"Take it easy, Walt," Murphy said. But in the reflection from the headlights Groff could see his face was worried.
Murphy, who had appointed himself in charge of the detail, sent the Legionnaire named Walt after the Legionnaire named Harry; and he disposed them as best he could. Groff got the place of honor—he had a gun. He was put on the end of a little loading jetty; Murphy took a position on a floating landing platform; Walt and Harry were left to stand by the car, to keep the lights on the boats.
And the boats came on, four of them, put-putting through the water in convoy formation. Funny, thought Groff abstractedly; if I were them I'd come ashore upstream a little way. This is the natural place for deputies to be waiting for them. If they used their heads they'd know that, and they'd come ashore somewhere else—
He thanked his lucky stars that the goons evidently were not using their heads.
Harry, behind the wheel of the car, was making a fantastic amount of racket grinding gears, racing the motor, shifting back and forth to pick out one boat after another with the headlights. Damn fool, thought Groff aggrievedly. He could hardly hear the deputy named Murphy shouting at the approaching boats. There was some kind of answer from them, but he couldn't make that out at all.
But they were getting close.
Groff carefully dropped to one knee, rested his hand with the revolver in it on the railing of the jetty, and took aim at the lead boat. How long had it been since he'd fired the pistol-dismounted qualifying range? Nearly fifteen years, he guessed; it was in the first few months of basic training, and always after that it had been a carbine or an M-1.
Somebody was coming up behind him.
Good God, he thought, they've made another landing! He started to turn.
It was the man Walt, grabbing for the gun. "Leggo, you!" he panted, clutching at the revolver. "If you're too yellow to shoot let me have it!"