunt.
A burning point ran down my side.
I stabbed again with my gun—pulled it back until the muzzle was clear of the soft obstacle that had stopped it, and squeezed the trigger.
The crash of the shot. Joplin’s voice in my ear—a curiously matter-of-fact voice:
“Damn! That got me.”