“No,” I said. “I don’t think so, Dieter.”

The damned pike wasn’t heavy, but it was long and hard to balance. I got my feet and swung the thing into position. Dieter stepped back, grinning. For all my bravado, I was beginning to feel a wee bit uneasy. Could I have made some ghastly mistake? Surely not…. But John hadn’t moved, not so much as a fingertip.

Dieter fired. I couldn’t help cringing. It is unnerving to have a gun go off practically in your face, even though you know it is loaded with blanks.

I’d have done more than cringe—fainted, for example—if I had realized that the harmless sounding blank cartridges were capable of inflicting a considerable degree of damage when fired at close range. Luckily for me, Dieter aimed at my midsection, not at my face. The wadding bounced harmlessly off the thick layers of my padded jacket; sparks from burned powder set tiny spots of cloth smoldering.

The expression on Dieter’s face when he saw me still upright and unharmed almost made up for the unpleasantness of the past few minutes, and for the ruin of my expensive ski jacket. I lunged at him, and missed by a mile. He was off-balance too; in a kind of frenzy, he emptied the magazine. The rolling echoes of the shots were followed by a deeper and more ominous rumble, high on the mountain. He’d start an avalanche if he wasn’t careful….

As I turned for a second try, Dieter threw the empty gun at me—a spiteful, childish gesture that gave me a certain amount of equally childish satisfaction. I ducked. Dieter planted his pole and skated away from me across the open ground. I started after him, but I knew it was hopeless. Once he reached the road, he had a straight downhill run—not the best of slopes, but well within the capability of a skier of his skill. Anybody who could have made it down the three-encumbered hillside had to be first-rate. As John had said…

John.

He hadn’t moved. A few of the blackened spots on his ski cap were still smoking, and the acrid stench of singed wool stung my nostrils as I tugged at him, trying to turn him over. He was dead weight, heavy and unresponsive. Could I possibly have slipped up when I replaced the cartridges in the Colt—left one live one in the chamber? I knew—I knew!—I hadn’t done so, but if he had taken the charge full in the face…Why hadn’t the shopkeeper warned me that the blanks were so dangerous? I thought they just made a big bang. Of course, I had never expected anyone would fire the gun….

“Is he gone?” said a voice, quite literally from the grave.

Relief hit me so hard, every muscle went soggy. I collapsed onto the muddy ground beside him. “Yes, damn it. God damn you, John, what’s the idea of scaring me like that?”

“Scaring you?” He rolled over. Knowing Dieter better than I did, he had flung himself aside in time to escape the worst of the powder burns, but the side of his face was speckled with angry-looking scorch marks. One had narrowly missed his eye. “Me?” he demanded, his voice rising. “Scaring you?”