"Nobody ever proved a thing on me," Joe Braun guffawed.
"No! Or you'd be at the bottom of some crater," Crag retorted. "This time you've slipped."
"Think so, feller? Think you'll be reportin' this?"
Ron's flesh crept. There were few men on Luna who would match flame with this black-bearded killer. Those luckless ones who had challenged him were now piled at the bottom of various craters.
Crag stared at the black shadow protecting his adversary, gripping his gun. But he knew there would be nothing to shoot at unless Braun shot first, revealing his position. And Joe was no fool even when he faced a greenhorn from Earth. Crag was at bay here in the concealing shadow, helpless, trapped, and calling for help was out of the question. The radarphone would not carry to the nearest terradome.
The catatread! If he could make a dash for the catatread, reach it and throw a light beam into the shadows he could burn the other to a crisp with the large, swivel gun. But then a wave of despondency blacked out his thoughts. It was too far to the vehicle. Even with the lighter gravity of Luna to hold him back, his space suit was heavy and cumbersome, and he could never make it before Joe Braun would throw at least three shots in him. He would be a clay pigeon.
Suddenly he realized the hopelessness of his predicament. He could never match flame with Joe Braun. Ron Crag knew he did not have a chance in an open duel with the ruthless killer.
"What'sa matter, son, afraid?" came the taunt through his headset.
"I guess you know what the penalty is for claim jumping?" Crag snapped. "To say nothing of attempted murder?"
"Shore I do," Joe Braun laughed. "A great big posse'll hunt me down and toss me into a bottomless crater. That's what happens to claim jumpers as gets caught. And you'll get a big, fat reward, huh, sonny?"