"The Fleetwood raced down the street, and I saw hazy movement on my left. There was a lot of fuzziness before my eyes. Out there in the street the guy I'd hit toppled forward and lay still. It took most of my strength, but I rooled over, got on my knees to move toward him. My left arm buckled and grass slapped my face. I made it up again, using my right hand, started crawling toward the man in the street. It seemed as if blood were all over the front of me, clear down to my stomach. I got to the man, but he wasn't moving. His gun, the gun with which he'd shot me, lay a foot from his hand. It was a Colt Agent, a .38 caliber revolver with a two-inch barrel."

1959.