He reached under his shirt, his loose cotton barong, and pulled out Baby's .45. It was the gun I had held and fired at Correon's backyard range.

     The brush hid Nonoy. I was in the gully, almost completely out of sight. The four of them came walking, tramping. Nonoy's hand kneaded the .45. They were walking toward us, yards distant, feet distant; walking; passing.

     Nonoy stood.

     He didn't bring the gun up; kept it at his side. I watched this over the tops of the brush, in the swinging light of the flare. The four of them had passed us already, but Nonoy's rising stopped them and swung their heads around. The kid with the shotgun, at the end of the line, was now closest to him.

     Luis said, “'Noy.”

     Nonoy began to raise the gun, much too slowly. He got it up and held it at the end of his rigid arm, as if it were a viper. He had probably never held a gun. He swung the gun past three of them, and it seemed to settle on Baby.

     Luis said, “'Noy.”

     Baby said, “Shit,” and bolted down the path. The pistol in Nonoy's hands swung to follow him, and Baby ran, and Nonoy kept pointing the pistol but didn't fire.

     His face was contorted. He was in agony.

     Luis raised his own gun, and it roared. Nonoy flew off his feet and did a dead man's pratfall back into the gully, splayed out beside me.

     Baby kept running down the path.

     Nobody had seen me yet through the brush. Luis said a word, and gaunt-face came toward the gully. He came closer, using his shotgun to part the undergrowth. He bent and picked up Nonoy's pistol where it had fallen, and put it in his pocket and kept coming. With a look of mild curiosity and contempt, he stepped to the edge of the