How could he, Grawson asked himself, have managed to fire before Frank?

Dashing, swift Frank, splendid figure on a horse, laughing, supple as a whip, booted, debonair, gallant Frank-my brother. Frank is my choice, had said Clare. I have always watched out for Frank, said Lester Grawson to himself. He was what I should have been. I loved Frank, said Grawson. I loved Frank. Grawson’s fists clenched and unclenched. I love him! Grawson could feel the side of his face move. He didn’t like that. His face did that sometimes. And I loved Clare, said Grawson. So I must do this. For Frank, who would have wanted it. For Clare, who wants it. For-and Grawson looked at the slender, solemn Edward Chance, young but old-and he wants it, said Grawson to himself. He wants it! He won’t run. A lamb. Blood on the hoofs. This lamb who shot my brother dead. He wants it.

“Are you all right?”

The voice came from far away.

It was Chance’s voice.

“It’s damn hot tonight,” said Grawson.

“Yes,” said Chance.

They had walked for some time when Chance turned left again.

Halfway down the street, between two four-story brick buildings, Grawson saw the alley. The yellow light of a street lamp flickered like a moth’s wing on the bricks.

There, said Grawson to himself, there.

Like an avenging eagle with arrows in its claws.

As they passed the alley Grawson’s hands seized the collar of Chance’s coat and hurled him into the darkness against the bricks, and Chance struck the wall and reeled along the wall, turning twice, kicking over a garbage can and sending a startled cat screeching down the dark corridor.

Grawson cursed at the noise.

Chance moaned, his hands going to his head, and slipped to the surface of the alley, and Grawson sent a kick into the stomach of the huddled coat slumped at his feet; then he jerked it to a sitting position and hand in its hair struck the head once against the bricks. Then again. Chance shook his head, his hands groping out.