I was in midair, leaping off the counter. I slammed against her back as she fired. The bullet tore a hole in the floor. Then the two of us hit the hard floor and rolled. She swung the revolver at my face, but this time I blocked the blow. I knocked the gun from her hand.
They say you're not supposed to punch women. But right then, I wasn't about to let that worry me.
My hand still stung from the punch. The woman lay on the floor, out cold.
Lester was on the phone, calling for an ambulance.
I was down on my knees, making sure that the frightened man was OK. I hadn't bothered tending to his leg---the woman's bullet had passed through it clean, taking out nothing but splinters. She had hit the wooden one.
I looked up when the screen door squeaked open.
The big man stared down at us. His mouth dropped open. "What the . . . !" He rushed forward and fell to the floor beside us. "Gimpy!" he said to the man on the floor. "Are you all right, old pal? What happened?"
"Some crazy old woman shot me," Gimpy said. He squinted his one eye and looked confused.
"Elsie Thompson," I said and nodded toward where the woman lay.
Joe Lowry stared at her. "Name rings a bell, but . . ."
"It should," I said. "You left her for Mom. She came in here to kill you, Dad."
