Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, No. 5. Whole No. 855, November 2012

Gone Fishing by Jim Davis

When Jim Davis debuted in EQMM’s Department of First Stories in February of 2011 he said he had more short story ideas for his private detective Bradley Carter. Here we have the fruit of one of those ideas, a case in which Carter goes on a high-tension chase through the Ozark Mountains, a scene familiar to his creator, a veterinarian who lives on a farm near the Lake of the Ozarks.

I was sitting at a corner table in a smoke-filled biker bar just off Route 16 in northwest Arkansas. My stack of quarters glinted on the bumper under the Stag Beer light that illuminated the stained felt of the pool table. My momma, if she were still alive, would not have approved.

I nursed a lukewarm Budweiser longneck waiting for Seymour “Tiny” Buckman to hustle twenty bucks off a half-breed kid who was way too drunk to steer his bike back to Oklahoma. Tiny had probably been drinking all day himself, from the looks of it. I was sure of it when he double-tapped the cue ball before sinking the eight ball in the corner pocket. He stared the breed down as he chalked his cue; his glare daring the kid to call him on it. His eyes were red, and his pupils were dilated like he might be on something besides an alcohol buzz.

The kid reached in his pocket and flipped a wadded-up pair of tens out onto the felt and handed the cue to me. He staggered toward the door without a word. He was listing slightly to the left as he aimed for the opening. He suddenly reeled and fell headlong into the shuffleboard table, scattering pucks and sending up a cloud of Ultra Glide powder. He rolled off and slid under the table and lay still. No one seemed to notice.

Tiny scooped the money off the table as he staggered over to where I sat. He wore a jean jacket with the sleeves cut out, the armpits wet with sweat, and a pair of Levis so shiny and dark that I would guess they had never been washed since they came off the shelf at Walmart. He weighed at least two-fifty and smelled like a hog eating onions. He reached out a hairy paw, snatched my beer off the table, and chugged it in two gulps. He wiped the foam from his beard with the back of his arm and tossed the bottle on the table, where it spun to a stop. He leaned down into my face and let out a mighty belch. I felt my hair move, but I managed to keep from breathing until he stood back up and said, “Rack ’em.”

It is always in the wee hours in a place like this that I wonder why I wanted to be a private investigator. The air was close and damp, and smelled of stale beer. The establishment had one window air conditioner stuffed through a hole at the end of the bar, where it chugged away; condensation ran down the wall and disappeared through a crack in the floor. I had ridden here on a 1969 Shovelhead Harley-Davidson that my granddaddy had bought new, and I was wearing an old leather flight jacket over a black T-shirt. But that was as far as my biker cover went. I didn’t have a single tattoo and would have been more at home in a Polo shirt and golf shorts. I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of leaving the old Colt semiauto in the saddlebag.

I was put on the trail of one Delbert Fish by his maiden aunt, Miss Etta Mae Fish, who had been my Sunday-school teacher twenty-five years ago. Delbert was wanted in connection with a rape and assault that had occurred down by Fort Smith. According to the news reports, it was a brutal crime, and the victim was in a coma. Miss Etta Mae was certain that her nephew was not capable of such abominations. She had come to see me in the back-room office that I occasionally used at the Fayetteville, Arkansas, law firm of Gantry and Grizzell, a couple of fraternity brothers of mine.

“It is inconceivable that little Delbert could have done those — those horrible things.” She sat upright and prim in a captain’s chair across from my desk. She wore a light-blue, floral-print dress that she had probably made herself and clutched a big black purse with both hands. “I’m not familiar with what a private eye charges,” she said, opening the purse. “I can give you two hundred dollars.” She pulled out a wad of fives and ones that I knew had come from piano lessons she’d given over the years.

“Miss Etta Mae,” I began, wondering how I was going to get out of this. “I’ve got other cases right now...”

“Young man,” she interrupted. “Don’t you tell a story to me! That nice woman out front told me that you needed the work.”

“Now Miss Etta...”

“Bradley Carter, you listen to me. Half the law-enforcement officers in the state are looking for Delbert down in the delta. If they find him, they will shoot him. Now I’m coming to you because I want you to find him first, so he can turn himself in. Besides, he’s not in the delta.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Don’t you take that tone with me.” She gave me a look of reprimand. I was suddenly back in the basement of the old brick church on Sycamore Street. “Delbert spent the night at my home last Friday.”

