Pat Reddy stood with one hand on a chair-back, holding his belly with the other. His face was mouse-colored under its blood. His eyes were glass agonies. He had the look of a man who had been kicked.
The grin he tried failed. He nodded toward the rear of the house. I went back.
In a little passageway I found Raymond Elwood.
He was sobbing and pulling frantically at a locked door. His face was the hard white of utter terror.
I measured the distance between us.
He turned as I jumped.
I put everything I had in the downswing of my gun-barrel—
A ton of meat and bone crashed into my back.
I went over against the wall, breathless, giddy, sick.
Red-silk arms that ended in brown hands locked around me.
I wondered if there was a whole regiment of these gaudy Negroes—or if I was colliding with the same one over and over.
This one didn’t let me do much thinking.
He was big. He was strong. He didn’t mean any good.
My gun-arm was flat at my side, straight down. I tried a shot at one of the Negro’s feet. Missed. Tried again. He moved his feet. I wriggled around,