Nora shook him off. "Maybe we need someone to take us over. It's all
pretty crazy!"
"Stop it."
Nora's eyes dulled down as she looked at Frank. She dropped her head and
seemed a little ashamed of herself. "I'm sorry. I'll be quiet."
Jim Wilson had been standing by the wall looking first at the newcomer,
then back at Frank Brooks. Wilson seemed confused as to who his true
enemy really was. Finally he took a step toward Leroy Davis.
Frank Brooks stopped him with a motion, but kept his eyes on Davis.
"Have you seen anybody else?"
Davis regarded Frank with long, careful consideration. His eyes were
bright and birdlike. They reminded Frank of a squirrel's eyes. Davis
said, "I bumped into an old man out on Halstead Street. He wanted to
know where everybody had gone. He asked me, but I didn't know."
"What happened to the old man?" Nora asked. She asked the question as
though dreading to do it; but as though some compulsion forced her to
speak.
"I shot him," Davis said cheerfully. "It was a favor, really. Here was
this old man staggering down the street with nothing but a lot of wasted
years to show for his efforts. He was no good alive, and he didn't have
the courage to die." Davis stopped and cocked his head brightly. "You
know--I think that's what's been wrong with the world. Too many people
without the guts to die, and a law against killing them."
It had now dawned upon Jim Wilson that they were faced by a maniac. His
eyes met those of Frank Brooks and they were--on this point at least--in
complete agreement. A working procedure sprang up, unworded, between
them. Jim Wilson took a slow, casual step toward the homicidal maniac.
"You didn't see anyone else?" Frank asked.
Davis ignored the question. "Look at it this way," he said. "In the old
days they had Texas long horns. Thin stringy cattle that gave up meat as
tough as leather. Do we have cattle like that today? No. Because we bred
out the weak line."