Suddenly, small oblong head jerked toward the men and woman cowered at the wall, he raised his fist. For a moment it jutted sharply from the sharkskin body. Then he crouched, kicked his feet, and sped diagonally across the lot like a thin and spotted deer before the bough stands of fumbling hunters.
In the following silence they stirred again, one coughed.
“You see, mamm,” whispering, still watching the hole in the darkness where the rider had disappeared, “we ain’t forgot.”
Lou Camper climbed slowly to her feet. The dogs did not appear.
f our men stood at the roadside. They were led by one who seemed to know the country and who, as they paused, scanned it with the scarred and suspicious eyes of an old strong man. They had left the Buckhouse quickly but still were far from the waters behind the dam. Only now, out of breath and brought to a rustling stop by the pain in the largest’s legs, did they begin to talk and touch shoulder to shoulder, bumping in the darkness.
“How are you, Bohn?”
“I’m ahead of you, Lampson,” pulling the fat but beardless chin, “because you boys don’t have to try so hard.”
“Camper,” interrupted the perspiring fisherman, “remember that name?”
“He heard you,” murmured Luke.
“I knew his brother,” persisted Camper to the old buck, nodding at Luke, “by sight, anyway.”