She caught Thatch’s hand a second time and applied a finger grip, a submission hold. He was obviously the one she had to subdue; Gus was not even trying to help his friend.

“Now I want off this bus!” she gasped.

Thatch was adamant “No.”

“I can break your finger.”

Still the fool would not give way. “You don’t understand.”

She put pressure on his hand and saw him whiten behind the tenuously hanging glasses. “Yes. Off!”

He shook his head, and finally the glasses fell. “No!”

She realized suddenly, and by no obscure intuition, that she could break his finger—and still it would not change his mind. He was impervious to compulsion. Yet obviously it was not sex that drove him; even in confused combat she could tell the difference between self defense and lascivious attack. He would have been more effective had he been less scrupulous about where he touched her. But he was one of those odd types who would not submit to pain. A masochist, possibly. He would keep coming after her, coming after her, as long as he was able.

“Gus only meant to help,” Thatch gasped. “We can’t let you go until you know the story—for your own good.”

She was twisting his finger off, yet instead of screaming the agony she knew he felt he was trying to reason with her! “I know enough of the story,” she said. “Two men pick up one girl—”

“To save you from the flood!” Gus cried, sitting up. She couldn’t hold them both off much longer, if Gus became active. In a moment she would have to make another break for it. First, the gun—

Her actions under stress often preceded her thoughts. She let go of Thatch and snatched up the weapon. Both men regained their feet and stood looking at her. They were disheveled and wet in patches from the struggle, but seemed more concerned than afraid.

“Maybe we’d better let her off,” Thatch said. He had recovered his glasses, the lenses miraculously unbroken.