“I am the law,” whispered Grawson. “The law!”

Grawson’s heavy hands closed on the throat of the stunned man. Chance’s fingers tried to pry apart the massive hands that clutched his throat.

Chance tried to slip down, his hands grasping for a weapon, a brick, stone, piece of glass, and closed on the handle of his bag.

The light of the street lamp became only a pinpoint in surging blackness.

Chance’s hand thrust into the bag and closed on the handle of the weapon.

Grawson, drunk with the kill as he might have been, heard the hammer click and felt the pressure of the steel barrel on his adam’s apple.

Sweat sprang out of every pore on the large man’s body and his hands released Chance’s throat. Chance struggled to his feet, not moving the pistol. His eyes were wild, bewildered.

“There is no warrant for my arrest,” said Chance.

Grawson held his hands out from his body, and backed away a step.

“No warrant,” said Chance. “No arrest.” Chance’s voice was no more than a tight whisper. His neck could still feel the talons of Grawson locked on it. The hangman’s noose, thought Chance. The hangman’s noose. “No arrest,” said Chance.

“You’re under arrest for murder,” said Grawson.

Chance shook his head. “No,” he said. “No.”

Grawson’s shovel-steel eyes glowed with pleasure. “Shoot,” he said.

Chance noticed that Grawson’s face seemed strangely quiet. His gaze was level. The face did not move. The movement was gone.

Chance shook his head. The pistol wavered in his grasp. “I can’t,” he said.

Grawson’s left eye suddenly jerked shut and opened and his face seemed contorted with rage.

“You’re a murderer,” he ‘said. “Shoot.” Grawson’s fists clenched. “You killed once-you’re a killer-shoot.”