I had been carrying it. I traded it for the standard pump shotgun. Brett was carrying one of the modified Winchesters. We had given Herman the other one. With some reluctance I gave him ammunition to put in it. I gave Leonard shotgun shells, fixed me and Brett up with loads.
“I’m so goddamn scared I’m shaking,” I said.
“I get scared,” Leonard said, “my dick gets hard.”
Leonard slipped the strap of the shotgun over his shoulder, went quietly and quickly over the rise on his stomach and began to crawl toward the ranch house.
Herman said, “I hope he knows what he’s doing.”
“Trust me,” I said. “He did this in Vietnam. He’s got a houseful of medals to prove it. He’s forgot more about stalking than you and me and Natty Bumppo ever knew.”
“Yeah, well,” Herman said, “let’s hope the stuff he’s forgotten isn’t the important stuff.”
The ground was pretty flat, but the brush grew thick now and was full of shadow. Leonard used this as his protection, crawling close to the ground.
I was starting to get giddy. Perhaps I needed a nap. A long vacation. Maybe Tillie was better off where she was and I was better off back at the house with Brett. I began to hanker for my bouncing job. I began to view working in the rose fields as a good time. I tried not to think too much about what I was doing. I didn’t want to shoot anybody, but I didn’t want to get Brett, Leonard, or myself killed by not shooting anyone.
I tried not to think about it. Trying not to think about it turned out to be a lot like thinking about it. I looked at Brett. She was peeking over the rise, watching Leonard slither down there. The moonlight fell across her face, and normally moonlight softened it, but now, without makeup, it looked hard and harsh, almost corpse pale. Her eyes were narrowed and her mouth, normally full and inviting, was a thin line. Her hair was bound back severely with a black ribbon. She held the Winchester like someone who wanted to use it and might be disappointed if she didn’t get to.
I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
“He’s up to the house,” Herman said.
“Someone comes out of the house, points him out, we got to start shooting right then,” I said. “Maybe we should trade guns, Brett. Modesty aside, I can shoot the ass off a fly at a hundred yards.”
“I’m a good shot myself,” Brett said.
“Yeah, but I’m going to venture I’m better,” I said. “Leonard says I’m the best there is.”
“Like he knows everything,” Brett said.
“Don’t let him hear you say I said it, but about some things he knows more than anyone has a right to. Like how well I shoot. You get inside, maybe you should have the shotgun. Easy to handle, spreads people all over the place. It’s alternately loaded with buckshot and slugs.”
Brett thought a moment, traded weapons with me.
“You start getting heated up,” Herman said to Brett, “mind where you’re firing that thing.”
I eased up slightly on the rise, lay the dark-barreled Winchester on the dirt mound, and pointed it down there. I saw a man come outside lighting a cigarette. Behind him, through the open door, came the sound of music and laughing. I saw a woman in a red dress walk by. She was long and lean with big breasts and reddish hair. I couldn’t see her face.
Tillie?
I drew a bead on the man. He closed the door, clung close to the wall, finally fell away from it, staggered into the foliage, shook his head, slapped the back of his neck as if to wake himself. He opened his fly and started pissing while he smoked.
A shadow came off the ground and fell down on him and the cigarette shot out of the man’s mouth and the man went down. A moment later he was dragged into the foliage.
“Leonard must have knifed him,” Herman said.
“Strangled him,” I said. “Leonard can constrict those arteries, crush your windpipe while you’re still trying to decide what’s happening. That’s one down.”
“But the question is,” Brett said, “one of how many?”
“I don’t think there’s a lot,” Herman said. “You can’t judge by the transportation, ’cause a lot of people get dropped off here. They hang out two or three days, then back to work. Kind of like a company picnic. Except for the whores. A lot of them get on the wrong side of these guys while they’re drinking and boozing. Throw in sex and the fact these people don’t have to pay for anything they do … Bad combination.”
“These people?” Brett said.
“Yeah,” Herman said. “I was one of them. But not now.”
I saw Leonard move out of the brush and over to a window, then away from it. He peeked in another, went around the side of the house and past the corral. The horses and mules rumbled about, then he was behind the house and out of sight.
We waited and watched a long time.
No Leonard.
I was beginning to get worried when I heard him speak softly behind us. “It’s me,” he said. “Don’t anybody shoot.”
“Goddamn, Leonard!” Brett said. “I damn near threw a turd.”
“Sorry,” Leonard said, squatting on the ground.
“You’re good,” Herman said.
