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brother.
    “Sure,” Roy grinned. “What of it?”
    Steve steadied himself.
    “You’ve taken the accelerator head. Better hand it over, Roy.”
    ““I’m keeping it. I told you to leave the twist, didn’t I? Well, you’ve got her on your hands now. No one’s coming here while I’m around, and no one’s leaving here until I say so.”
    Steve clenched his fists.
    “Look, Roy, I don’t know what’s on your mind, but you’re not getting away with this. Hand over the switch or I’ll take it. I don’t want to get tough, but I’m not standing any more nonsense from you.”
    “Yeah?” Roy said, stepping back. “Then what do you think of this?” A gun suddenly jumped into his hand: an ugly-looking, blunt-nosed .38 automatic. “Still got the same ideas?” he asked, pointing the gun at his brother’s chest.
    Steve stepped back, his mouth tightening.
    “Have you gone crazy?” he demanded. “Put that gun away.”
    “It’s time you got wise,” Roy said, speaking in a harsh low voice. “Get this straight: I’d think no more of plugging you than I’d think of treading on a beetle. Nuts to this brother stuff. To me you’re just another dumb hick. One move out of turn and you’ll get it.” He backed away, hoisted himself up on the verandah rail, holding the gun loosely in his hand. “You may as well know it now. I’m in a jam: that’s why I’m here. This dump’s tailor-made as a hide-out. No one would think of looking for me here. And no Doc Fleming is coming out here to tell all his goddamn patients he’s seen me. That’s the way it is, and you’re going to like it. You and the twist will stay here until I’m ready to pull out. And don’t try any tricks. I’m fast with this rod. Bigger guys than you have found that out.”
    Steve had recovered from his first startled surprise, but he could still not believe his brother was serious.
    “Why, this is crazy, Roy,” he said. “I’ve got to get the Doc to the girl. Now come on, give me the switch and let me get off.”
    “Still dumb?” Roy sneered. “Listen: I’ve worked for Little Bernie’s mob. Mean anything to you?”
    Steve had read of Little Bernie: he was the modern edition of Johnny Dillinger.
    “What do you mean?” he asked. “Little Bernie’s a killer— wanted by the police.”
    Roy laughed.
    “For the last year I’ve been sticking up banks,” he said. “Made a lotta dough. I carried a gun for Bernie. It paid well.”
    “So that’s it,” Steve said, shocked and disgusted. “I might have guessed you’d hook up with a gang. You always were a weak fool, Roy.”
    Roy slid the gun back into his shoulder holster.
    “I’ve done all right,” he said. “Maybe I’m in trouble now, but it won’t last long and then I’ll spend the dough I’ve put by. I’m not like you, you hick, buried out in the wilds, surrounded by a lot of foxes. I know how to live.”
    Steve moved slowly towards him.
    “You’d better give me that gun,” he said quietly.
    Roy grinned; his hand suddenly flashed to the holster and there was a spurt of flame. The sharp crack of the gun set up echoes across the lake. Something buzzed past Steve’s ear.
    “I could pop one through your thick skull just as easy,” Roy said, “and I’ll do it if you try anything funny. So now you know,” and he turned and lounged into the living-room, dropped into an easy chair.
    Steve stood hesitating in the sunshine. He realized now that Roy meant what he said, but his thoughts were not for himself, but for the girl lying unconscious on his bed. He’d have to do something for her at once now Doc Fleming wasn’t to come, and he was thankful he had a first-aid outfit and knew how to use it.
    As he passed through the sitting-room, Roy drawled: “And I’ve locked up your pop-guns. I’ll do all the shooting around here from now on.”
    Steve ignored him, went into his bedroom where the girl was lying. He examined the cut at the back of her head, then fetched his