"Nutty as a locoed steer," I said. "Been that way for a long time. An
ugly shrimp who hates everything--and now he's in the saddle holding
the reins, and some people are due to get rode down." I looked
curiously at him. "Look, professor--this telekinesis stuff--is all
that on the level?"
"Absolutely."
"He just _thinks_ his gun into his hand?"
"Exactly."
"Faster than anyone could ever draw it?"
"Inconceivably faster. The time element is almost non-existent."
I got up, feeling worse than I'd ever felt in my life. "Come on," I
said. "Let's see what happens."
As if there was any doubt about what was bound to happen.
We stepped out onto the porch and over to the rail. Behind us, I
heard Menner come out too. I looked over my shoulder. He'd wrapped a
towel around his head. Blood was leaking through it. He was looking at
Buck, hating him clear through.
* * * * *
The street was deserted except for Buck standing about twenty feet
away, and, at the far end, Sheriff Ben Randolph coming slowly toward
him, putting one foot ahead of the other in the dust.
A few men were standing on porches, pressed back against the walls,
mostly near doors. Nobody was sitting now--they were ready to
groundhog if lead started flying wild.
"God damn it," I said in a low, savage voice. "Ben's too good a man to
get kilt this way. By a punk kid with some crazy psychowhosis way of
handling a gun."