Kitabı oku: «The Coming of the Law», sayfa 6
CHAPTER VIII
CONCERNING THE “SIX-O’CLOCK”
On Friday evening previous to the Saturday on which the Kicker was to be issued for the fifth consecutive time by Hollis, Potter did not ride out to the Circle Bar. There still remained some type to be set and Potter had declared his intention of completing the work and staying overnight in town. Hollis had acquiesced and had departed for the Circle Bar alone.
When he reached Dry Bottom the following morning he found a small crowd of people in front of the Kicker office. During the night someone had posted a written notice on the front door, and when Hollis dismounted from his pony there were perhaps a dozen interested citizens grouped about the door, reading the notice. There were several of the town’s merchants and a number of cowboys–new arrivals and those who had remained overnight to gamble and participate in the festivities that were all-night features of the dives. There were also the usual loafers, who constitute an element never absent in any group of idlers in any street. All, however, gave way before Hollis and allowed him to reach the door without molestation, though in passing he observed significant grins on several faces.
The notice was written in a bold, legible hand.
“Mr. Hollis:”–it read, the prefix under-scored–“The express leaves town this afternoon at six o’clock–goin' east. Better be on it.”
Signed–“Y. Z.”
Hollis read the notice and then turned and quietly surveyed his watchful, interested audience. He smiled grimly, seeing several faces which, though plainly expressing amusement, seemed quietly sympathetic. He felt that these were wishing him success, though doubting his ability to cope with his enemies. Other faces were plainly antagonistic in expression. He looked at both for an instant and then turned again to the notice and producing a pencil printed boldly on its face the slogan he had devised:
“We Herald the Coming of the Law! The Kicker is Here to Stay!”
And below he indulged in this sarcasm: “Don’t hold the express on my account!”
Signed–“KENT HOLLIS”
Leaving his audience to stare after him Hollis pushed open the door of the office and entered.
He found Potter bending over the imposing table, hard at work on one of the forms. Three other forms, locked and ready for the press, stood in a corner. Potter looked up and smiled as his chief entered.
“See the notice on the door?” he inquired.
“Some of Dunlavey’s work, I suppose,” returned Hollis.
“Well, yes. I suppose Dunlavey is back of it. But Yuma tacked the sign up.” He smiled soberly as Hollis flashed a grin at him. “They tried hard last night to get me to drink. Of course their purpose was to get me drunk so that I wouldn’t be able to get the paper out today. I am not going to tell you how hard I had to fight myself to resist the temptation to drink. But you can see for yourself that I succeeded. The Kicker will be ready to go to press in an hour.”
He felt Hollis’s hand patting his shoulder approvingly and he continued, a little hoarsely. “I took one drink at the Fashion last night after I got through here. Then I came back and went to sleep. I am a light sleeper and when some time after midnight I heard a sound at the door I got up and peered out of the window. I saw Yuma tacking up the notice. I suppose Dunlavey wrote it.” He looked at Hollis with a whimsical expression. “I suppose you are going to take the express?” he inquired.
“Tried to get you drunk, did they?” shaking his head negatively to Potter’s question, a smile on his face. “I can’t understand that game,” he continued, soberly. “Of course getting you drunk would have prevented the appearance of the paper on scheduled time. But if they wanted to do serious damage–of course I mean to the paper,” he apologized with a grim smile, “why didn’t they come down here–some of them–during your absence, and smash things up? That would have made the thing sure for them.”
Potter laughed mirthlessly. “Of course they could have done that,” he said; “it would have been easy–will be easy any time. But it wouldn’t be artistic, would be coarse in fact. Dunlavey doesn’t do things that way. If they smash your stuff, destroy your plant here, ruin your type and press, and so forth, they invite sympathy in your behalf. But if they prevent the appearance of your paper without having done any damage to your plant they accomplish something–they expose you to ridicule. And in this country ridicule is a potent weapon–even if it involves nothing more serious than a drunken printer.”
Hollis shook Potter’s hand in silence. He had expected violence from Dunlavey; long before this he had expected him to show his hand, to attempt some covert and damaging action. And he had been prepared to fight to get the Kicker out. He had not expected subtlety from Dunlavey.
