The reflex I'd hoped for was Vance's instinctive yank on the trigger of that .45. Instead he moved to the side, swung his upper torso around, and fired point-blank at me.
His slug scorched along my ribs under the left arm, a leaden chunk of fire; I fell sideways and snapped a shot back at him. It was luck; I blew in his eye and tore out the back of his head.
He fell on top of me, and I squirmed around and shoved his body away.
At the sound of the shots every Old Companion leaped forward. That saved my skin. I hurled Vance off me, leaped up, and ran on to catch the Neanderthals, my torn side shrieking in pain.
A form cut across before me and a hand clamped on my arm while our forward charge continued. Skagarach's fox-face dipped sidelong toward me and he said, "What was it? Who did it?"
"I think it was Cuff," I panted.
"What?"
"Looked like him. Whoever it was, he scored on me."
"Bad?"
"Not very."