Driving back, I was preoccupied, hardly conscious of the little car's deft progress over the slick roads. It was almost with a feeling of detached interest that I saw the black skid-marks at the bottom of the hill—then, with chill shock, the dark bulk of the sedan on its side in the ditch.
I was slowing when a flashlight beam raked outward from the car, showing crumpled metal and broken headlights. One figure, perhaps two, were standing behind it. Another one, a man in a trenchcoat, mud-splattered almost to his hips, was walking onto the road in front of me, flagging me down.
"Get out of that car!"
There were exasperation and rage in his voice, an expression of utter fury on his face. He stood just at the edge of my headlights' glare, not directly in it, with his hands thrust deep in his pockets.
There was that. There was the speed of the sedan, as evidenced by its skid-marks. My mind leaped instantly to one nerve-shattering conclusion—
And I felt absolutely calm. I can't explain that. It may have been that the night's events had already drained me of tense emotion.
They're armed, I thought, but so am I! And I have a weapon that can get them all with one sweep—
This, while I opened the door and climbed out. While I thrust my hand into my own pocket.
I whipped out the little pistol.
One instant, he was standing still, hands thrust in the wet trenchcoat. The next, a heavy revolver exploded at his hip. A sledgehammer caught me in the right side, knocked me reeling.