He went to his desk and sat in the chair, looking out through the window at the crowd that still lingered in front of the office. Most of the faces wore grins. Plainly they were amused, but Hollis saw that the amusement was of a grim sort. They appreciated the situation and enjoyed its humor but felt the tragedy behind it. Probably most of them were acquainted with Dunlavey’s methods; some of them probably knew of the attempt that had been made to incapacitate Potter. Certainly those of them that did know had seen the failure of the attempt and were now speculating upon Dunlavey’s next move. Looking out of the window Hollis felt that some of his audience must be wondering whether the editor of the Kicker would pay any attention to the notice on the door. Would he scare?
Hollis had already decided that he would not “scare.” He grinned at several of the men who watched him and then turned and instructed Potter to take down a column of type on the first page of the paper to make room for an article that he intended to write. Then he seized a pen and wrote a red hot defiance directed at the authors of the notice, which Potter set up under the heading:
“Why the Editor of the Kicker Won’t Take the Express.”
In clear, terse language he told his audience his reasons. This was America; he was an American, and he didn’t purpose to allow the Cattlemen’s Association–or any other association, gang, or individual–to dictate the policy of his paper or influence his private actions. Least of all did he purpose to allow anyone to “run him out of town.” He printed the notice entire, adding his answer, assuring readers that he was sending copies of the Kicker to every newspaper in the East and that notices such as had been affixed to his door would react against the authors. He ended with the prophecy that the law would come into Union County and that meanwhile the Kicker purposed to fight.
At noon Hollis took the usual number of copies to the station and mailed them. Walking down the street on his return from the station he attracted much attention. Men stood in the open doorways of saloons watching him, a number openly jeered; others sent subtle jibes after him. Still others were silent, their faces expressing amusement.
But he looked at none of them. He swung along the board walk, his face a little pale, his lips tightly closed, determined to pay no attention to the jeers that reached his ears.
When he passed the Fashion there were a number of men draped along its front; and he was conscious of many grins. Passing the men he heard low laughter and profane reference which caused his cheeks to redden. But he walked steadily on. Near the Kicker office he met Jiggs Lenehan. Followed by the youth he reached the office to find that Potter had completed the press work and that several hundred copies of the paper, the ink still moist on its pages, were stacked in orderly array on the imposing stone. In a very brief time Jiggs burst out of the office door, a bundle of papers under his arm, and began the work of distribution. Standing back from the window with Potter, Hollis watched Jiggs until the latter reached the crowd in front of the Fashion saloon. Then all that Hollis could see of him was his red head. But that trade was brisk was proved by the press around Jiggs–the youth was passing out papers at a rapid rate and soon nearly every man in the crowd about the Fashion was engaged in reading, or,–if this important feature of his education had been neglected–in questioning his neighbor concerning the things that appeared in the paper.
Presently Jigg’s customers in front of the Fashion were all supplied. Then other purchasers appeared. Soon the Kicker was being read by–it seemed–nearly every grown person in Dry Bottom. Business was suspended. Down the street men were congregated about the doors of many of the stores; others were sitting in doorways, still others leaned against buildings; some, not taking time to search for support, read while walking, or stood motionless on the board sidewalks, satisfying their curiosity.
Hollis watched through the window until he began to be certain that every person in town was supplied with a paper. Then with a grim smile he left the window and sought his chair beside the desk. He was satisfied. Dunlavey had made the first aggressive movement and the fight was on.
CHAPTER IX
HOW A BAD MAN LEFT THE “KICKER” OFFICE
It was about one o’clock in the afternoon when the Kicker appeared on Dry Bottom’s street. At about five minutes after one, Potter left the front of the office and walked to the rear room where he halted at the imposing stone. There he proceeded to “take down” the four forms. This done he calmly began distributing type.
While Potter worked Hollis sat very quietly at his desk in the front office, his arms folded, one hand supporting his chin, his lips forming straight lines, his eyes narrowed with a meditative expression. Occasionally Potter glanced furtively at him, his eyes filled with mingled expressions of sympathy, admiration, and concern.
Potter appreciated his chief’s position. It meant something for a man of Hollis’s years and training to bury himself in this desolate sink-hole of iniquity; to elect to carry on an unequal war with interests that controlled the law machinery of the county and Territory–whose power extended to Washington. No doubt the young man was even now brooding over the future, planning his fight, pessimistically considering his chances of success. Potter’s sympathy grew. He thought of approaching his chief with a word of encouragement. But while he hesitated, mentally debating the propriety of such an action, Hollis turned quickly and looked fairly at him, his forehead perplexed.
