My foe jumps out and runs at me back-bent. Don’t move, don’t move, he says. All hisses and curses. Stands on my hand and says, you move, you dead. Just move that hand one inch, you dead. I believe him. I look up and his dark and bitter face looking down. Strange eyes and face all puckered with scars. Looks like the world’s worst tailor stitched him. Still the guns blasting away and then suddenly silence and then voices. You move, you dead, the man says again. I’m surprised even by his mercy so far. Why don’t he just kill me? But men are strange and killing men are stranger.
