While Claire was very sick with fear, then more sick with contempt, Milt
squealed, "You win!" And he had dropped back. The Gomez was going on
alone.

There was only one thing more for Claire--to jump. And that meant death.

The tough was storming, "Your friend's a crack shot--with his mouth!"

The thin pit-pit-pit was coming again. She looked back. She saw Milt's
bug snap forward so fast that on a bump its light wheels were in the
air. She saw Milt standing on the right side of the bug holding the
wheel with one hand, and the other hand--firm, grim, broad-knuckled
hand--outstretched toward the tough, then snatching at his collar.

The tough's grip was torn from the steering wheel. He was yanked from
the running-board. He crunched down on the road.

She seized the wheel. She drove on at sixty miles an hour. She had gone
a good mile before she got control of her fear and halted. She saw Milt
turn his little car as though it were a prancing bronco. It seemed to
paw the air with its front wheels. He shot back, pursuing the late
guest. The man ran bobbing along the road. At this distance he was no
longer formidable, but a comic, jerking, rabbity figure, humping himself
over the back track.

As the bug whirled down on him, the tough was to be seen throwing up his
hands, leaping from the high bank.

Milt turned again and came toward them, but slowly; and after he had
drawn up even and switched off the engine, he snatched off his violent
plaid cap and looked apologetic.

"Sorry I had to kid him along. I was afraid he really would drive you
off the bank. He was a bad actor. And he was right; he could have licked
me. Thought maybe I could jolly him into getting off, and have him
pinched, next town."

"But you had a gun--a revolver--didn't you, lad?" panted Mr. Boltwood.

"Um, wellllll---- I've got a shotgun. It wouldn't take me more 'n five
or ten minutes to dig it out, and put it together. And there's some
shells. They may be all right. Haven't looked at 'em since last fall.
They didn't get so awful damp then."

"But suppose he'd had a revolver himself?" wailed Claire.

"Gee, you know, I thought he probably did have one. I was scared blue. I
had a wrench to throw at him though," confided Milt.

"How did you know we needed you?"

"Why back there, couple miles behind you, maybe I saw your father get up
and try to wrestle him, so I suspected there was kind of a disagreement.
Say, Miss Boltwood, you know when you