I was incredulous. Miss Etta Mae Fish was aiding and abetting a fugitive? My mouth was open, but no words were coming out.

“I had no idea at the time that he was wanted by the law. I haven’t watched the news since David Brinkley retired, but I turned on the radio after Delbert left, and there it was.”

“You didn’t go to the police?”

“Of course not! Delbert couldn’t have done those things.”

I was leaning over my desk, doodling on a yellow legal pad. I had seen little Delbert’s picture on the news and heard the story. He certainly looked like he was guilty. He had black tattoos running up his neck, his nose was askew, and he had a puckered scar running from the corner of his mouth up to his left eye. He had already done time in the Cummins Unit of the Arkansas Correctional System.

“Bradley, you just have to find Delbert before the police do.”

I just stared at her.

“They will kill him!”

What she was asking me to do was like crawling into a cave full of rattlesnakes.

“The radio also said that the girl’s father has offered a ten-thousand-dollar reward.” She pursed her lips defiantly, causing her bifocals to shrug up on her nose.

Ten thousand dollars.

My demeanor must have changed, because she took out a pen and paper from the purse and said, “Let me show you where he went.”

And now here I was, shooting pool with Delbert’s “associate,” Tiny Buckman; the two fellows became fast friends while awaiting trial in the Washington County Jail on drug charges a few years back. Although it was tempting, I did not clear the table after Tiny’s lame attempt at a break. No one else had put any money on the table, so I let him win the first game. It cost me twenty bucks, but it would be cheap if I could find the location of his family’s notorious still back in the mountains. That may sound strange, but this is Arkansas. We have a number of dry counties, and moonshiners continue to ply their trade back in the hills. Etta Mae was convinced that Delbert was headed to the Buckman still to hide out until the search cooled off. I did not even ask how she knew where to look for the place.

Seven beers and three games of eight ball later, Tiny looked no more drunk or talkative than he had been to start with. In fact, he seemed to get surlier as the night went on. I had been dropping hints about how some of the Benton County high rollers had developed a taste for good moonshine, and how I intended to cash in on that trend if I could find a supply of quality product. He showed absolutely no interest until I finally came out and asked if his grandpap still made shine up in the hills. That got his attention, but not the way I had hoped. He picked up his cue in midshot and turned it around, backing me up against the bar. I jerked a leg up to protect myself as he swung the cue at my ribs. The cue stick hit my knee with a loud crack, and fell to the floor in pieces. That was going to hurt when the adrenaline wore off. Before I could slither away and run, Tiny had a forearm across my neck, bending me backwards over the bar. His hairy arm was up under my chin, and he was bellowing obscenities as he attempted to crush my windpipe. He only succeeded in propelling me down the bar on my back. My T-shirt was soaking up spilled beer as glasses went crashing to the floor.

Just when I thought I was going to pass out, I heard a loud crack, like when Albert Pujols knocks one deep into left-center, and the pressure on my neck was released. As my vision cleared I saw Tiny’s eyes roll up into his head. The bearded, sweaty, slobbering face of Tiny Buckman went blank as he fell away to the floor. I coughed and massaged my throat as I slid off the bar and steadied myself against it.

Standing before me was a small woman with stringy black hair holding the narrow end of a pool cue. She calmly set the cue down on the table and looked at me. She wore a black Jack Daniels T-shirt cut off short, revealing twin dragon tattoos peeking out of her low-riding jeans on either side of her navel. She had a square jaw and coarse chin. “Can you give me a ride home?” she asked. “I don’t think Tiny’s up to it.”

I looked at Tiny lying facedown on the floor. He was already starting to snore. “Boyfriend?” I asked.

“Husband,” she said.

It was well after midnight when I started up the old motorcycle. The woman looked skeletal in the blue mercury-vapor light in the parking lot. She was older than I had thought; she had fine wrinkles around her mouth and eyes like a chronic smoker. She stared off at the darkness when she spoke; her eyes were glassy and dark with a bovine emptiness.

“It’s a ways out there. Got plenty of gas?” she asked.

“I think we can make it,” I said.

The bike had the original buddy seat on it, so she climbed on behind me with practiced ease. I pulled away slowly, while she lit up a cigarette. I kept the pace slow since I didn’t know the road and she was giving directions.

We had passed a closed liquor store half an hour before. That was just before we hit the gravel roads. I figured the store was on the county line, and we were now in one of the dry counties. The night was so dark it seemed to swallow the feeble light the old bike put out. I hadn’t seen a dusk-to-dawn light for a good fifteen minutes when a battered house-trailer loomed into the sweep of my headlight.

