Fear became terror. His rifle! she thought wildly. She must get it away from him!
She could hardly walk for the trembling of her legs nor think for the roaring in her ears. They passed the barn in silence. At the pasture gate the salt lick caught her eye and she stopped.
“Oh,” she gasped. “We forgot our vests! Wait, I’ll get them!” She propped her rifle against the fence and raced back toward the house, her shiny hair bouncing.
“We don’t need them this close to the house!” he shouted after her.
“The law says we do!” She charged into the house and donned her own vest before grabbing his and trotting back to him.
“Here.” She passed it to him and held his gun, backing slowly away while he tied the tapes...
“Damn you!” she cried when he looked up, his rifle firm in her hands. “Kill me, will you?” She thumbed the safety off and crouched low, the rifle pointed at his astounded face.
“What!” His eyes bulged in disbelief. “Put that gun down, you fool!”
“I’m not that big a fool,” she said, and fired...
She wiped the rifle free of fingerprints with his fallen cap, then made his hands grasp and fondle it, and gave his wrists a flip to drop it beside him. No murder. An accident. But only if the picket hole in that salt lick fifteen feet away carried the mark of a ricocheting bullet.
It was ticklish. A bullet fired into that round-bottomed cavity would return with undiminished velocity and nearly, even possibly exactly, on the same line. Breathing shallowly, she lay on the grass beside Ben, aimed her rifle, fired, and knew the soundness of her scheme when the bullet screamed back, inches over her head. She rose and walked the distance to the house, ejecting the spent shell into the long grass on the way.
She cleaned her rifle thoroughly and returned it to its case with the remaining shells from her pocket. She removed her bright vest and folded it neatly over the gun case. She brushed the front of her sweater and slacks, washed her hands, and sat down to wait. Ben had gone hunting. She must not find him too soon.
Time crept by. The kettle moaned briefly and was silent. Gradually, her heart resumed its normal beat.
She had done what she wanted to do. A perfect job. Not the keenest policeman nor the smartest insurance investigator would detect the ruse. The bullet in Ben’s head would carry the marks of his own gun. Even the orange vest he wore was no longer a drawback but a prop, verifying an accident. But if she didn’t have an excuse for staying in the house, she might be in trouble.
She put wood in the cast-iron stove and cleared a space on the oak cupboard to make and roll out pastry for pies. She peeled the apples Wilfred had picked, found brown sugar in a bean crock, and searched the shelves for spices. Soon, flushed with heat, a towel about her waist, she began humming to herself.
When she ran out of pie plates, she made a pan of apple dumplings and swept the worn linoleum of the floor. Eventually she went to the pantry window and looked out. She saw Wilfred’s cattle standing in a semicircle beyond the salt lick, motionless, staring at the dead man with heads lowered.
It was all the excuse she needed. Minutes later, she was flying back from Ben’s stiffened form. With shaking hands and voice, she phoned the county police.
When the cruiser came and the two policemen got out, she let nervous tension pass for anguish by making an obvious struggle for composure.
She didn’t mind the younger officer with the notepad and pen but she feared instinctively the big heavy man with the dark saturnine face and cold gray eyes which swept her from head to toe. “Mrs. Morlin? What happened?”
She told them. She hadn’t known a thing until the curious behavior of the cattle drew her attention. She led them to the spot with awkward steps. Yes, they knew Wilfred. They knew everybody in these parts.
They studied the layout, the position of the body, before the big cop knelt and held Ben’s wrist for a moment. He scrutinized Ben’s face. “He didn’t shoot himself. No powder burns. That your husband’s rifle, ma’am?”
“Yes, that’s Ben’s gun.”
“Another hunting accident?” the young cop asked.
“I don’t see how. He’s wearing the orange, and the bush is two hundred yards away. Could have been hit by a stray bullet, but the chances are a million to one against. This looks like murder.”
He stood up, dark and massive. “A big-game bullet would have ripped his head apart. That hole suggests .22 caliber rimfire ammunition. Did you see any strangers, hear any shots, ma’am?”
“None. But I was indoors all afternoon.”
“Indoors? On a day like this? Why?”
“It was Ben’s idea. He wanted to shoot a porcupine and said I should bake some pies for his cousin. We were to go hunting when he returned. Toward evening was better for rabbits, he said.”
“You also own a .22, then?”
“Yes, of course. A single-shot. It’s in the house.” Anxiety gripped her. Would they never notice that salt lick? Must she take them by the hands and lead them to it, show them the leaden streak in its cavity? “I wouldn’t have noticed firing anyway. Ben was always shooting, at anything and everything. Tin cans, bottles, rocks, stumps, anything in sight.”
“A plinker, eh? It’s a dangerous habit. So when Wilfred left, you two were alone?”
“As far as I know.” Her breath caught in her throat. The man’s granite eyes were searching the immediate vicinity, stopping, appraising, moving on, remote with thought. They passed the salt lick, wavered, and returned. Her knees almost gave way with relief.
The cattle straggled off when they let down the rails of the gate. The big policeman examined the stone-hard block, sighted along it, checked the elevation caused by its tapered sides, and shook his head doubtfully. He pursed his lips, peered into the deep cavity again, and returned to Ben’s body.
Her nerves tingled. Would he buy it? If he didn’t — but how could he doubt the evidence before his eyes?
He glanced at her, then, rubbing his jaw, stood behind Ben and studied the block from that direction. He drew his revolver, aimed at the dark hole in the salt lick, and held the pose for several seconds. He nodded slowly and reholstered his gun.
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “An accident. A stupid freak accident. Straight as a die. Because he didn’t think.
“That hole looks like a bull’s-eye from here. A real temptation to any plinker. I guess he didn’t realize it’s shaped like a miniature cannon, and round-bottomed to boot. You can see where the bullet struck inside and came back to kill him. I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “He should have known better than to shoot at a thing like that. If he had only thought—”
“They never do.” The young cop replaced the gate rails...
Wilfred, home from his meeting, stood silent near the pasture gate, looking from Ben to Janet to the policemen.
The older man, picking up Ben’s rifle, said, “The most dangerous caliber ever made.” He ejected the empty shell, then a live one onto his palm. “Cheap ammunition and lack of recoil promotes carelessness. Yet these little bullets—” He stopped; suddenly wary, his gray eyes piercing. “Hollow point?” He held the cartridge out between thumb and forefinger. “Hollow point! This man was murdered!”
“Hollow point?” Janet swayed, chilled to the heart.
“Mushroom. It would disintegrate on impact, fired into the picket hole of that block. It wouldn’t return in a solid chunk to drill that hole in his forehead. Somebody else did that. In as pretty a set-up as I’ve ever encountered.”
He jumped the gate lightly for so big a man. He turned the cavity of the salt lick toward the sun for keener inspection, and came back slowly, staring at her. “I make it a single mark, in and out from the bottom. No flaking signs of splattered lead. That indicates a solid slug. Do you use solid bullets, ma’am?”