The Black Tower by Betsy Byars

a moment, examining the man. He had not moved. His eyes were blank. But he was breathing. He was still alive.
    She took one more step, then one more. The man’s shoulders were broad and blocked the next two stairs. She would have to step over him, but then the danger would be over. She could fly down the rest of the steps and be on her way.
    Just this one long step.
    She took a deep breath. She was lifting her foot when the man’s eyes focused. She did not see this, but she knew something had happened by a sudden twitch in his shoulder muscle. She must move quickly.
    At that exact moment, she felt his fingers encircle her other foot. Not another death grip! she screamed to herself. Then she let out a real scream. It echoed within the circular walls, and seemed to go on and on.
    â€œLet me go!”
    Then from the bottom of the stairs came an old quavering voice. “Let her go or I’ll shoot.”
    Both Herculeah and the man looked down the stairs. At the bottom, gun in hand, stood old Miss Hunt. In her trembling hands was a gun.

28
    AT GUNPOINT
    This was the oldest gun Herculeah had ever seen in her life. This gun would probably have been outdated in the Civil War.
    Herculeah knew instantly that she was in much more danger from Miss Hunt with a gun than she was from the man lying beside her. Already his hand was losing its grip on her ankle.
    â€œDon’t shoot, Miss Hunt,” Herculeah said.
    â€œWants to kill us.”
    â€œPut the gun down. We’re fine.”
    â€œI’ll kill him first.”
    â€œMiss Hunt—”
    â€œHis mother killed my sister.”
    â€œMaybe she did or maybe it was an accident.”
    â€œNo accident.” The gun was waving back and forth, and Miss Hunt held it with both hands to steady it. One finger was on the trigger.
    â€œHe’s sly.”
    â€œYes,” Herculeah agreed.
    â€œHe pretended to be a nurse. Didn’t fool me.”
    â€œNo.” Herculeah’s ankle was free now, and she went down one step. “He’s hurt now. He can’t harm us.”
    â€œPretending to be hurt.”
    â€œHe’s not pretending. He’s unconscious. Look at him.” Herculeah reached down and touched his shoulder. “See? Now put the gun down.”
    Herculeah straightened. She came down the rest of the stairs slowly. Her hands were raised in the classic gesture of having no weapon.
    She paused at the bottom of the stairs. Miss Hunt backed away from the tower, through the open door, and into the hallway beyond. The gun was still pointed in Herculeah’s direction.
    â€œPlease put the gun down. I have so much I want to tell you, but I can’t tell you with that gun pointed at me.”
    â€œThis is an old gun. Won’t hurt anyone.”
    â€œI’m afraid of all guns,” Herculeah said truthfully.
    â€œThis was Papa’s gun. It’s never been shot. It’s not even loaded.”
    She pointed the gun upward, pulled the trigger, and blew a hole in the ceiling.
    â€œWell, I’ll be,” she said.
    There was a moment of silence while the smoke cleared, and then a voice broke the silence. “I’ll take that gun.”
    It was the voice of a man, a man of authority.
    Herculeah had covered her ears with her hands when the gun went off. She lowered her hands now and saw Meat.
    She couldn’t believe that Meat had spoken in such a manly way. She had always thought he had the same aversion to guns as she did.
    Then she looked behind Meat and saw her father.
    Miss Hunt was eyeing her father’s outstretched hand with suspicion. She looked at his face. “Are you the police?” she asked.
    â€œI am.”
    â€œPapa never wanted the police here.”
    â€œBut your papa would have wanted you to give me the gun.” Her father’s voice was kind, reassuring, forceful.
    â€œHere,” Miss Hunt said. She thrust the gun on him. Then in a moment she disappeared down the