There hadn't been a war for Larry to go to before he was too old but he would've gone had there been. A man defended his land, either on it or to prevent the other fella from getting to it.
Outside, the katydids continued their argument and a couple bullfrogs down to the pond were trying to get laid by the sound of the baritone calls. Larry glanced at the Ford Galaxie parked in the yard, decided he could get where he wanted to go quicker and quieter on foot and set out at a trot toward the sound of the shots.
A second or two later, he heard footsteps beside him.
Without turning his head, he whispered, "Jerranto, there ain't no need f'you to get inta this."
Jerranto had just shown up lookin' for work a year back at a time Larry definitely needed help with the crop. Not like he could advertise in the paper for field hands to grow what was flourishing down by the crick. The fact Jerranto didn't have a work permit or other papers made it unlikely he'd go to the law.
Jerranto was dark skinned with a doe-eyed wife carrying a baby. Larry neither knew nor cared where they'd come from, though the Mexican accent was a pretty strong clue. He'd given them the old sharecropper's cabin on the other side of the pond and the man worked hard or harder than Larry. He asked no questions, tended to his own business and was happy when Larry gave him part of the cash he got from the folks up in Atlanta.
Larry glanced over his shoulder. The sliver of a moon gave enough light to see a white T-shirt and gleam from the old hammer-firing double-barrel twelve gauge Larry had given him to shoot squirrels and the occasional deer when meat got scarce.
"No need a'tall," Larry repeated. "The federals catch you an' you're goin' back. Plus, Maria's about to have another baby."
There was also enough light to see the flash of white teeth that was an answer. Jerranto spoke enough English to get by but when he just wasn't going to listen, he gave that smile.
The two men could see only the outline of the trees, but the woods here were as familiar as their own bedrooms. They splashed across the crick and came to the edge of the tree line just as the shooting finally stopped.
"Shit!" Larry grunted.
Jerranto called the name of one of those saints he rattled off whenever he was surprised.
VIII.
Lamar County, Georgia
Lang was sliding along the wall toward the remains of the door, using his shotgun as a crutch. He knew the weapon would be no defense against firebombs, but he couldn't stand idle while his son wept with fear.
Instead of the anticipated crash of glass and whoosh of flames, shooting started again, this time the unmistakable boom of shotguns. He peeked through the gap between door and frame and saw the figure of a man sprawled in a puddle of hissing flames.
There was a muzzle flash from his left directed not at the house but at the woods to the right. It was answered both left and right by a barrage of smooth bore replies.
There was a scream and the sound of an engine cranking. Its lights out, some form of SUV crossed in front of the cabin and headed for the twin ruts that served as a driveway, rear end swaying as its tires fought for purchase in the loose soil. From the woods to Lang's left, a figure emerged, took deliberate aim at the vehicle and fired. The SUV swerved drunkenly and smashed into a pine tree.
Then there was silence, a quiet exaggerated by what had gone before. Lang could hear only the hiss of a shattered radiator and Manfred's terrified moans.
Lang took the opportunity to look back into what had been the living/dining room, his anxiety overcoming curiosity. "Manfred OK?"
"He's fine," Gurt answered. "And thanks for asking about me."
By the guttering flames that had been intended for the cabin, Lang saw the figure, a man, calmly walk to the wreck of the SUV, open the driver's door and snatch out a limp form, which fell into a heap.
At the same time, another man, this one considerably
smaller than the first, became visible approaching from the right.
Lang raised his shotgun. "I wouldn't come any closer if I were you."
There was a snort that possibly could have been a laugh and the first man made a display of leaning his weapon against a tree and raising his hands. "And I'd say 'thank you' was I you."
The man on the right also put down whatever he was carrying and raised his hands, too.
Both kept on walking toward the house.
The first one stepped over a form sprawled across the narrow front porch without giving it any particular notice. He could have stepped out of the film Deliverance. He was well over six feet and two hundred pounds, his face tanned by the sun. Blue eyes twinkled from under his John Deere cap. A reddish beard streaked with gray covered his lower face but not the broad lips that were curled into a smile. He was clad in bib overalls. His step had a confidence to it, a manner that seemed to say shooting a couple of men was a normal night's work.
Stereotypes exist. A lot. That's why they keep showing up in life.
The other man was much smaller and looked Latino. His eyes darted back and forth as though anticipating an attack at any moment.
The big man turned back and stooped to examine the body at his feet.
He stood and rolled it over with his brogan. "Ain't nobody I know."
Lang lowered his shotgun. "I'm happy for you."
Behind him he heard Gurt moving toward the bedroom and the gun in her purse.
Both strangers stopped at the door. "Mind if we come in?"
Lang stepped back and they both entered. The larger of the two surveyed the room. The cabin's thin frame and Sheetrock hadn't stopped many bullets. "Looks like somebody didn't much want you here."
Lang shrugged. "A man makes enemies."
The man in overalls continued to look around, nodding as though understanding a basic truth. "I'd say."
He turned his attention to Gurt as she entered the room, making no effort to hide his admiration. He doffed his cap. "Evenin', ma'am."
She held a SIG Sauer, having left Manfred in the other room despite his howls of protest. Lang felt relief as he saw Grumps slink out from behind the kitchen counter and follow the sounds of Manfred's displeasure. Everybody had made it through OK.
Gurt studied the stranger as intently as he was her. "You are to thank?"
He leaned forward, an imitation of a bear trying to bow. "My pleasure, ma'am" He extended a hand the size of a football. "Larry Henderson. I'm your neighbor."
"And a good one," Gurt said, smiling as she transferred the automatic to her left hand to slip her right into the huge paw.
If Larry noticed the weapon, he said nothing. Maybe pistol-packing mommas were the norm around here.
The little one said something Lang didn't catch.
Larry nodded. "He's right, we need to clean up this mess 'fore daylight"
Perplexed, Gurt glanced from one to the other. " 'Clean up'? Should we not call the police?"
Larry took off his cap again and clenched it in a hand, a gesture Lang guessed was a habit. He shifted from one foot to the other like a schoolboy caught passing a note in class. "Well, ma'am, I'm not sure thass a good idea. See, first, we ain' got no phones out here an'…" He shuffled shoes die size of rowboats. Then he spoke, staring into Lang's eyes as if seeking an answer to an unasked question. "An', well, I'd soon as not involve the law if you take my meaning An' if done, 'tis best done quickly."
Was that a line from Shakespeare? Unlikely. But Lang got the message loud and clear. Whatever Larry was doing was something that the long arm of the law wasn't going to help. The man had just saved Lang's ass by blowing away a couple of unknowns, voting them totally off the island- Now he was asking, almost pleading, not to involve the cops.
"Will not somebody come looking for them?" Gurt asked.