Fred slowly leveled the revolver.
"Now, Fred," said Carver, "there's an awful lot of them. Do you really think—"
Fred's thin body tightened and his finger grew taut and white on the trigger. Carver closed his eyes.
There was a moment of dead silence. Then the revolver exploded. Carver warily opened his eyes.
The medicine man was still erect, although his knees were shaking. Fred was pulling back the hammer of the revolver. The villagers had made no sound. It was a moment before Carver could figure out what had happened. At last he saw the Sweeper.
The Sweeper lay on his face, his outstretched left hand still clutching his twig broom, his legs twitching feebly. Blood welled from the hole Fred had neatly drilled through his forehead.
Deg bent over the Sweeper, then straightened. "He is dead," the medicine man said.
"That's just the first," Fred warned, taking aim at a hunter.
"No!" cried Deg.
Fred looked at him with raised eyebrows.