Her lips quivered and he saw that she had been crying while she waited for him. “I'm lost… I don't know where it is.”
“Now stop that stuff! Didn't I tell you I was a scout? A first-class scout?”
“Yes…”
“All right then, Sandy, just trust me. Does your farm have any big barns? A tall silo, maybe? Something we could recognize from a distance?”
“Sure, we got them.” She tried to keep her eyes from the burden on his shoulder.
“Then here's what we'll do: see that hill over there, the high one with the two pine trees? Let's climb up there and look for your place — you can shinny up the tree to see better. Okay?”
“Okay.” She fell in behind him, eyes downcast.
Gary completed his plan of action as he walked. When they neared her home, he would send the girl in ahead of him with the news. She was better than a white flag, she and the body across his shoulder, and he would not be shot before he had the opportunity to speak his piece. The farmer, no matter how hostile, would hold off a few minutes on the strength of the girl and the body of his son. After all — what could be more disarming, more sincere than an utter stranger bringing the two children home? Gary smiled to himself.
“Just stop right there,” Hoffman ordered coldly.
Gary waited without answering. The man stood at the gate to his yard, an old shotgun in his hands. Behind him in the open doorway of the farmhouse Gary glimpsed the farmer's wife, Sandy, and a smaller boy. Fright coupled with alarm was on the woman's face; she didn't look at the newcomer but at the boy's body across his shoulder.