The Triggerman Dance

"I told you I'm okay, Daddy. I just feel kind of . . . sticky."

The cook emerged from the kitchen with a .30/06 rifle and a wild look on his face. He was a fat man with a rim of gray hair around his face and head, florid cheeks, and a clean white apron

"What the hell?"

"It's over," said Holt. "Put the gun down."

"I'll call the Sheriffs."

"We already did—the CB," Holt lied. It was a given for him that the police would confuse rather than clarify things.

"Ambulance?"

"Nobody's hurt."

"She's not hurt? She's bleeding, you know."

Holt gave the chef a withering look. All of his native authority, not to mention his frustration, fear and anger, came rushing back now, and he saw by the cook's eager nod that he had no intention of calling an ambulance.

He eased Valerie back into the bright October sunlight where he ordered the waitress, forcefully, to get some coffee ready for the sherrifs. Only now did he register the frantic yapping from the Land Rovers—three springers vaulted into excitement by the gunshots.

Titisi and Randell had gathered themselves to stare, somewhat bewildered, at the man and his dog.

Lane Fargo stood midway between the fallen hero and the restaurant, his pistol drawn. A consuming selfconsciousness emanated from him: his face was bright red, his eyes uncertain. He watched Holt and Valerie descend the steps to the parking lot unwilling to look either his boss or his boss's daughter in the eye as they approached.

"Mr. Holt, I think we could run them down in the Rovers.'

"No."

"There's not much out there but clean highway."

"No. Settle the dogs down, Lane. See if those bullet wrecked my gas tank."

"I'm thinking we should get off stage before the cops come.'

"Check the dogs and trucks, Lane."

"Yes, sir."

Valerie left her father's side to approach the man still kneeling in the dust beside his dog.

"Can I help you put him in your truck?"

He didn't look at her. "Sure. Thanks."

"Thank you. Oh, Jesus in heaven—thank you."

Holt approached, somehow larger now than he was a few moments earlier, and offered his hand to the kneeling man. "My name is Vann Holt."

The man finally rose, slipping his revolver into the pocket of his duster and slapping the hat against his leg, but still looking down at the dead shepherd. He shook Holt's hand without enthusiasm.

"John," he said, looking down again at the dog. "That was Rusty."

Holt contemplated John's slender, stunned face. He saw a trustworthy but uncertain face, a face hollowed with fear and revulsion, the face of a man who has acted and now must live with the consequences. For just a brief moment, the eyes reminded Holt, of his own. "You all right, son?"

"Pretty much."

"This is my daughter, Valerie."

John looked at her while he shook her offered hand, his eyes lingering on her face, perhaps on the blood that flecked it.

"I've never seen anything quite like that," said Holt.

"I haven't either, to tell you the truth, Mr. Holt."

"You know those guys?"

"Seen them around. I live out here."

"They know where?"

"I don't see how they could."

Valerie looked down at Rusty. "You train that dog?"

John looked down at Rusty, too, and Holt saw on his face an expression of tragic surprise. "To sit and stay. When he saw that guy choking you, he started growling like I'd never heard. He was just a stray when I got him, so he must have learned from someone else. He was a real good dog. Shit, now he's dead."

"I'd like to give you another one," said Valerie.

"Well . . ." said John. "Uh ... I need to use the sandbox. Excuse me. "Holt gathered with his party while John went to the bathroom in Olie's. Titisi examined the red inflammation across his stomach and felt for broken ribs, then pronounced himself unhurt. Fargo was still checking the trucks, down under the red one for a look at the gas tank. Randell sat in the shade with Holt; Valerie and the Ugandan.

Ten minutes passed before John returned. To Holt's eye, face had become more ruddy, his movements were no Ionger quite so slow, there was a quickness in his glance. He went to truck, removed the revolver and appeared to stash it under seat. Then he started up the reluctant old Ford and pulled it into the shade of a pepper tree. Holt could see a big chocolate labrador licking John's face as he reached across to roll the wind down a little more.

When John approached, he held his hat in his hand. "What, exactly, was happening here?" he asked.

"That's a story we might want to tell somewhere else," said Holt. "Let me ask you something, John—are you clean with law?"

"So far."

"Because we'd like to get out of here without filing any statements. Those bikers won't be talking—no reason we should, either. Unless you want to explain that revolver in your coat."

"Yeah ... I mean, no. You're right."

"Can we take you home?"

"I've got the truck."

"I mean, can we escort you home? We all need somewhere to settle our nerves. You close to here?"

"Just a few miles. But really, I—"

"I insist," said Holt. "It's the right thing to do."

"Well, okay, then."