The place looked deserted, but as I turned off the bike, the bark and howl of a coon dog announced our arrival. I could hear the dog’s chain dragging against the skirting of the trailer. No lights came on, but I heard a screen door open and could make out the silhouette of a child as the woman reached the front door.

“Momma?”

“Go back to bed,” she scolded.

“But I’m hungry...”

“I ain’t got nothing for you. Now, get to bed!”

She turned my way. I could barely see her as my eyes tried to adjust. “Thanks for the ride,” she said.

“Will I get lost getting out of here?” I asked.

“Ain’t but one road out,” she said. “Don’t stop till you get to the county road. They let them dogs run loose at night.”

“Coonhounds?” I asked.

“Hell no, they’s part pit bull or somethin’. You best get out of here.”

She didn’t have to tell me again. I found myself taking the rutted two-track road a lot faster than I normally would have. Summer was about gone but the air was thick with humidity and, if anything, the night had gotten darker. A flash of lightning illuminated the surrounding hills as I came to the county-maintained road. Thunder rumbled across the valley before me as I rolled on the throttle; I did not want to get caught in a storm at night in the Ozark Mountains.

The sky in the east was streaked with red and orange as the sun pushed away the early-morning mist. The sky to the north was gunmetal gray as thunder echoed down the valley. I spotted the little store that I had seen coming in with its beer and liquor signs now muted by the coming daylight. The place had gas pumps, the old kind with number wheels and bells, not the kind where you can swipe your card and go. I pulled up to a pump and shut off the ignition. Without the noise of the bike, I could hear the rushing of a stream as it gushed past the little store and shot under the highway bridge. The violence of the water attested to the heavy rains that were falling farther up the valley.

“Need some gas?”

I managed not to jump. I hadn’t heard the man come up behind me.

“Hell of a storm up top,” he said, pointing his chin up the valley. He was thin with longish gray hair and a Gabby Hayes beard.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I need gas all right. How about coffee?”

“It’ll be done, time you get your gas,” he said, turning to go back inside. “I’ll turn the pump on.”

After I filled the bike, I walked past a minnow tank under an open shed. Aerators bubbled and hissed, and the shed smelled like a sardine can. The little store was homey, with a long wooden table and handmade benches around it. The old man talked as he turned on the lights in coolers and display cases. His blue-gray flannel shirt was thin enough to see through on the elbows. I poured myself a cup of coffee.

“You must’ve got up early this morning,” he said. “Fishin’s gonna be off with all that rain up high.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m actually just here to scout out a hunting spot for deer season this fall.” I stood looking at a map on the wall. It was made of pages out of an atlas taped together, and it showed the surrounding valley with spots marked along the creeks in red felt-tip. “What do you fish for around here?”

“Smallmouth bass. Good fishing most of the time.”

He kept talking while I looked at the map. I was trying to get my bearings, retracing my route from last night. “Who owns this up in here?” I asked, pointing a finger.

“Oh God,” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t want to go in there. Them dang bikers hole up in there. I could tell right away you wasn’t one of them. They’re worthless as hell. Want some bacon?” He was peeling off strips into a big frying pan on an old gas stove.

“Sure, bacon’s good,” I replied. “So they wouldn’t want to lease me some hunting ground?”

“God no! You don’t even ask them boys. I had to run ’em off with old Bessie here. Pumped gas and didn’t pay.” He reached behind the counter and patted a double-barreled shotgun with all the bluing worn off. “Rock salt on the left, double-ought buck on the right. Gave it all to ’em.”

“What about this place?” I pointed to the adjoining property on the map.

“Well now, that would be a good place to hunt,” he said. The bacon hissed and popped as he flipped it over with a fork. “But you can’t get up there. There ain’t no road.”

“What about that?” I pointed to what looked like a trail up a creek that ran on the north side of the place.

He squinted at the map. “You can go up the creek with a four-wheeler, but you can’t get past the bluffs. Steep as hell.”

“Where could I rent a four-wheeler?”

“Nowheres I know of. You want some eggs?”

“Over easy,” I said. The old man looked like a hillbilly, and I’m sure he was, but he wasn’t a fool. He was answering my questions just enough to keep me asking more. “How do you get around to all these fishing spots?” I asked.

He gave a little laugh as he broke eggs and dropped them into the hot grease. “A sure-footed old mule named Abner.”

