motives and methods of transporting the corpse, I glimpsed a flash of red moving through the trees on the opposite side of the river. I was acutely aware of how exposed I was to anyone hiding in the woods and my pulse raced involuntarily. I squinted against the sun and tuned in what Grandpa used to call my “listenin’ ears.” Someone was moving through the woods across the river, someone accustomed to walking silently, someone very sure of his forest footing. I could hear the faint crackle of pine needles breaking under his weight. Sweat broke out in my armpits and the hair on the back of my neck rippled. I thought it a very good idea to get the hell away from there. I quickly hiked back up the river to my canoe and was relieved to find that both the vessel and paddle were intact. I pulled out into the sluggish current and headed downstream. I had no choice but to pass directly by the killing spot. My car was waiting half a mile downstream and I was in no shape to hike over land with a canoe balanced on my head for that distance.
As I neared the spot where I’d discovered the puddle of blood, my palms grew damp and the paddle slipped free. I lost it in the current and almost tipped the canoe in my haste to grab it. Fortunately the river narrowed at that spot and I was able to fish the paddle out where it had snagged on a tree root projecting into the water. Damn it. I had to show more guts than that. Whoever was watching me would know I was frightened. I paddled back to the center, forcing myself to take a deep breath. I thought about the time I’d whacked an alligator across the snout with a paddle when I was only eight years old. I hadn’t liked the way he was eyeing my biscuit lunch. Or me, for that matter. My grandpa never stopped telling the story. That was the day, he said, that he knew I had more balls than any of the sorry specimens our family had produced since the War of Northern Aggression.
What did this sudden memory prove? That I could do a little bit better than cowering in a shaky canoe just because someone had chosen this spot for a solitary hike in the woods. I sat up straight and paddled with dignity. At that exact moment, I heard a whoosh like a giant dragonfly whizzing past. An enormous arrow split the air about six inches in front of my nose, hitting the center of an oak on the far side of the bank right smack dab in the middle of its trunk. I abandoned dignity and threw myself on the bottom of the canoe.
Someone started laughing in the woods and it really pissed me off. I could take a lot of indignities, especially if it was a choice between being insulted and being killed. But being laughed at was another matter. I sat back up and paddled furiously for the far side of the river.
“All right, Bozo,” I called out firmly. “You’ve had your fun. Now come out here and talk to me.”
I didn’t see anyone, but a soft male voice drawled back, “What can I help you with, ma’am?”
“You can start by telling me why the hell you nearly made me into a shish kebab. This is a public river. I have a right to be on it.”
“You were getting ready to set down on my land.”
You must understand that “my land” is a sacrosanct term in these parts. Anyone who has managed to hang on to their corner of the earth despite progress, carpetbaggers, real estate developers, and the tax man has formed a mighty powerful attachment to property rights by now. I knew better than to challenge that particular sentiment.
“I was not getting ready to set down on your land,” I said. “Why were you spying on me?”
“What were you looking at over there?” the voice asked in reply. “That’s private land over there. You got no right to be on it.”
“Look,” I said, my voice sounding far more steady than my pulse. “I know you could have hurt me back there if you’d really wanted to. That arrow didn’t hit that tree by accident. You’re a good shot. I know that you were only trying to scare me. If
As I neared the spot where I’d discovered the puddle of blood, my palms grew damp and the paddle slipped free. I lost it in the current and almost tipped the canoe in my haste to grab it. Fortunately the river narrowed at that spot and I was able to fish the paddle out where it had snagged on a tree root projecting into the water. Damn it. I had to show more guts than that. Whoever was watching me would know I was frightened. I paddled back to the center, forcing myself to take a deep breath. I thought about the time I’d whacked an alligator across the snout with a paddle when I was only eight years old. I hadn’t liked the way he was eyeing my biscuit lunch. Or me, for that matter. My grandpa never stopped telling the story. That was the day, he said, that he knew I had more balls than any of the sorry specimens our family had produced since the War of Northern Aggression.
What did this sudden memory prove? That I could do a little bit better than cowering in a shaky canoe just because someone had chosen this spot for a solitary hike in the woods. I sat up straight and paddled with dignity. At that exact moment, I heard a whoosh like a giant dragonfly whizzing past. An enormous arrow split the air about six inches in front of my nose, hitting the center of an oak on the far side of the bank right smack dab in the middle of its trunk. I abandoned dignity and threw myself on the bottom of the canoe.
Someone started laughing in the woods and it really pissed me off. I could take a lot of indignities, especially if it was a choice between being insulted and being killed. But being laughed at was another matter. I sat back up and paddled furiously for the far side of the river.
“All right, Bozo,” I called out firmly. “You’ve had your fun. Now come out here and talk to me.”
I didn’t see anyone, but a soft male voice drawled back, “What can I help you with, ma’am?”
“You can start by telling me why the hell you nearly made me into a shish kebab. This is a public river. I have a right to be on it.”
“You were getting ready to set down on my land.”
You must understand that “my land” is a sacrosanct term in these parts. Anyone who has managed to hang on to their corner of the earth despite progress, carpetbaggers, real estate developers, and the tax man has formed a mighty powerful attachment to property rights by now. I knew better than to challenge that particular sentiment.
“I was not getting ready to set down on your land,” I said. “Why were you spying on me?”
“What were you looking at over there?” the voice asked in reply. “That’s private land over there. You got no right to be on it.”
“Look,” I said, my voice sounding far more steady than my pulse. “I know you could have hurt me back there if you’d really wanted to. That arrow didn’t hit that tree by accident. You’re a good shot. I know that you were only trying to scare me. If
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