Ferd caught him, supported him just long enough for the other to shake his head in an attempt to clear it.

Swinging almost as wildly as the charging locals now, the two shuffled backward toward the swinging doors.

“I’ll try to hold them,” Ferd yelled. “Get the car door open!”

It was the obvious strategy. Bat turned quickly and made a dash for it. In the street, he straight-armed one of the loungers who had been outside and who was now coming up on the run, obviously attracted by the sounds of the battle. Another was coming from the opposite direction, a smallish youngster probably not out of his teens. However, Bat Hardin had neither time nor patience for compassion. He slugged the younger man in the face, putting him down, and tore his car keys from his pocket. He fumbled at the door’s lock, and felt arms grasping him from the rear. He reached back, snagged an arm and threw the other brutally over his shoulder in the old wrestler’s favorite hold, the Flying Mare.

Ferd Zogbaum erupted from the cantina and slammed the doors back into the faces of the enraged enemy.

The car door was open. Bat Hardin darted in and snaked across the seat to the driver’s position. Ferd was still holding the rapidly emerging local citizens, his arms swinging like windmills. Bat reached out and grabbed him by the belt and pulled him bodily inside in a sprawl.

The car began to move forward. Bat deliberately held down his speed so as not to seriously harm the two or three of the enemy who were immediately ahead, trying to stop him. They scurried to either side as he slowly speeded up. A few were already heaving rocks, which bounded off the car’s side.

Ferd had finally managed to sit erect and now slammed shut the still open door on his side. “Fun and games!” he yelped. “Get us the hell out of here, Bat. If any of those jokers are heeled, we’ve had it.”