I agreed that it ought to. We leaned against the clay bank and smoked while, farther away, another machine-gun got going, and then a third. Irregularly, rifles, pistols, shotguns joined in. Noonan nodded approvingly and said:

“Five minutes of that will let him know there’s a hell.”

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.”