There was a rumbling multiple explosion. Blinding light reflected from the walls of the house. A few tiles crashed to the court. Pete caught his breath again and risked an upward glance.
A tall pillar of flame had grown from the field outside. For long moments, it stood motionless, searching for a limit to the sky. Then it darkened. Smoke drifted toward the ranch house and bits of wreckage rained down upon house and field alike. Little puffs of smoke appeared in the sky, close by the still rising cloud.
"Pinwheel," said Don calmly. "That's one Dad couldn't beat if he tried. Wish he'd been around to see it." Suddenly, his forced calm deserted him.
"Oh, boy," he yelled happily. "Like shooting snakes in a pit." He shoved his rifle back through the port.
"Try to wreck our house, will you, you bums!"
A figure wobbled up from the field, weapon weaving unsteadily toward the wall. The rifle snapped viciously and the figure melted back into the ground.
There was another motion and a sudden spurt of dust followed immediately after the sound of a shot. The motion ceased.
The sound of the click of the rifle action was loud against the silence of the scene.
No more figures moved. Bright flames were growing—working toward one another, to form a widening lake of flame in the grass. Don sighed and started pulling the sling from his arm. Pete stood up, looking at him.