Without a question Tharon stood up and buckled the belt about her slender waist.
Her father raising himself with difficulty on an elbow, wet his lips.
“Tharon, my girl,” he said, “show your dad th’ backhand flip.”
Strange play, this, when every second counted, but Last’s daughter obeyed him to the letter.
She stepped clear by the table, stood at attention a second, and, with a peculiar outward whirl, lightning-quick, of her two wrists, had him covered with the big blue guns.
He nodded.
“Good as I learned ye,” he whispered, “make it better.”
“I will,” promised Tharon swiftly.
The man closed his eyes, swayed, recovered as Conford caught him, and brightened again.
“Now th’ under-sling.”