A moment later someone screamed, “I’m done. I’m comin’ out. Don’t do any more—don’t do any more.”
Fenner didn’t move. “Come on out, with your mitts high.”
A man came staggering out of the blazing cabin. His face and hands were cut with flying glass, and his clothes were almost all torn off. He stood swaying in the flickering light of the flames, and Fenner saw that it was Miller. He came out from behind the drum, his lips just off his teeth.
Schaife came running up, his thin face alight with excitement. “Any more of them?” he asked.
Miller said, “The others are dead—don’t touch me, mister.”
Fenner reached out and grabbed him by his tattered shirt. “I thought I settled your little hash a while back,” he said unpleasantly.
Miller gave at the knees when he recognized Fenner. “For God’s sake, don’t start on me!” he blubbered.
Fenner curled him with his free hand. “Who else’s in there?” he said. “Come on, canary, sing!”
Miller stood trembling and shuddering. “There ain’t any more,” he whined. “They’re all dead.”
Alex came running up. Fenner said to him, “Take care of this guy. Treat him nicely. He’s had a nasty shock.”