Instead of firing the gun, Graft gave the old dog a swift, vicious kick in its brittle ribs, sending it rolling across the boardwalk and onto the dirt street. Clay, hearing the kick and the dog’s sharp yelp of pain, swung the walking stick without hesitation and broke it in half across the gunman’s nose. Graft staggered backward and crumbled to his knees.
Clay dropped onto his hands and knees and searched frantically and clumsily for the edge of the boardwalk, calling out to Little Dog.
Belton stood and gave Clay a shove with his boot, sending the man sprawling into the dirt, where his hands found the small dog whining pitifully, gasping for breath.
“He’s broken my nose! Shoot him!” Graft shouted. His own gun had flown from his hand and skidded along the boardwalk.
“You want him shot? Here, you shoot him,” said Belton. He bent over to pick up Graft’s gun, but a boot seemed to come out of nowhere and clamp down on it.
“Take your hand away from the gun,” Burrack said.