“Potter,” he remarked, “I suppose there isn’t a good brain specialist in this section of the country?”
“Why–why – ” began Potter. Then he stopped and looked at his chief in wordless astonishment. His sympathy had been wasted.
“No,” laughed Hollis, divining the cause of the compositor’s astonishment, “personally I have no use for a brain specialist. I was thinking of some other person.”
“Not me?” grinned Potter from behind his type case. He flushed a little at the thought of how near he had come to offering encouragement to a man who had not been in need of it, who, evidently, had not been thinking of the big fight at all. “Perhaps I need one,” he added, eyeing Hollis whimsically; “a moment ago I thought you were in the dumps on account of the situation here–you seemed rather disturbed. It surprised me considerably to find that you had not been thinking of Dunlavey at all.”
“No,” admitted Hollis gravely, “I was not thinking of Dunlavey. I was wondering if something couldn’t be done for Ed Hazelton.”
“Something ought to be done for him,” declared Potter earnestly. “I have watched that young man closely and I am convinced that with proper care and treatment he would recover fully. But I never heard of a specialist in this section–none, in fact, nearer than Chicago. And I’ve forgotten his name.”
“It is Hammond,” supplied Hollis. “I’ve been thinking of him. I knew his son in college. I am going to write to him.”
He turned to his desk and took up a pen, while Potter resumed his work of distributing type.
About half an hour later Jiggs Lenehan strolled into the office wearing a huge grin on his face. “’Pears like everybody in town wants to read the Kicker to-day,” he said with a joyous cackle. “Never had so much fun sellin’ them. Gimme some more,” he added breathlessly; “they’s a gang down to the station howlin’ for them. Say,” he yelled at Hollis as he went out of the door with a big bundle of Kickers under his arm, “you’re cert’nly some editor man!” He grinned admiringly and widely as he disappeared.
Hollis finished his letter to Hammond and then leaned back in his chair. For half an hour he sat there, looking gravely out into the street and then, answering a sudden impulse, he rose and strode to the door.
“Going down to the court house,” he informed Potter.
He found Judge Graney in his room, seated at the big table, a copy of the Kicker spread out in front of him. At his appearance the Judge pushed back his chair and regarded him with an approving smile.
“Well, Hollis,” he said, “I see Dunlavey has played the first card.”
“He hasn’t taken the first trick,” was the young man’s quick reply.
“Fortunately not,” laughed the judge. He placed a finger on a column in the Kicker. “This article about the Cattlemen’s Association is a hummer–if I may be allowed the phrase. A straight, manly citation of the facts. It ought to win friends for you.”
“I’ve merely stated the truth,” returned Hollis, “and if the article seems good it is merely because it defends a principle whose virtue is perfectly obvious.”
“But only a man who felt strongly could have written it,” suggested the Judge.
“Perhaps. I admit feeling a deep interest in the question of cattle.”
“Your ambition?” slyly insinuated the Judge.
“Is temporarily in abeyance–perhaps permanently.”
“Then your original decision about remaining here has been–well, strengthened?”
Hollis nodded. The Judge grinned mysteriously. “There is an article on the first page of the Kicker which interested me greatly,” he said. “It concerns the six o’clock train–going east. Do you happen to know whether the editor of the Kicker is going to use the express?”
Hollis smiled appreciatively. “The editor of the Kicker is going to use the express,” he admitted, “though not in the manner some people are wishing. The usual number of copies of the Kicker are going to ride on the express, as are also some very forceful letters to the President of the United States and the Secretary of the Interior.”
“Good!” said the Judge. He looked critically at Hollis. “I know that you are going to remain in Dry Bottom,” he said slowly; “I have never doubted your courage. But I want to warn you to be careful. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that the notice which you found on the door of the Kicker office this morning is a joke. They don’t joke like that out here. Of course I know that you are not afraid and that you won’t run. But be careful–there are men out here who would snuff out a human life as quickly as they would the flame of a candle, and with as little fear of the consequences. I shouldn’t like to hear of you using your revolver, but if you do have occasion to use it, use it fast and make a good job of it.”
