A man was stepping out into the street, a man who carried a gun in hand and suddenly Meek realized they were abreast of the Silver Moon.
The armed man was Blacky Hoffman.
Here, thought Meek, is where I get it. This is what I get for playing the big shot ... for being a smart alec, for remembering how cards shouldn't be dealt and for shooting a man's gun out of his hand and letting myself be talked into being a marshal.
But he sat stiff and as straight as he could on the Prowler and kept his eyes on Hoffman. That was the only way to do. That was the way all the heroes did in the stories he had read. And doggone, he was a hero. Whether he liked it or not, he was one.
The street was hushed with sudden tension and the very air seemed to be crackling with the threat of direful happenings.
Hoffman's voice rang crisply through the stillness.
"Go for your blasters, Meek!"
"I have no blasters," Meek told him calmly. "Your hoodlums took them from me."
"Borrow Stiffy's," snapped Hoffman, and added, with a nasty laugh: "You won't need them long."
Meek nodded, watching Hoffman narrowly. Slowly he reached back for Stiffy's gun. He felt it in his hand, wrapped his fingers tightly around it.