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the base of the huge elm tree it was now resting against, the recoil would
knock him out of the chair. But he had, and that was that.
He settled comfortably into a light reverie. That was the secret of hunting:
pick your spot, and wait. Deer would easily outrun a walking hunter, and they
could hide in brush so thin you'd believe it couldn't conceal a woodpecker's
pecker. A woodchuck could disappear without a trace down his hole at the
slightest movement. Even a rabbit could leap from one improbable hiding place
to another before you could react.
So the trick was not to be there.
If you sat in your blind and didn't move, didn't twitch, didn't belch or fart,
you weren't there. The brush piled around Arnie's seat at the base of the old
elm wasn't a perfect blind, but Arnie wasn't wearing hunter's orange, either,
just an old brown wool coat over khaki workshirt and workpants.
He sat there, not there, thinking of everything and nothing until he heard a
sound behind him, a rustle of branches.
"Arnie?"
"Yeah," he said, pulling the clip and ejecting the round from the BAR before
rising. He put the round back into the clip and reinserted it into the weapon,
then rubbed at the small of his back. It hurt, but the walk out to the car
would stretch it out some, make him feel better.
He pulled the flask from his pocket and took a long pull, letting the whiskey
warm him from throat to middle. Just enough to get him going.
Davy Larsen was decked out in his old army fatigues today, as usual, and as
usual topped by his olive drab army jacket. He dropped his own lunch bucket
next to the lawn chair, accepted the BAR with a nod and without comment good
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boy racked a round into the chamber with a practiced motion, and seated
himself in the chair without a word, already just this side of invisible and
absolutely motionless before Arnie was well on his way down the path.
Enough for today, Arnie decided. Time for some sleep, and maybe cook himself a
little dinner before he was back on shift.
He made his way back down the path toward where Orphie's old Chevy Nova was
parked just off the road, exchanged a quick nod with the idiot Cotton kid, who
was already heading back toward the stand, then pulled open the passenger
door, seated himself and waited.
In about ten minutes, Orphie staggered down the path, favoring his right leg.
He opened the driver's side door and plopped down on his seat.
"Shit, boy," Orphie said, accepting Arnie's flask and taking a pull, "this
don't get easier."
Arnie shrugged, the way he shrugged every day. "Doesn't need to. We just need
to hang in there."
Orphie rubbed at his stubbled chin, then reached down and turned the keys,
swearing under his breath when the engine coughed three times before turning
over. "Tomorrow, you think?" he asked, as he did every day.
Arnie shook his head. "I don't know. I don't much care. One in three chances
it happens on our watch. As long as it happens at all, I don't care."
Orphie chuckled as he backed up down the road, one hand thrown over the back
of the bench seat to steady him. "Odds are against us getting it."
Arnie shook his head. "Doesn't matter, as long as it happens." He took another
swig of his whiskey. "I want those dogs." They killed Ole Honistead, and while
Arnie and Ole hadn't always gotten along, but damn it, Ole was a neighbor, and
you didn't go kill
Arnie's neighbors.
He took another swig. "Let's get home. I need to wash up, and then get some
sleep."
It was good to have some reason to live again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hidden Ways
There were things about life in Falias that Torrie hadn't had a lot of trouble
getting used to, he decided, as he returned from a solitary shower to his
room, the thick, napless towel wrapped around his waist his only garment.
Having servants set out his clothes wasn't going to be a hard adjustment.
He picked up the white tunic and pulled it over his head.
Most of their gear had been left in Torrie's room, a comfortable enough cell,
although it was lit only by a pair of lanterns, one set just above head-high
in the wall.
He quickly finished dressing, except for the short cape and the swordbelt, and
there was no rush about either, so Torrie sat down hard on the thin
mattress the bed was little more than a sheet wrapped around a blanket,
supported by a weaving of leather straps on a wooden frame and started to go
through the gear, figuring that there wouldn't be anything of use.
The pistol was long gone, of course, and so was the Gerber hunting knife why
let him keep his sword if they were going to deny him a knife? Ah, of course: [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]