* * * * * The man in the Legion cap said, "You best give me that gun, fella. I can handle it." "So can I," said Mickey Groff. He wasn't nasty about it; but the man in the Legion cap shrugged and let it go. "This the place?" Groff asked as the car stopped. "This is the place." The Legionnaire scowled worriedly. "They took all the boats across the river. You see anything over there?" Groff got out of the car and looked. It was full dark now, and the river was wide. There were lights of some kind on the opposite bank, but he couldn't have told you what they were. Flashlights and electric lanterns, most likely. But they looked a little bit close. Groff ordered, "Turn the car to the right. Put the brights on." The Legionnaire cramped the wheels around and inched forward. He kicked the button of the highway-beam headlights. "They're coming, all right," said Groff. Shapes were lying on the water, punctuated with hand lights. "Sons of bitches," said the Legionnaire bitterly. "Now there'll be hell to pay. Four of us against every goddam goon on the river--and Harry and me ain't even got guns." "Take it easy, Walt," Murphy said. But in the reflection from the headlights Groff could see his face was worried. Murphy, who had appointed himself in charge of the detail, sent the Legionnaire named Walt after the Legionnaire named Harry; and he disposed them as best he could. Groff got the place of honor--he had a gun. He was put on the end of a little loading jetty; Murphy took a position on a floating landing platform; Walt and Harry were left to stand by the car, to keep the lights on the boats. And the boats came on, four of them, put-putting through the water in convoy formation. Funny, thought Groff abstractedly; if I were them I'd come ashore upstream a little way. This is the natural place for deputies to be waiting for them. If they used their heads they'd know that, and they'd come ashore somewhere else-- He thanked his lucky stars that the goons evidently were not using their heads. Harry, behind the wheel of the car, was making a fantastic amount of racket grinding gears, racing the motor, shifting back and forth to pick out one boat after another with the headlights. Damn fool, thought Groff aggrievedly. He could hardly hear the deputy named Murphy shouting at the approaching boats. There was some kind of answer from them, but he couldn't make that out at all. But they were getting close. Groff carefully dropped to one knee, rested his hand with the revolver in it on the railing of the jetty, and took aim at the lead boat. How long had it been since he'd fired the pistol-dismounted qualifying range? Nearly fifteen years, he guessed; it was in the first few months of basic training, and always after that it had been a carbine or an M-1. Somebody was coming up behind him. Good God, he thought, they've made another landing! He started to turn.