“I don’t like to use a gun,” returned Hollis gravely, “but all the same I shall bear your advice in mind.” An expression of slight disgust swept over his face. “I don’t see why men out here don’t exhibit a little more courage,” he said. “They all ‘pack’ a gun, as Norton says, and all are apparently yearning to use one. I don’t see what satisfaction there could be in shooting a man with whom you have had trouble; it strikes me as being a trifle cowardly.” He laughed grimly. “For my part,” he added, “I can get more satisfaction out of slugging a man. Perhaps it isn’t so artistic as shooting, but you have the satisfaction of knowing that your antagonist realizes and appreciates his punishment.”
Judge Graney’s gaze rested on the muscular frame of the young man. “I suppose if all men were built like you there would be less shooting done. But unfortunately nature has seen fit to use different molds in making her men. Not every man has the strength or science to use his fists, nor the courage. But there is one thing that you will do well to remember. When you slug a man who carries a gun you only beat him temporarily; usually he will wait his chance and use his gun when you least expect him.”
“I suppose you refer to Yuma Ed and Dunlavey?” suggested Hollis.
“Well, no, not Dunlavey. I have never heard of Dunlavey shooting anybody; he plays a finer game. But Yuma Ed, Greasy, Ten Spot, and some more who belong to the Dunlavey crowd are professional gun-men and do not hesitate to shoot. The chances are that Dunlavey will try to square accounts with you in some other manner, but I would be careful of Yuma–a blow in the face never sets well on a man of that character.”
An hour later, when Hollis sat at his desk in the Kicker office, Judge Graney’s words were recalled to him. He was thinking of his conversation with the Judge when Jiggs Lenehan burst into the office, breathless, his face pale and his eyes swimming with news. He was trembling With excitement.
“Ten Spot is comin’ down here to put you out of business!” he blurted out when he could get his breath. “I was in the Fashion an’ I heard him an’ Yuma talkin’ about you. Ten Spot is comin’ here at six o’clock!”
Hollis turned slowly in his chair and faced the boy. His cheeks whitened a little. Judge Graney had been right. Hollis had rather expected at some time or other he would have to have it out with Yuma, but he had expected he would have to deal with Yuma himself. He smiled a little grimly. It made very little difference whether he fought Yuma or some other man; when he had elected to remain in Dry Bottom he had realized that he must fight somebody–everybody in the Dunlavey crew. He looked at his watch and saw that the hands pointed to four. Therefore he had two hours to prepare for Ten Spot’s coming. He smiled at the boy, looked back into the composing room and saw that Potter had ceased his labors and was leaning on a type case, watching him soberly. He grinned broadly at Potter and turned to Jiggs.
“How many Kickers did you sell?”
“Two hundred an’ ten,” returned the latter; “everybody bought them.” He took a step forward; his hands clenching with the excitement that still possessed him. “I told you Ten Spot was comin’ down here to kill you!” he said hoarsely and insistently. “Didn’t you hear me?”
“I heard you,” smiled Hollis, “and I understand perfectly. But I don’t think we need to get excited over it. Just how much money did you receive for the two hundred and ten papers?”
“Six dollars an’ two bits,” responded the boy, regarding Hollis wonderingly.
“It is yours,” Hollis informed him; “there was to be no charge for the Kicker to-day.”
The boy grinned with pleasure. “Don’t you want none of it?” he inquired.
“It is yours,” repeated Hollis. He reached out and grasped the boy by the arm, drawing him close. “Now tell me what you heard at the Fashion,” he said.
Rapidly, but with rather less excitement in his manner than he had exhibited on his entrance, the boy related in detail the conversation he had overheard at the Fashion. When he had finished Hollis patted him approvingly on the back.
“The official circulation manager of the Kicker has made good,” he said with a smile. “Now go home and take a good rest and be ready to deliver the Kicker next Saturday.”
The boy backed away and stood looking at Hollis in surprise. “Why!” he said in an awed voice, “you ain’t none scared a-tall!”
“I certainly am scared,” laughed Hollis; “scared that Ten Spot will change his mind before six o’clock. Do you think he will?”
“No!” emphatically declared the boy. “I don’t reckon that Ten Spot will change his mind a-tall. He’ll sure come down here to shoot you!”
“That relieves me,” returned Hollis dryly. “Now you go home. But,” he warned, “don’t tell anyone that I am scared.”
For an instant the boy looked at Hollis critically, searching his face with all a boy’s unerring judgment for signs which would tell of insincerity. Seeing none, he deliberately stretched a hand out to Hollis, his lips wreathing into an approving grin.
