Author: Clifton Adams
He came forward slowly, in that curious toe-heel gait that Indians have. With a big left hand, he grabbed Marta by the hair and jerked her half out of the chair.
I hit him in the face and pulled Marta behind me.
“Keep your damn hands off her if you want to go on living,” I said.
He was surprised. The next thing I knew his gun was coming out of the holster.
I made my grab and didn’t bother to aim.
I didn’t hit him. I didn’t even come close.
But I didn’t need that first bullet. Just the muzzle blast.
And the Indian knew it. His mouth flew open as he slammed back under the impact, and before he could swing that pistol on me again, he was as good as dead.