The hell of it is, we're not even fighting back. Why, he thought in amazement, we're not even trying any more.
"Dead-Eye," he asked suddenly. "What are we running away for?"
Dead-Eye's slumped figure straightened suddenly. "Gee, Cap, I was wondering when you'd begin wondering about that. You ain't been acting natural at all. We never ran away from a fight before. Let's go knock 'em dead right now, huh, Cap?"
Wing looked at Elizabeth, strapped snugly to Dead-Eye's left hip, then at his own two empty bandaged hands.
"Well, Dead-Eye, here, as your owlhoot pard would say, 'here goes nuttin'."
Not for many days had Curt Wing felt such a sense of peace and relief as he did that moment when he turned back toward the unknown and implacable enemy. Deep inside he was chuckling. It was silly for the two of them to march against the shadows. Silly, sure, his proud spirit admitted, but wasn't that the way of man?
Wasn't it man's way to thumb his nose at impossibilities and forge ahead? It wasn't a matter of winning, really, but having the guts to go ahead and try.
Dead-Eye snapped open the cylinder of his powder gun, observed candidly: "I hope I don't get rattled again and try to shoot my toes off. Those six slugs jerked out of Elizabeth so fast before that there explosion I couldn't even control her at all."
They moved back deeper into hell.
All around them buildings, trees, streets and sidewalks were being flung about as the power of the shadows smashed. The rain was coming down in torrents now, and the two of them could barely see a few feet ahead.