Oliver’s eye fluttered to consciousness and glared at me while he appealed for help by imitating the mewling of an injured puppy. The man said, “This ol’ boy’s in bad shape,” and reached to stroke Oliver’s shoulder but was unnerved when Belton and I both yelled out warnings.
A low growl and one dulling amber eye tracked me while I backed the man a safe distance, far enough to say into his ear, “Is there a rifle scabbard on your saddle?”
Cow hunters are prone to stubbornness. “I’m not known as a monkey killer,” he replied. “The way you keep that handgun pointed, why do you need my rifle? Poor thing’s about dead anyway. A veterinarian is what he needs, then we’ll let the law sort this out.”
“Police will be more interested in a corpse you’ll find down by the river-most of his face missing,” I said.
That got the man’s attention. I told him my name, and added, “I’m a friend of Joey Egret and probably a dozen other people you know. My uncle was Jake Smith, and I’m related to the Summerlins. I’m not asking for your blessings, sir. Just the loan of one bullet.”
In rural areas, surnames are tribal and carry weight. Instantly, the man’s sympathies shifted and I was granted temporary rank in his cavalry of one. Mr. Harney-that was his name-kept my Devel pistol trained on the monkey but first wanted a question answered. “The other woman, where is she?”
I assumed he had mistaken the wailing cry of fire and wind for a human voice.
“No,” he insisted. “When that big pine went up, she waved for me to come. Sort of looked like you, but longer hair and wearing a bright red shirt. She ain’t here? Or… or maybe it was you.”
In the fire’s heat, I felt a chill and could not answer until I’d returned with the rifle, a Winchester.30-30. I said, “Mr. Harney, in my SUV-if we find it-I’ve got a picture I’d like you to see.”
Then I shucked a round and finished the job.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Randy Wayne White is the author of twenty-three Doc Ford novels, most recently Deep Blue; the Hannah Smith novels Gone, Deceived, and Haunted; and four collections of nonfiction. He lives on Sanibel Island, Florida, where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years, and spends much of his free time windsurfing, playing baseball, and hanging out at Doc Ford’s Rum Bar & Grille.
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