Each time he stood, realizing it was just one scent and that the main spoor was still in the ditch. Down he would leap again, bounding along until he came to another odor leading up and out of the ditch. Judd was catching up with his dog now, puffing along, his huge frame laboring. "No, you damn dumb son-of-a-bitch, they're only fooling you!" he bellowed, pausing to whistle the dog back in the ditch.
Finally, the false scents were gone and he heard the dog up ahead, growling and tearing at something. He grinned. Running hard, he thought, now I got them.
But it was a trick. The dog was tearing a shirt to pieces. A blue work shirt that Lonny had peeled off and tossed up on the embankment. Everyone wore blue work shirts and they'd never be able to trace it to him. "Here, boy," Judd bellowed as the animal tore the shirt to ribbons. The dog obeyed and came down in the ditch, whimpering, crawling to Judd who reached down and petted him. Judd smiled. "We got 'em now, boy." He pumped another shell into his shot gun. Up ahead was the dike. Beyond that was a drainage ditch full of water. They either were trapped or had to crawl out of the ditch into open country where he, Judd Gans, of the best shots in the county, could pick them off. "It's all over, boy," he said gloating, his shotgun ready as he walked carefully along. "It's all over."
Although Judd was a good foreman, a good shot and hunter, a man who could belt down a pint of white lightning like it was sweet branch water, he was not renowned for his thinking. So it was with amazement that he saw his hound heading back down the ditch toward him with its tail between its legs. The hound shot by him like a whippet and Judd called the dog, turning to watch it disappear from sight and scratching his head, saying, "Now what in hell…" and turning just in time to hear and see a wall of water bearing down on him!
Lonny and his two friends had made the dike and used all their strength opening the flood gates then ran off toward a copse of trees. There, in a small arroyo, they flopped to the ground and panted for breath as they heard shouts and the sound of feet running toward the dike. Lonny lay looking at the stars through the branches and started to laugh. It was just too damn funny. Old Judd Gans was probably treading water in another county by now.
"We'd better get home, Lonny," Hank said, getting to his feet.
Lonny looked up at him. "Hank, you ain't any smarter than Judd. I oughta throw you in the ditch with him. Come on," he said, getting to his feet.
"Where we going?" Fred asked.
Lonny put his hands on his hips and looked disgusted. "We're going to the dike and help close it because of what them damn vandals did. Probably them hippies, I bet. Come on," he said, kicking Fred with his foot, "get on your feet. We stay away and they might suspect us. Besides, that dike is hard to close once it's open and all that water is giving Judd Gans a bath."
They hurried across the field, laughing and giggling, toward the men with flashlights and lanterns who were laboring to close the dike while a few hundred yards down the drainage ditch they could hear Judd doing some loud, righteous cussing.
The day came and, on the surface, it was indistinguishable from any other day at the camp. Men ate hasty breakfasts and piled, sleepy, joking, into trucks that would drive them to the fields where they would bend in the hot sun all day long. Women said good-bye to their men and scolded the children who ran around screeching at one another. Judd Gans stood by his pickup truck, glowering at each of the workers. Somewhere, there were enemies. The men kidded him, giving him sly smiles with a few of them pretending to swim up into the trucks. Just as one truck was pulling away, a voice called, "Glug, glug, glug!" and the men roared while Judd glared.
Wilma went down to the admissions office to tell Tina all about it. Tina clucked her tongue and allowed as "How a body ain't safe in their own home no more."
Sheriff Lucas Lamont came rocking off the highway in his car and eased himself out, putting on his Stetson hat and sunglasses. He was a tall lean man with a face tanned the color and consistency of old leather. Deep lines bracketed his mouth and fanned out from the corners of his eyes. His walk was slow and careful and he wasn't known as the most talkative man in the county. He examined all the evidence, listened to both the Gans with politeness and only grunted at their questions.
He trudged out to the drainage ditch and stood with his hands in his hip pockets, looking down at the water still lying there and grinned at Judd. "Looks like they outfoxed you, Judd."
"Did you get elected sheriff just to tell me that?"
Lucas directed a jet of tobacco juice down into the ditch. "Look at the bright side of it."
"How's that?" Judd hitched his pants.
"Least you got a good bath."
Lucas and Judd walked back to camp with Lucas trying not to laugh, talking about the crops to change the subject.
At Judd's pickup truck, joined by Wilma who stood by her husband, a loyal wife, Judd said, "Well, what are you going to do?"
Lucas tipped his hat to Wilma, shifted his wad of tobacco and said, "Do? Well, I think I just might go have a cup of coffee with Tina."
Whatever Lucas Lamont was, he was a good cop. He knew his job and did it well with a minimum of trouble. He knew the people of his county and acted accordingly. And he knew the migrant workers and how they had to, sooner or later, let off a little steam. He knew when to arrest a man for being drunk and when to give them a nights sleep in a warm cell. And, knowing that working men drinking together are going to fight sooner or later, he kept violence at a minimum by instinctively zeroing in on the one guy who was making all the trouble and ending the offender's night with a straight right to the mouth or, when he thought the argument was valid and the men evenly matched, he wisely looked the other way, letting them all get some steam off.
He knew the life of a field hand is hard and the prospects for getting ahead pretty slim so he allowed some illegal practices to take place: like moonshining and gambling and, yes, one whorehouse. Yet, he ruled them firmly, giving one and all holy hell and trouble for months whenever they strayed out of line. Laconically, his pale blue eyes hid behind his trooper's sunglasses, he would say, "Every man has to have something in his life. Men are going to drink, bet, fight, and whore no matter what anyone does or says. Better I know where they're doing it and just how much."
Short of keeping an eye on the Gans' place, Lucas wasn't about to do anything else. In reality, there wasn't anything he could do. Besides, something was wrong, Judd either didn't have all the facts or was lying. And Wilma. Wilma was sure different this morning. Tired looking and kind of jumpy. Yet happy. Happier than Lucas had seen her in a long while.
Nervous too. When they were talking by the pickup truck Lucas noticed Wilma stiffen suddenly by Judd's side and glance nervously over his shoulder at something behind him.
"Well, what are you going to do?"
Lucas tipped his hat to Wilma, shifted his wad of tobacco and said, "Do?" And he played the hayseed sheriff, taking off his Stetson and scratching his head as he slouched and turned to see what spooked Wilma. Behind him was a brand new camper he had noticed when he drove into the camp. He made a practice of memorizing the license plates of any new car or truck in his jurisdiction.
But it wasn't the sight of a camper that startled Wilma. It was the sight of a white-faced young girl getting out of the camper, looking up and seeing them standing these and putting her hand to her mouth and backing into the camper and closing the door. And the look on the girl's face. Lucas had seen that look before. He turned back to the Gans and grinned. "Do? Well, I think I just might go have a cup of coffee with Tina."