As soon as Curly's gun hammered its sound across the rooftop, Mark's left thigh felt as though it had been torn from its socket. Bleeding and off-balance, he grabbed at the ridge-piece and hung on. Then he saw that handsome face, that forward hunching of big shoulders, coming around the chimney. Curly lunged, hand flashing down, pistol weighted. "Last bullet I had," he chuckled. "Now I'll make you acquainted with the barrel . . ."