'Care for a swig?' he asked, offering the bottle. 'Homemade cider. It'll sure take the edge of this chill.'
Stenner said, 'Thanks, anyway.' St Claire reached out and took the jug and, holding up his elbow, expertly dropped it into the angle of his arm and took a long swig. He shuddered as he lowered the container and handed it back.
'Sure right about that,' he said. 'It warms ya right through to yer bones. Thanks.'
'You seen another hunter out here this morning?' Stenner asked.
'You mean Jim Darby. He went on up to six. 'Bout half an hour ago.'
'What's six?' Stenner asked.
'The blinds are numbered. On that map you got there. Old Walt hand-drew the sorry thing. Six is down the creek half a mile or so just before it dumps into the river. This is four here and that one over on the far side of the creek is five.'
'How far away is six?' Stenner asked.
'Half-mile, maybe.'
'Couldn't take more then ten minutes to go up there, could it?'
'More like five, even in the fog.'
'Thanks.'
'You friends of his?' one of them asked.
'Yeah,' St Claire said. 'Thought we'd surprise him. Well, thanks for the help.'
'Sure. Good hunting.'
'Same to you.'
St Claire throttled up and angled the small boat back out into the creek and headed for the six blind. Five minutes later they picked out a small sign on a crooked post with a solitary 6 hand-painted on it. St Claire turned into the tall river grass and cut the engine. The blind was empty.
'Hear that?' St Claire said. Stenner listened keenly and through the fog could hear the low mutter of an engine. Then a dog started barking and a moment later they heard a muffled splash. The engine picked up a little speed and gradually got louder.
'Here he comes,' Stenner whispered.
The sputtering sound of the motor moved slowly towards them and then the skiff emerged through the fog almost directly in front of them. Darby was hunched in the back of the skiff. He seemed preoccupied and did not see them until the dog, a spotted spaniel of some kind, started barking.
'Jesus,' he said with surprise, and cut his motor. He had a 12-gauge shotgun turned down-side-up in his lap, snapping shells into the chamber. St Claire eased a 9mm Clock out of its shoulder holster and casually laid hand and gun on his thigh. As the other boat neared his Darby squinted through the gauzy wisps of fog and suddenly recognized Stenner. He sat up, scowling, as he drew abreast of them. Stenner reached out and grabbed the gunwale of Darby's boat and pulled them together.
'Good morning, Mr Darby,' he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the warrant. As he did, St Claire raised up on one knee and held the pistol out at arm's length, pointing straight at Darby's face.
'Kindly put that scattergun down on the bottom of that skiff,' he said with harsh authority.
'We have a warrant for your arrest, Mr Darby,' Stenner said, and held the warrant in front of his face.
Darby was obviously startled. Even in the fog and predawn gloom, they could see the colour in his face drain from ruddy to pasty-white.
'That's no good up here,' he snarled. The dog snarled menacingly in the front of the boat. 'Shut up, Rags.' The dog whined into silence.
'Sheriff'll be waiting when we get back't'camp,' said St Claire. 'You wouldn't want to add unlawful flight to your problems, now, would ya?'
'I'm not fleeing. Do I look like I'm fleeing to you? I got nothin' to flee about.'
'This warrant charges you with first-degree murder in the death of your wife. You have a right to remain silent - '
'I know the drill,' he hissed, and put the shotgun aside. 'I heard it all before.'
