half facing him.
Elwood piled on my other side.
The Negro bent me backward, folding my spine on itself like an accordion.
I fought to hold my knees stiff. Too much weight was hanging on me. My knees sagged. My body curved back.
Pat Reddy, swaying in the doorway, shone over the Negro’s shoulder like the Angel Gabriel.
Gray pain was in Pat’s face, but his eyes were clear. His right hand held a gun. His left was getting a blackjack out of his hip pocket.
He swung the sap down on the Negro’s shaven skull.
The black man wheeled away from me, shaking his head.
Pat hit him once more before the Negro closed with him—hit him full in the face, but couldn’t beat him off.
Twisting my freed gun-hand up, I drilled Elwood neatly through the chest, and let him slide down me to the floor.
The Negro had Pat against the wall, bothering him a lot. His broad red back was a target.
But I had used five of the six bullets in my gun. I had more in my pocket, but reloading takes time.
I stepped out of Elwood’s feeble hands, and went to work with the flat of my gun on the Negro. There was a roll of fat where his skull and neck fit together. The third time I hit it, he flopped, taking Pat with him.