Through slitted eyelids he saw two of his opponents fall away from the post. His dial said he was enduring more than either of them.
He turned his face toward the other man. Clenching their handles, they grimaced at each other. MacFarland's grip tightened. His needle moved. The other needle edged past it. They hung there moaning and shaking.
Oh God, he thought. Oh God. He made himself squeeze.
Twin shrieks cut the air. Both men released their handles and fell away from the pole. MacFarland staggered in circles, bent over, clutching his stomach, trying to turn off the pain.
"Are you all right?" Crawford Bell asked.
"Look after him," he answered, still fighting the duel.
"Look after him," he heard the other man moan.
Hands grabbed him and he straightened up. When he saw the pole, he flinched. He couldn't do that again.
He grabbed the mike. "You saw that," he mumbled. "Who's next? Who wants to do that next?"