Abner was a jewel. He plodded on through the brushy, slick trails that I guess he knew were there; I surely couldn’t see them. I had left the Harley, of course, after assuring the old man that it was worth at least the value of the mule. I was avoiding thinking about how I was going to get Delbert out, if I happened to find him, but I would think of something. The saddle was an ancient, high-backed thing. The old fellow had bragged on it. “My pap brought it all the way from Kansas City back in the twenties; that’s a genuine Shipley.” The mule was big for a riding mule; he was a sorrel going to gray around the muzzle. The rain had finally come down to meet me, and the cheap poncho that I had purchased at the store was leaking badly where it had snagged on tree branches. When I got to the steep part of the trail, I let Abner do his own navigating. He went up slopes that looked impossible. All I could do was hold on; he was like a cat climbing a tree.

The rain stopped as we topped a ridge, and the sun peeked through the clouds. I smelled wood smoke. I looked through the army-surplus binoculars the old fellow had loaned me and checked out the head of the valley before me. The smoke was rising from a cabin not more than a quarter-mile away. It was still early morning, and men were already moving about. This was not going to be easy.

I dismounted and pulled off the poncho, tying it to the saddle. My back was wet, and I shivered as I tied off the mule. I’m not a bounty hunter; in fact, most of my work involves a computer and digging through courthouse files for my lawyer buddies. But ten thousand dollars is a lot of money, and a one-man private-investigating business is not all that lucrative. The offers that I had received from the big agencies, with their health-insurance coverage and paid vacation time, were looking awfully good as my clammy wet jeans clung to my legs.

As I approached the buildings, I was aware of a chemical smell besides the wood smoke. The old man at the station had told me that “Pappy” Buckman had been dead for years, and that his infamous still hadn’t been used for decades. I ducked behind some cedars as a man came out of one of the cabins carrying two five-gallon buckets and dumped them into the clearing. The grass and brush were already dead from previous dumping. The air held a tang of acid and sulfur, the telltale signs of a meth lab.

There were two guys moving in and out of what looked like an old smokehouse. One wore bibbed overalls with no shirt, his long hair tied in a ponytail. The other had a buzz cut and wore some kind of rubber apron. They both wore rubber gauntlets and busied themselves scrubbing glassware and buckets with water dipped from a small, stone-lined spring. The spring was probably the original reason the still was placed here. I made my way to the back side of a lean-to shed where I could still see the cabin. The grass, as well as the underbrush, was dead all down the hillside as chemicals leached out of a pile of containers for drain cleaner and muriatic acid. Some of the stuff was partially burned; I wouldn’t have wanted to be downwind of that fire.

“Hey!” The voice was so close that I reached behind my belt for the old Colt pistol I had brought with me. “Where can a guy take a dump around here?”

I had ducked back into the shed when I heard another one of them answer. “Yonder next to the shed. Take a roll of paper with you, but don’t leave it in the privy; the rats’ll shred it.” I sank deeper into the darkness behind an old high-wheeled grain wagon that had probably hauled corn for the mash. A door slammed, ringing hollow in the low pressure of the cloud cover. The weathered boards of the shed had shrunk over the years and allowed me to watch the approaching man through the cracks.

He was even uglier than his mugshots. Delbert Fish’s hair was matted and long. His once-white undershirt was gray and stained with what could have been last night’s supper... or blood spatter. The outhouse stood at a crooked angle just above the slope of the hill. I was tempted to shove it over the edge.

A dark green Honda four-wheeler was parked in front of the cabin, and I could see a path back across the clearing. I was hoping for a pickup or Jeep, something I could throw a disabled Fish into and hightail it out of the area. The trail was only wide enough for the four-wheeler. If I could get Fish down the hill quietly, I could work us back around to where Abner was tied and go out that way. There was no way they could follow the mule on a four-wheeler.

“You tie them dogs up?” It was Fish yelling from inside the outhouse. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. I hadn’t thought about a dog.

“Rosie’s tied up,” came the reply. I heard a chain dragging somewhere on the other side of the cabin as the dog heard her name.

“That damn dog don’t like me,” said Fish.

“That old bitch don’t like nobody.”

