doing it again." He got off the stool and stood levelling the gun at Barker's white-shirted chest, someplace below the small bow tie, and to the left. His hand shook. "It's not too late to kill you."

"Vern," Barker began, "if your life has been-"

Then the door opened. A plump, brown-skinned young woman stood there in a neat, crisp cotton house-dress. Her hair was tied up in a scarf because it was pinned in curlers. She held a little boy in a romper suit. Her dark eyes widened.

"What's going on here? Barker, are you?"

Vern turned. Naturally he turned. And this time Barker was ready. He lunged across the counter, striking hard at the hand holding the gun. It fell with a clatter and skidded across the yellow waxed floor. And suddenly from behind the young woman's skirts darted a small boy in patched and faded levis. He fell on the gun, picked it up, waved it, turning around, proud, grinning.

"Hey, look, it's real! Look at me. I'm Matt Dillon."

"Dickie, be careful of that." The woman started toward him. Barker started toward him. Only Vern failed to move. He simply stood staring.

The small, bright-painted room filled up, suddenly, with children, running, skidding, yelling-big kids, little kids. And all of them were the image either of the brown-skinned girl or of Barker. Oh, there was some of Barker in every one of them either the cocky grin, or the wonderfully curly hair, or the tilted nose with the brown freckles across it, or the wide-set eyes with long lashes. A couple of them had all these features.

"Are

"Hey, Mister, this your gun? Is it really real?"

"Who are you?" This little girl had pigtails and she tugged at his pants leg. you the Sheriff or something?"

"I'm not the Sheriff," Vern said, stiff-faced.

"It's my friend, Vern." Barker looked gravely into his eyes. "An old friend. I haven't seen him for a long time. Even before I met your mother. Vern, this is my wife, Marie. And this is my family. My kids: Ace, Wanda, Teresa, Dickie okay, give me the gun, Dickie Bobby, Tina. And that's little Jeff."

Marie came forward with little Jeff still on her arm, her eyes still puzzled, but not hostile-warm and reassuring. "Hello, Vern." Her hand was small but firm when she took his.

"Listen," Barker asked her, "what is all this? Why aren't they home in bed? Hey, get away from that sugar, now. No, you can't have a Coke.'

"We decided we had to see that Disney thing at the drive-in. We voted on it." Marie smiled wanly. "I lost."

"You were outnumbered." Barker handed the gun back to Vern. "Come on, let's get out of here." He hung up his apron, shrugged into a jacket, snapped off the lights, and herded the shadowy, skittering kids out on to the sidewalk. Their mother led them to a battered station-wagon at the curb. "Will you come along, have a drink?"

"No." Vern shook his head. He had not moved from beside the counter. He stood like a scarecrow in the dark.

"I've got a reason." Barker was a trim silhouette in the doorway. His voice was earnest. "I'd like you to see that life doesn't have to be like you say yours is."

"Sure, not if you're Barker Thomas. Lucky. Always land on your feet, don't you? By now, tonight, you should be dead. If I was in your shoes, I would have been. But not you—you've got the luck."

He stared down for a moment, thoughtfully, weighing the gun in his hand. Then, with a sigh, he slipped it back into his jacket pocket. But suddenly he