Castaways in Time by Adams Robert

Slipping an arm through the sling of his hot-barreled weapon, gasping with the exertion, he was feeling for his canteen when a section of the wall behind him fell away and several pairs of strong hands dragged him down, into blackness.

Shortly after Foster left his house, Arbor Collier passed out and her husband carried her up to the guest room, where she snored loudly enough for Krystal to hear above the sounds of the water in the sink and the rattling of the glasses and dishes she was washing.

Collier himself sat at the kitchen table, sipping at cold coffee. The shotgun lay on the tabletop, and thrust under his belt was a pistol he had found in the back of the gun cabinet.

As she let out the water and turned from the sink, wiping her hands, just about to speak her mind about how silly this entire gun business seemed to her, there was a booming report from somewhere beyond the big, stone building, followed, almost immediately, by two more.

Collier carefully set down his mug and grasped the ornate two-barreled gun, his jaws clenched, and Krystal thought he no longer looked at all gentle.

“Was … is that Bass’s gun, Professor? Do you think it was?”

He shook his gray head. “No way of telling, my dear. I can only say that it was definitely a smooth bore, not a rifle or a pistol.”

Before she could think of anything to say, a fourth boom reached them, then a brief pause and another, another pause and a sixth. At that, she started for the door, but the seated man closed a powerful hand around her arm.

“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

“To help Bass. To see what’s going on, anyway.”

But he shook his head again. “No, I’m sorry. Mr. Foster is well armed and he seems quite a capable man, in all ways. He said that we were all to remain here and that is precisely what we are going to do.”

She jerked savagely against his grip. “Damn you! Let me go. Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?”

Though he smiled, his grasp never slackened. ‘Tor one thing, Mr. Foster left me in charge, in his absence. For another, I’m easily old enough to give you fatherly advice. And for a third, I’ve had far more training than I care to recall in combat and general mankilling. You’re unarmed; what good could you do him if I did let you go to wherever he now is?”

While he spoke, they had heard the shouts of many men, dim with distance, then two more booms, in quick succession.

“Dammit! Then you go find him!”

“Who’s going to take care of those two in the parlor, and my wife?” He elevated his shaggy brows.

“Hell, I will. Give me the pistol.” She held out her free hand.

Smiling, he pulled the weapon from his belt and extended it, butt first. “Do you know how to use it, my dear?”

“I … well, I think so. That is, I’ve seen people shoot them,” she stuttered.

“All right.” He let her arm go. “Stand at the head of the rtairs, there, and fire a round into that stack of logs in the fireplace. That’s a nine-millimeter; those logs are sufficiently thick to stop the slug.”

“All right” Her lips tight, she raised the pistol, held it wobbling at arm’s length, shut both eyes, and jerked the trigger. Nothing happened. Opening her eyes, she tried it again; still nothing. She looked, felt with her thumb, for the hammer they cocked on television shows, but this weapon had no such thing. At the sound of a dry chuckle behind her, she reddened, spun about, and thrust the pistol back at Professor Collier, saying angrily, “It doesn’t work. What’s wrong, did you take the bullets all out?”

“No,” he answered gently. “The Luger is fully loaded and armed, it simply has the safety engaged. Miss Kent, you clearly know nothing whatsoever concerning firearms. Until you learn a modicum of their usage, you’ll be far safer to let them entirely alone.”

Before she could answer, there were six more booms, evenly spaced, at least one scream, then total silence for a moment . . . before the clop-clop of horses’ hooves sounded from the front yard and something metallic began to pound against the front door.