I couldn’t imagine a better chance of getting Fish than now, but I was going to need a diversion. I left the shed and ran in a crouch up to the back of the smokehouse. There was only one door into the building, and it was on the side facing the cabin. A pungent odor wafted from the old building; inside I could hear something bubbling away. Several of the boards on the back side were warped and loose. I pulled gently on one. Other than the slight hiss of a nail pulling free, it made no noise as I removed it. The hole wasn’t big enough to get through, but now I had a good look inside, where a rack of gallon metal cans lined one wall. The cans were puffed up like they were about to explode. White plastic buckets sat around on the floor bubbling and hissing. One corner was full of flattened empty boxes from cold tablets. A propane stove sat in the center of everything. My eyes followed the black rubber hose that led back to a silver propane cylinder next to the wall where my hole was. I reached in blindly, pressing my face against the boards. I could feel the hose with my fingertips. Stretching as much as I could, I got my hand around the hose and pulled it toward me.

I heard footsteps and a shadow appeared in the doorway. I kept my shoulder pressed against the hole. I wasn’t moving a muscle; I didn’t dare breathe. I could see the shadow through a crack. He came forward just enough to pick up two more buckets and walked out again. His eyes didn’t have time to adjust to the dark interior. I pulled my arm out and went to the corner where I could see him.

I jerked my head back as the door of the cabin opened. The one in overalls leaned out the door. “I heated up the beans for breakfast,” he said.

“Beans all we got?”

“Tiny’s ’sposed to go to the store.”

The guy with the buckets peeled off his gloves and apron, and the two men disappeared into the cabin. I slipped around to the front and went into the open door of the smokehouse. I saw what I needed right away. One method of cooking methamphetamine requires red phosphorus. Meth cooks get it from matches or road flares. I grabbed a flare from a box and ducked back out the door. I went around to my hole and reached inside the old smokehouse. With my pocketknife I sawed on the gas hose until I heard a satisfying hiss. I pulled the cap off the road flare and scratched it across the end. The flare burst to life, spitting a bright red flame into the cool morning air. I tossed it through the hole towards the other side of the building and ran for the outhouse, pulling my gun from behind my back as I ran.

Delbert Fish was just opening the door of the outhouse when I hit it with my shoulder. I jerked the door back open to find him holding his nose, blood already running down his face. He was groaning, and while he was still dazed, I ran the action on the gun and pointed the muzzle right at the bridge of his nose. His eyes widened as he looked down the bore of the forty-five.

“Stay quiet and you may live through this,” I said. He just blinked as I grabbed a handful of filthy undershirt and jerked him out of the outhouse.

I was expecting a spectacular explosion and fireball about now, a diversion so I could get Fish out of there, but what I heard was the distinctive rumble of a Harley as Tiny Buckman rode out of the woods on the four-wheeler trail on an old Panhead Harley-Davidson. A look of consternation wrinkled his brow, and quickly turned to blind rage as he recognized me. He reached down and brought out a short-barreled, lever-action rifle from a scabbard on the bike; he stepped off the Harley, letting it fall. I turned to run, shoving Fish back against the outhouse. He grabbed onto me as the whole outfit tipped over the side of the hill. The drop-off was steep and our combined weight splintered the small building. I lost any grip I had on Fish as we both tumbled head over heels down the steep slope. Small saplings and underbrush slowed our descent, but the rocky hillside took its toll on exposed flesh. I came to an abrupt stop, flat on my back, staring up through the canopy of oaks at a darkening sky. I turned my head to see Fish lying in a heap next to me. The steepness of the slope was interrupted by an old logging road that had stopped our tumble.

A loud whoosh and blast sent sheets of rusty tin and weathered boards raining down through the trees. The propane had finally ignited. I hoped that it would distract Tiny and buy me some time. I grabbed a dazed Fish by the arm and pulled him to his feet.

“I can’t breathe!” he managed to say. He was holding his side and wheezing, his face screwed up in pain.

“You’ll live,” I said. “We’ve got to move.” His knees started to buckle, so I gave him a hard kick in the butt.

“You’re gonna kill me!”

“No, dumb-ass, I’m going to keep you from getting killed. Etta Mae hired me to find you.”

His face was smeared with blood and dirt; a green sumac leaf was stuck to his cheek. I started to put his arm over my shoulder to help him, but he came to life and jerked away from me. He looked confused. He didn’t know whether to believe me or not.

