When the five minutes were up I suggested a look at the remains. I gave him a boost up the bank and scrambled up after him.
The roadhouse was as bleak and empty-looking as before, but more battered. No shots came from it. Plenty were going into it.
“What do you think?” Noonan asked.
“If there’s a cellar there might be a mouse alive in it.”
“Well, we could finish him afterwards.”
He took a whistle out of his pocket and made a lot of noise. He waved his fat arms, and the gunfire began dwindling. We had to wait for the word to go all the way around.
Then we crashed the door.
The first floor was ankle-deep with booze that was still gurgling from bullet holes in the stacked-up cases and barrels that filled most of the house.
Dizzy with the fumes of spilled hooch, we waded around until we had found four dead bodies and no live ones. The four were swarthy foreign-looking men in laborers’ clothes. Two of them were practically shot to pieces.
Noonan said:
“Leave them here and get out.”
His voice was cheerful, but in a flashlight’s glow his eyes showed white-ringed with fear.
We went out gladly, though I did hesitate long enough to pocket an unbroken bottle labeled “Dewar.”