The second man had dropped on all fours, and his hand hit the deck with a thud when the gun was kicked beyond reach of his fingers. Fenton reversed his own gun and clobbered the unsuccessful weapon snatcher across the back of his skull with a blow that flattened him out almost at his companion's side.
The big detective was breathing harshly when he straightened, his face very white and looked with concern at Hansen, who was moaning and slumping a little in a straight-backed chair, with a swelling ugly-looking bruise on his right forehead. One eye was half-closed, and his breathing was harsher than Fenton's.
Fenton bent and gripped him firmly by the shoulders, easing him into a less strained position. "Take it easy," he cautioned. "Just lean back and don't try to talk for a minute. You're going to be all right."
"Thanks," Hansen muttered, disregarding the advice. "They ... slugged me twice. Felt like the whole top of my head was coming off the second time."
Fenton nodded. "They were just being gentle," he said. "I know the breed. Each time they hit you a little harder and they don't stop until you black out. But they do it the slow way, even when it's the butt of a gun they slug you with. They keep hoping you'll talk...."
"They were going to kill me," Hansen said.
"I know. I heard them talking from just up above."
"Thank God for that," the young man breathed.
"Yes. I'm glad I could get here in time."
He turned and swept the cabin with his eyes. The two kidnappers were still out.