“Like hell! Come off that porch.”
Mark Clayton holstered his gun, as the old man started to obey Regan. It was evident that the old man carried no arms of any kind.
“Drop that gun, Regan!”
Regan’s head jerked sidewise enough for him to see Dawn Conley and the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun. She was not over a dozen feet away. He dropped his gun. Clayton stood perfectly still. Dawn had circled the house and come in almost behind them. Now she moved closer, holding the big gun easily in her two hands, the first finger of her right hand crooked around a trigger.
“Take their guns, Dad,” she said huskily.
Clayton made no objection as Conley removed the gun from his holster. He knew what a shotgun would do at short range, and he had no desire to be picked up in chunks.
The old man took Regan’s gun and stepped back to the edge of the porch. Dawn went slowly to him and laid the gun on the porch floor.
“Where do you keep the shells for this gun, Dad?” she asked. “I looked all over for them.”
“There ain’t any, Dawn,” he said. “I’ve been goin’ to buy some, but I put it off.”
“Wasn’t loaded, eh?” gritted Regan.