He fired first at a group of three, and one of the three crumpled down as though his skull had been crushed from above.

A rifle spat back at him and the bullet sang like a ripping cloth close over his head.

He dropped to his knees before he fired again, and a bullet clove the air where he had stood.

The crack of rifles did not hurry him.

He knew that he had six cartridges, and only six, and he aimed deliberately.