“Sarah, go get it.”
They stared while he poured all their brandy into a tumbler, which it half filled, and then drank it like water.
“We’re prohibitionists here,” Mr. Simpson smiled. “More or less. I don’t suppose you’d care to say anything about—where you came from?” He saw Kit’s immense shudder. “Likely not. What’s that, now!”
He rose, grabbed the shotgun and went to the door. The sound of a big truck grinding up the driveway grew louder and louder. Then it stopped on shrill brakes and many men’s voices filled the night.
The door knocked.
The farmer unlocked it, on the chain. “Who’s there?”
They shot him through the head.
The front windows kicked in.
In a trance of horror, Kit watched the men enter. Two—then four or five—then a dozen.
They were grinning a little. They were drunk. They were the kind of men who wear caps and work in alleys. They eyed the girls with joy.