A Song In The Dark by P. N. Elrod Page B

smartly into the next guy’s gut. Both men dropped just that fast, and I rounded on another, giving him a low and mean bunt just under his rib cage. Half the opposition now lay on the snow, either unconscious or gasping for air. Hoyle had been alert for trouble, though, and spun with his gun raised. A joyous sneer lit up his narrow mug as he recognized me. I had a perfect view directly up the short barrel of his gun. At ten feet it was a cannon.
    He immediately fired, point-blank. Three shots as quick as he could pull the trigger.
    He had good aim, holding the muzzle steady on my unmoving form, the sound sharp yet toylike under the wide sky. The smoke was swept away by the icy wind, and for a few crucial seconds I had to fight its force to keep from being carried off as well. I’d surrendered just enough solidity so the bullets passed right through my near-ghostly body, spanging hollow into the barn’s tin walls behind. Being just outside the nimbus of the light, I gambled that I could get away with such a risky stunt in front of witnesses.
    Strome belatedly grabbed Hoyle’s arm, and they wrestled and danced, cursing. The remaining two guys, Ruzzo, stared at me, probably because I should have been falling down and wasn’t. Instead, I charged them, yelling and swinging the bat and moving a hell of a lot faster thananything they’d ever remotely experienced. Then they were also on the ground with their friends, not being any further problem.
    I stepped into Strome and Hoyle’s rumba and plucked the gun clear before Hoyle could shoot either of them. That didn’t stop his fighting. My cracking one of his legs with the bat did. He broke off fast with a high scream, clutching his shin. It wasn’t broken, but the bone would be bruised. I’d felt the impact through the length of the bat and judged he’d be limping for a week. Good payback for the knock he must have landed on me earlier.
    â€œYou summabitch, you busted—ah, Jesus God!”
    He went on like that for a while, loudly expressing pain and outrage. Strome, huffing to get his breath back, kept an eye on him while I made the rounds of the others. One of them was recovered enough to fumble for his gun, but I whacked his wrist with the bat, then tapped him lightly on the forehead. Lightly for me, anyway. He hit the snow and stayed there. It was obvious they were in no condition for a counterattack.
    I shoved Hoyle’s gun into my belt. The barrel was hot. It struck me then just how quick he’d been to shoot. There’d been no hesitation, no thought of the consequences to hold him back from killing me. He either had a grudge on that was beyond restraint or must have done his thinking beforehand and made up his mind then what to do if we ever crossed. I barely knew the guy, so it was disturbing to have inspired such a reaction in a stranger, but not unexpected given this kind of work.
    Hoyle sat flat in the snow, clutching his leg, still cursing, but in a lower, more dangerous voice. Having passed through the initial agony, his invective was for me, not his pain. His threats were basic and brutal and nothing I’d notheard before from other guys. He was a rangy, long-boned specimen whose loose-jointed manner of walking might be mistaken for clumsiness, but he was one of the rare ones who could instantly pull himself in quick and tight to surprise an overconfident opponent. I’d heard from Gordy that Hoyle had been in the ring about ten years back, but got thrown out because of a betting scandal. It left him soured on boxing, but he’d never forgotten his training and still looked fit and granite-solid. Strome had taken a hell of a chance mixing with him.
    I looked down at Hoyle. He shot pure hatred right back. I grabbed hunks of his overcoat and hauled him up. He piled an iron fist into me. It was a short swing; he didn’t have enough room to really get behind it, but sheer muscle made the blow