“Durned if you ain’t the stuff!” he declared. “I’m just bettin’ that Ten Spot ain’t scarin’ you none!” Then he backed out of the door and still grinning, disappeared.
After Jiggs had gone Hollis turned and smiled at Potter. “I suppose you know this man Ten Spot,” he said. “Will he come?”
“He will come,” returned Potter. His face was pale and his lips quivered a little as he continued: “Ten Spot is the worst of Dunlavey’s set,” he said; “a dangerous, reckless taker of human life. He is quick on the trigger and a dead shot. He is called Ten Spot because of the fact that once, with a gun in each hand, he shot all the spots from a ten of hearts at ten paces.”
Hollis sat silent, thoughtfully stroking his chin. Potter smiled admiringly.
“I know that you don’t like to run,” he said; “you aren’t that kind. But you haven’t a chance with Ten Spot–unfortunately you haven’t had much experience with a six-shooter.” Potter’s hands shook as he tried to resume work at the type case. “I didn’t think they would have nerve enough for that game,” he added, advancing again toward Hollis. “I rather thought they would try some other plan–something not quite so raw. But it seems they have nerve enough for anything. Hollis” he concluded dejectedly, “you’ve got to get out of town before six o’clock or Ten Spot will kill you!
“You’ve got plenty of time,” he resumed as Hollis kept silent; “it’s only a little after four. You can get on your horse and be almost at the Circle Bar at six. No one can blame you for not staying–everybody knows that you can’t handle a gun fast enough to match Ten Spot. Maybe if you do light out and don’t show up in town for a week or so this thing will blow over.”
“Thank you very much for that advice, Potter,” said Hollis slowly. “I appreciate the fact that you are thinking of my safety. But of course there is another side to the situation. You of course realize that if I run now I am through here–no one would ever take me seriously after it had been discovered that I had been run out of town by Ten Spot.”
“That’s a fact,” admitted Potter. “But of course – ”
“I think that is settled,” interrupted Hollis. “You can’t change the situation by argument. I’ve got to face it and face it alone. I’ve got to stay here until Ten Spot comes. If I can’t beat him at his game he wins and you can telegraph East to my people.” He rose and walked to the window, his back to the printer.
“You can knock off for to-day, Potter. Jump right on your pony and get out to Circle Bar. I wouldn’t say anything to Norton or anyone until after nine to-night and then if I don’t show up at the ranch you will know that Ten Spot has got me.”
He stood at the window while Potter slowly drew off his apron, carefully folded it and tucked it into a corner. He moved very deliberately, as though reluctant to leave his chief. Had Hollis shown the slightest sign of weakening Potter would have stayed. But watching closely he saw no sign of weakness in the impassive face of his chief, and so, after he had made his preparations for departure, he drew a deep breath of resignation and walked slowly to the back door, where his pony was hitched. He halted at the threshold, looking back at his chief.
“Well, good-bye then,” he said.
Hollis did not turn. “Good-bye,” he answered.
Potter took one step outward, hesitated, and then again faced the front of the office.
“Damn it, Hollis,” he said hoarsely, “don’t wait for Ten Spot to start anything; when you see him coming in the door bore him. You’ve got a right to; that’s the law in this country. When a man gives you notice to leave town you’ve got a right to shoot him on sight!”
For a moment he stood, awaiting an answer. None came. Potter sighed and stepped out through the door, leaving his chief alone.
At one minute to six Hollis pulled out his watch. He sighed, replaced the time-piece, and leaned back in his chair. A glance out through the window showed him that the street was deserted except for here and there a cow pony drooping over one of the hitching rails and a wagon or two standing in front of a store. The sun was coming slantwise over the roofs; Hollis saw that the strip of shade in front of the Kicker building had grown to wide proportions. He looked at his watch again. It was one minute after six–and still there were no signs of Ten Spot.
A derisive grin appeared on Hollis’s face. Perhaps Ten Spot had reconsidered. He decided that he would wait until ten minutes after six; that would give Ten Spot a decent margin of time for delay.
And then there was a sudden movement and a man stood just inside the office door, a heavy revolver in his right hand, its muzzle menacing Hollis. The man was tall and angular, apparently about thirty years old, with thin, cruel lips and insolent, shifty eyes.
“’Nds up!” he said sharply, swinging the revolver to a threatening poise. “It’s six o’clock, you tenderfoot – !”