A clap of thunder echoed through the valley. Fish and I stared at each other. We both heard the rush of feet on the soft leaves followed by a low growl. I reached behind my back for my gun, but it was gone. I must have lost it in the tumble down the hill. I watched helplessly as a brindle-colored ball of teeth and muscle shot out of the woods, rocketing toward Fish. He put up an arm even as he screamed. The dog launched itself at his throat, catching the arm instead between powerful jaws. Fish went down on his back, howling in pain and terror. The dog had its tail end toward me as it jerked its massive head back and forth, pulling on Fish’s arm as if to tear it off. With the classic two steps of a punter, I kicked up between the dog’s legs with a heavy thump that even sounded like a football. The dog yelped as it flipped up over its victim, landing in the trail where it lay thrashing in agony, its testicles crushed.

I grabbed Fish by his good arm and pulled him up. “Let’s go!” I yelled.

We both heard it at the same time, something else coming noisily through the brush. I caught a glimpse of another dog, this one struggling, dragging a length of chain that was catching on the foliage, slowing the dog’s progress.

“Oh God, it’s Rosie!” Fish looked at me pleadingly, his arm bleeding and useless, hanging at his side.

“Down the trail,” I yelled. “Run!”

He didn’t have to be told twice. Fish was surprisingly fast, and I was right behind him. The old logging road was dim and overgrown, but it was much easier going than bushwhacking through the timber. It curved around the brow of the hill toward where I had tied the mule.

The dog was gaining on us. The road was easier running for Rosie, dragging her chain. I was looking back at her when Fish stopped so suddenly, I almost bowled him over. He bent over with his good hand on his knee, coughing and wheezing, trying to get his breath. Fish was winded and bleeding so badly that even I could follow the trail he was leaving. He wasn’t going to make it. Not like this.

Rosie barked and growled; she slowed and crouched slightly as she squared up at me. I knew that I should find a weapon and stand my ground, but I couldn’t help myself. I turned and ran straight down the side of the mountain.

The dog came crashing after me as I started down the hill. I jumped over a deadfall, nearly going down. The dog tried to go around and the chain momentarily snagged. I kept running, but the terrain was getting steeper, and I was doing more falling than running. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move off to my left. At first I thought it was a deer; it startled me enough that I lost my footing and tumbled headlong down the rocky slope. I landed hard against a big oak tree.

The dog was almost on me. I knew that I couldn’t get away from it now. I picked up a rock the size of a softball, hoping to crack the demon’s skull when it came.

It wasn’t a deer that I had seen. It was the big sorrel mule that I had ridden in on. I guess I spooked him, running down the side of the mountain. I had looped the reins around a branch, and Abner had pulled them loose, gaining his freedom. He had his oversized ears laid back, and when that snarling, snapping pit bull came by, the big mule struck with the agility of a snake and sunk his teeth into the nape of the dog’s neck. Rosie was a pit-bull bitch that must have weighed fifty or sixty pounds, but the mule picked her up, twisted his head sideways, and slapped the dog into the rocky ground in the blink of an eye. I ducked as the chain whipped around and smacked the trunk of the tree that I was lying against. I have seen broncs in the rodeos of eastern Oklahoma that would go straight up and land on all four feet at once: a bone-jarring experience for a cowboy. Abner went up in the air, arched his back, and landed with all four hooves on the stunned dog; the air went out of her lungs like a smashed accordion. The act was so violent that I found myself cringing for the dog. The mule grabbed an ear in his teeth and shook the dog once more, but there was no fight left. The dog was quite dead.

Abner let go and backed away quietly. He looked at me, perhaps waiting for my approval. I spoke to him softly and put a hand out to gather the reins. He calmly reached over and stripped the leaves from a sapling and began munching, seemingly content. I patted his neck and praised him as I led him back up to the trail.

Fish hadn’t moved. He was sobbing as he held the weight of his damaged arm with the good one. He jerked his head up when he heard us coming. The terror in his eyes morphed into anger when he saw that it was me.

“I’m bleedin’ to death, you bastard!”

“You’re lucky she went after me,” I said. “Now shut up and hold still.” I took out my knife and cut one of the leather tie-downs from the saddle. The dog had severed an artery on Fish’s arm. I tied the leather above his elbow as a tourniquet, but he had already lost a lot of blood and was looking pale.

Fish was too weak to walk, so I helped him up onto the saddle. I was hoping that he could hang on until I could get him down to the highway. I was leading Abner, but also counting on the mule to find the way down. The logging road turned back up the ridge.

“Abner, I hope you know the way out. I sure as hell don’t.”

