Exactly the same.

You don't know where to look first.

I'll have to remember that and use it sometime, he told himself.

Christ, this is no time to think about your damn writing!

Took my mind off Uriah, though. At least for a while.

Long enough to get me the rest of the way to the top!

His head almost even with the rim of the embankment, he felt a great surge of relief.

You're not there yet, he told himself. This is when he gets you-- when safety's in easy reach.

He looked to the sides. He looked back. No Uriah.

I made it!

He chugged for the top.

Uriah was kneeling beside Pete.

Holding a stake against the middle of Pete's chest.

Swinging his hammer down.

Thirty-five

Larry didn't take aim. No time for that. He pointed and fired.

The man's head jerked sideways. Dropping the stake, he grabbed his cheek, glared at Larry with a single, mad eye, twisted on his knees and flung the hammer at him. Larry jumped out of the way. The hammer tumbled by, just missing his shoulder.

"Freeze!" he shouted.

Though he aimed his cocked revolver at the wildman, he held fire.

His first shot had been lucky. He didn't want to risk another. Not while his target was kneeling beside Pete.

But Uriah didn't freeze.

He didn't seem to care that a gun was aimed at him. Nor did he seem to care, anymore, about his wound. Blood spilled down both sides of his shaggy gray beard as he snatched the stake off the ground and leaped up and charged.

"Stop or I'll shoot!"

"Vampire!" he yelled, spraying blood from his mouth. He dashed straight at Larry, the stake raised in his right hand.

Larry fired.

The metal belly of Jesus caved in and the upper corner of the big wooden cross gouged Uriah's chest.

I hit Jesus! Christ saved Uriah.

Larry thumbed back the hammer, but he couldn't pull the trigger.

As Uriah bore down on him, he flung up his left arm to ward off the stake and whipped the barrel of his gun against the man's temple. The gun discharged. Hair and flecks of bloody flesh flew off the side of Uriah's head.

Larry was slammed to the ground by the man's limp weight. As his breath was knocked out, he drove his knees up. They jammed into Uriah's belly.

The vampire killer tumbled over Larry.

From the sound of him, he kept on tumbling.

Larry crawled to the rim and saw Uriah plummeting down the slope-rolling, twisting, bouncing over rocks, smashing through bushes, arrows flying from his quiver, his limp arms and legs flapping. Near the bottom he skidded on his back, headfirst, until his shoulder struck a knob of granite. The impact jarred him to a stop that sent his legs swinging up. He did a backward somersault and landed facedown on the floor of the ravine. He lay there 'motionless.

Larry gazed down at him.

Finish him off It seemed to be Bonnie's voice. Do it for me. If you love me, kill him.

I can't.

If you don't care what he did to me, look at your friend Pete. Look what Uriah tried to do to you. He tried to kill you, too.

It would be easy, he realized. So easy to raise the revolver and empty it into the sprawled body.

Do it, the voice of Bonnie urged him.

But he thought about the way his bullet, fired point-blank at Uriah's chest, had been stopped by the crucifix. As if God Himself had intervened to protect the man.

God had nothing to do with it. Uriah was just lucky, that's all.

Finish him off, or you'll be sorry.

I've gotta get back to Pete.

Kill Uriah.

"No!" he blurted. Holstering his weapon, he turned away from the ravine. He snatched up his hat and hurried toward Pete.

You'll be sorry.

He dropped to his knees and sagged with relief when he heard Pete's raspy, gurgling breath. Out cold, but alive! Probably a broken nose. He looked like hell. The bridge of his nose was split and swollen.

His eyes were swollen. Below his nostrils his face was sheathed with blood. A string of red saliva hung from the corner of his mouth.

Larry shook him gently by the shoulder, wobbling his head. "Pete.

Pete, wake up."

Nothing.

Straddling him, Larry grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him into a sitting position. As his head came up, bloody drool flowed from his mouth. He coughed softly, spraying out more, but didn't come to.

Now what?

I'll have to carry him. There's no other choice.

What about his stuff?

Sighing, Larry eased him farther forward until he hung slumped over his own legs. He seemed fairly steady that way. Letting go, Larry gathered the nearby revolver and hat. The gun went into Pete's holster. Larry shoved the hat down on top of his Stetson.

He crouched over Uriah's canvas bag. It contained six wooden stakes, their ends whittled to points.

Bring it along?

Just an extra burden, he decided.

Straddling Pete, he again tried to shake him awake. Then he gave up and grabbed him under the arms and hoisted him. He crouched, wrestling with the body until it flopped over his shoulder. Hugging the backs of Pete's legs, he forced himself upright and started to walk.

He made his way forward, eyes on the distant row of buildings.

There seemed to be no passageways leading to the street. He would either have to lug Pete all the way around the end of town or take him through a window. His legs were already straining and shaky under the weight. It would have to be a window. Might as well be the one they'd climbed through when they went after Uriah.

Suddenly imagining Uriah rushing at him from the rear, he swung around and looked back.

Nobody there.

Probably still at the bottom of the slope, Larry told himself, and continued trudging toward the window.

He wondered if he had killed the man. The first bullet, he was pretty sure, had gone in one cheek and out the other. Certainly not fatal. The second bullet had buried itself in the crucifix or ricocheted off it. But the gun had discharged when he pounded Uriah with it. The bullet from that shot had struck the man's head. No telling what kind of damage it might've done. Maybe it only sliced across 'his scalp. Or it might've gone into his head. That one could've killed him.

At least I didn't finish him off, Larry told himself. If the guy died from that last shot, it was an accident. And self-defense.

Not that the cops are going to find out about any of this, he thought. Not if I can help it.

He was nearly to the window when Pete moaned and squirmed a little. He took another step, another.

"Uhhh. Put me down," Pete mumbled.

"Hang on." Larry staggered the final distance to the wall.

Crouching, he pressed his friend against it.

"Look out, man." Pete shoved him away, sank to his knees, hunched over and heaved bloody vomit. Then he hocked and spit out gobs of red mucus. When he finished, he stayed down, his head hanging. "Fuckin'

A," he mumbled.

"Are you all right?"

"Ohhh shit. You gotta be kidding." With one hand he fingered his face. "What happened?"

"Uriah clobbered you with a rock."

"I think my fuckin' nose is busted."

"Yeah."

"Feel like my head's split open."

"You hit a rock when you fell, too."

He moaned again. He touched the back of his head. Larry didn't see any blood in the hair.

"We'd better get you to a doctor."

"Fuck that. Take me to an undertaker." He pushed himself up and leaned against the wall. Holding the sides of his head, he squeezed his swollen eyes shut. "So what happened to Uriah?"

"He's down in the stream bed."

"Did one of us get him?"

"Sort of."

"Huh?" "It's a long story. Let's get to the car. I'll tell you about it later."

"Yeah, but is he dead, or what?"

"He might be. I don't know. Think you can get through the window okay?"

"Sure," he muttered.

Larry climbed into the building. There, he clutched Pete's arm and held him steady while he clambered over the sill. Keeping his grip, he led Pete through the shadowy room and out to the street.

The car was still resting on its jack.

The feathered shaft of an arrow jutted from the wall of the flat tire.

"Good thing we hadn't finished changing it," Larry said.

"Our lucky day," Pete muttered.

"It has been lucky."