This was the vile epithet that had been applied to Hollis by Yuma Ed, which had been the direct cause of Yuma’s downfall the day of Hollis’s arrival in Dry Bottom. Hollis’s eyes flashed, but the man was several feet from him and out of reach of his fists. Had Hollis been standing he would have had no chance to reach the man before the latter could have made use of his weapon. Therefore Hollis remained motionless in his chair, catching the man’s gaze and holding it steadily with unwavering, narrowed eyes.
Though he had waited for the coming of Ten Spot, he had formulated no plan of action; he had felt that somehow he would come out of the clash with him without injury. He still thought so. In spite of his danger he felt that some chance of escape would be offered him. Grimly confident of this he smiled at the man, though still holding his gaze, determined, if he saw the faintest flicker of decision in his eyes, to duck and tackle him regardless of consequences.
“I suppose you are Ten Spot?” he said slowly. He was surprised at the steadiness of his voice.
The man grinned, his eyes alert, shifty, filled with a chilling menace. “You’ve got her right, tenderfoot,” he said; “‘Ten Spot’s’ m’ handle, an’ if you’re a-feelin’ like criticizin’ of her do her some rapid before I starts dealin’ out the lead which is in my pritty.”
Just how one man could be so entirely remorseless as to shoot another when that other man was looking straight into his eyes Hollis could not understand. He could readily realize how a man could kill when provoked to anger, or when brooding over an injury. But he had done nothing to Ten Spot–did not even know him–had never seen him before, and how Ten Spot could deliberately shoot him–without provocation–was incomprehensible. He was convinced that in order to shoot, Ten Spot must work himself into an artificial rage, and he believed that the vile epithet which Ten Spot had applied to him immediately upon his entrance must be part of his scheme. He was convinced that had he shown the slightest resentment over the application of the epithet Ten Spot would have shot him down at once. Therefore he resolved to give the man no opportunity to work himself into a rage. He smiled again as Ten Spot concluded and carelessly twisted himself about in his chair until he was in a position to make a quick spring.
“‘Ten Spot’ is a picturesque name,” he remarked quietly, not removing his gaze from Ten Spot’s eyes for the slightest fraction of a second; “I have no criticism to make. I have always made it a point to refrain from criticizing my visitors. At least I do not recollect ever having criticized a visitor who carried a gun,” he concluded with a smile.
Ten Spot’s lips curled sarcastically. Apparently he would not swerve in his determination to provoke trouble.
“Hell,” he said truculently, “that there palaver makes me sick. I reckon you’re too damn white livered to criticize a man that’s lookin’ at you. There ain’t no tenderfoot (here he applied the unprintable epithet again) got nerve enough to criticize nothin’!”
Hollis slowly raised his hands and placed them on the arms of his chair, apparently to steady himself, but in reality to be ready to project himself out of the chair in case he could discern any indication of action on Ten Spot’s part.
“Ten Spot,” he said in a low, even, well controlled voice, conciliatory, but filled with a manliness which no man could mistake, “at four o’clock this afternoon I heard that you and Yuma Ed were framing up your present visit. I am not telling who gave me the information,” he added as he saw Ten Spot’s eyes brighten, “but that is what happened. So you see I know what you have come for. You have come to kill me. Is that correct?”
Ten Spot’s eyes narrowed–into them had come an appraising, speculative glint. He nodded. “You’ve got her right,” he admitted gruffly. “But if you knowed why didn’t you slope?” He looked at Hollis with a half sneer, as though unable to decide whether Hollis was a brave man or merely a fool.
Hollis saw the indecision in Ten Spot’s eyes and his own brightened. At last he had planned a form of action and he cooly estimated the distance between himself and Ten Spot. While Hollis had been speaking Ten Spot had taken a step forward and he was now not over four or five feet distant. Into Ten Spot’s eyes had come an amused, disdainful gleam; Hollis’s quiet, argumentative attitude had disarmed him. This was exactly what Hollis had been waiting for.
Ten Spot seemed almost to have forgotten his weapon; it had sagged, the muzzle pointing downward–the man’s mind had become temporarily diverted from his purpose. When he saw Hollis move suddenly forward he remembered his gun and tried to swing its muzzle upward, but it was too late. Hollis had lunged forward, his left hand closing on Ten Spot’s right wrist, his right fist reaching Ten Spot’s jaw in a full, sweeping, crashing uppercut.