The mule turned and I followed, continuing up the logging road. I walked beside him, holding Fish in the saddle. The man was bent over the saddle horn, barely able to hold on. We came to a small patch of cedars that I thought I recognized from the trip in. The mule pushed his way through the limbs into a small clearing. It was the end of the road. Fish groaned and started to slide from the saddle. I caught him and helped him to the ground.

The forest canopy was replaced by angry, black clouds. The thunder was rumbling again, and the first few drops of rain began to patter on the cedars and the clumps of grass that struggled to survive in the rocky ground. The sky opened up and the rain began to fall as if dumped from a bucket. The sound of it drowned out all the other senses, and I was beginning to relax, thinking we had escaped.

This was when the four-wheeler burst through the trees and skidded to a halt. Tiny stood up on the machine and leveled his carbine even as I pulled Fish to his feet. Abner, spooked by the machine, brayed and ran off through the cedars. Bullets twanged through the branches as I shoved Fish through the evergreens and out of sight of our pursuer. I couldn’t see where we were going as I pushed Fish forward. He began shoving back, clawing at me and screaming. Tiny was running after us now, I could hear him grunting with effort and growling like some kind of animal. Fish was pushing back on me.

I felt Fish’s full weight on the handful of undershirt that I was gripping. I tried to pull him up as I realized that the ground was falling out beneath us. We had broken through the cedars only to find a bluff. The rain was beating down now, but I could hear the river below us. It must have been at least forty feet down, and I had no idea how deep the water was, but I gave Fish a mighty shove, and together we dropped into the void.

I let go of my prisoner during our descent. I found myself flailing my arms, trying to keep upright. It seemed like an eternity in the air. I plunged into the cold water of the stream, a churning, frothy torrent. The water was dark as I clawed my way back to the surface, gasping for precious air.

I broke the surface and heard a cough next to me. I turned to see Fish disappearing beneath the foam. I grabbed at him and managed to snag his long hair. I was vaguely aware of a shadow descending upon us. A mighty kathump! seemed to shake the river itself, as Tiny’s massive bulk slapped into the rocks next to the stream. I caught a glimpse of the big man’s empty stare, his face flattened against the rocks of the riverbank, as the current swept us away. It was not a pleasant sight.

I don’t remember much after that. I guess I managed to keep Fish’s head above water until some kayakers spotted us near the state highway bridge. Two tanned and athletic-looking fellows dragged us out of the rushing water. My teeth were chattering with the cold. Fish didn’t even have enough energy to shiver. One of the kayakers had a signal on his cell and was calling 911.

“Am I gonna make it?” Fish asked. His speech was slurred and his face had a ghastly pallor.

“You better,” I said. I would hate to face Miss Etta Mae if I got her nephew killed. “By the way, Delbert, can you swim at all?”

“Not a lick,” he said, weakly.

“A Fish that can’t swim.” I just shook my head.

Delbert Fish testified at his trial that Seymour “Tiny” Buckman had beaten and raped the girl. The DNA evidence agreed with him. I guess Miss Etta Mae was right that Delbert Fish was not guilty of that crime. She was willing to ignore his culpability on a host of other infractions that sent him back into the Arkansas penal system. She volunteered for a bible study through Prison Fellowship, so she could work with Delbert. I don’t know if Fish ever repented, but I took the two hundred that Etta Mae offered. It didn’t seem like much for what I did, but I got the ten grand in reward money. Besides, the woman had spanked me for something I didn’t even do at a vacation bible school one time. I figured she owed me that much.

The Arkansas state police seemed to appreciate the fact that I had burned down a major methamphetamine lab. They rounded up most of a biker gang that had been distributing the stuff in the four-state area. I went back to the site of the old still to retrieve my .45 semiauto. My dad had bought the gun for sixteen dollars after he got out of the service, and it had sentimental value. The old fellow who owned the store closed it up for a day and took me fishing. That little creek had more smallmouth, and bigger ones, than I had ever seen before. It’s a wonder that Field and Stream hasn’t done a feature on it yet. After a couple of write-ups in the local papers, I got another call from one of those big-time private-detective agencies. It was tempting, I must admit. But how much does a man really need to be happy? I think I’ll just flag down the drink-cart gal for another Budweiser, finish the back nine, and meet Karen, my on-again-off-again girlfriend, at the Nineteenth Hole. I think it’s all-you-can-eat crab legs tonight.

Copyright © 2012 by Jim Davis. Black Mask Magazine title, logo, and mask device copyright © 2012 by Keith Alan Deutsch. Licensed by written permission.