He waited on the splintery platform, a huge man, ugly of face, shortlegged and long-bodied with a belly swollen from regular overeating. His shaved head swivelled slowly as the police car leaned into a skid-stop.
Officer Collin Burns got out and stared up at the motionless statue in sweat-dust stained denims. Burns was half Neff's 56 years, tall and thin. He wore gray, a silver star and a big black hat. He said, "I'll take your gun, Erd."
"Now what? I got a permit."
"Not any more. It's revoked."
"For why?"
"There were witnesses this afternoon."
"Witnesses? What in hell are you—oh, no! Not that damned dog?"
"The puppy belonged to a little girl. You can't claim self-defense this time."
"He was coming down here chasing the cats away every day."
"So you shot him, like you did Greeley's collie."