Read Online Night Moves by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online
Authors: Randy Wayne White
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trail back to the ridge. So I retreated, moving slowly at first, then faster. When the plane roared overhead a second time, I was slogging at top speed so took only a quick look. From my angle, I couldn’t see if the photographer was snapping pictures or not. Was it two crazy hikers that had interested them? Or the animal I had failed to find?
When I stepped into a clearing, only yards from the ridge, one of my questions was answered. The creature I had been tracking was there awaiting my exit. I had been outsmarted, which isn’t unusual, so I don’t know why I was surprised. But I was.
The animal stood on four sturdy legs studying me, yellow-eyed, ears alert, something recently captured in its mouth. I felt a microsecond of concern, then gradual relief. I moved several steps closer . . . stopped . . . then took a few more steps. Then I held out my hand.
—
“T ELL ME I’m not hallucinating!” Tomlinson hollered as I sloshed up the ridge, the animal trotting at heel beside me. “You found a . . . dog ?”
Yes, I had. “I think he’s a Lab. Or maybe a mixed breed—see the curly hair? He’s been out here lost for a while. Feel him, he’s all ribs and muscle. See all the crud in his coat? No collar, no tags. And something skinned a piece of fur off his tail, plus there’s a chunk missing from his leg. This guy’s had a tough time.”
“A dog’s a good sign, man. My morale was drooping. But finding a dog in the middle of fumbuck . . . Whoa . . . What’s he got in his mouth?” As Tomlinson asked the question, his eyes swerved to the Cessna, which was disappearing toward the west.
I felt a cold nose nudge my hand, so I scratched the dog’s ears. “A snake. But he won’t let me have it. The thing’s been dead a couple of days, from the smell, and part of it’s still wrapped around his neck. He either bit the thing in half or he ate it. So he had a hell of a battle with a boa or a python, maybe a small anaconda. I won’t know until he lets me take a closer look.”
Tomlinson grimaced like he’d just eaten something foul. “A serpent is never a good omen, man. It’s the worst sort of juju—Christ, a boa constrictor ,you mean?”
I shrugged and said, “Dan might have mentioned seeing a few in the area.”
“A snake cancels out the good dog mojo. Which makes sense after what just happened. The guy in that plane, he shot at me, man! You didn’t hear me yelling?”
I looked up. “Baloney.”
“No, he had a what’s-you-call-it on a small gun. A scope. You know . . . like with crosshairs? Fired once on his first pass, then he shot maybe twice on the second. I remained motionless, that’s the only reason he missed. You know, like a chameleon blending into the grass.”
“Your powers of psychic cloaking saved you,” I suggested.
“Sarcasm—the shield of the unenlightened,” Tomlinson replied and tugged at his safari shirt. “It’s because of my desert khaki. Same color as the sawgrass.”
Even sober, my friend had a vivid imagination. “If someone had been shooting at you,” I said, “I would’ve heard the shots. A gunshot is a hell of a lot louder than a Cessna passing at two hundred feet. It was someone taking pictures. Now, toss me that first-aid kit. But keep the stuff you need for your feet.”
He was still tracking the plane, which was no bigger than a vulture against the Gulf blue sky. Finally, though, he lobbed the kit to me, saying, “I’m surprised they gave up so easy. Someone’s out to get me, man. I told you.” He nodded at the retriever, which had yet to leave my side. “Like I said, snake’s bad juju.”
My pal was making no sense whatsoever, so I knelt and inspected the dog’s ears and neck, ignoring the carrion stench of the snake in his mouth. He was a fully grown retriever, medium height, a hedge of curly charcoal hair along his back, still a young dog, from his looks, but now oddly stoic after the excitement of being found. I removed
When I stepped into a clearing, only yards from the ridge, one of my questions was answered. The creature I had been tracking was there awaiting my exit. I had been outsmarted, which isn’t unusual, so I don’t know why I was surprised. But I was.
The animal stood on four sturdy legs studying me, yellow-eyed, ears alert, something recently captured in its mouth. I felt a microsecond of concern, then gradual relief. I moved several steps closer . . . stopped . . . then took a few more steps. Then I held out my hand.
—
“T ELL ME I’m not hallucinating!” Tomlinson hollered as I sloshed up the ridge, the animal trotting at heel beside me. “You found a . . . dog ?”
Yes, I had. “I think he’s a Lab. Or maybe a mixed breed—see the curly hair? He’s been out here lost for a while. Feel him, he’s all ribs and muscle. See all the crud in his coat? No collar, no tags. And something skinned a piece of fur off his tail, plus there’s a chunk missing from his leg. This guy’s had a tough time.”
“A dog’s a good sign, man. My morale was drooping. But finding a dog in the middle of fumbuck . . . Whoa . . . What’s he got in his mouth?” As Tomlinson asked the question, his eyes swerved to the Cessna, which was disappearing toward the west.
I felt a cold nose nudge my hand, so I scratched the dog’s ears. “A snake. But he won’t let me have it. The thing’s been dead a couple of days, from the smell, and part of it’s still wrapped around his neck. He either bit the thing in half or he ate it. So he had a hell of a battle with a boa or a python, maybe a small anaconda. I won’t know until he lets me take a closer look.”
Tomlinson grimaced like he’d just eaten something foul. “A serpent is never a good omen, man. It’s the worst sort of juju—Christ, a boa constrictor ,you mean?”
I shrugged and said, “Dan might have mentioned seeing a few in the area.”
“A snake cancels out the good dog mojo. Which makes sense after what just happened. The guy in that plane, he shot at me, man! You didn’t hear me yelling?”
I looked up. “Baloney.”
“No, he had a what’s-you-call-it on a small gun. A scope. You know . . . like with crosshairs? Fired once on his first pass, then he shot maybe twice on the second. I remained motionless, that’s the only reason he missed. You know, like a chameleon blending into the grass.”
“Your powers of psychic cloaking saved you,” I suggested.
“Sarcasm—the shield of the unenlightened,” Tomlinson replied and tugged at his safari shirt. “It’s because of my desert khaki. Same color as the sawgrass.”
Even sober, my friend had a vivid imagination. “If someone had been shooting at you,” I said, “I would’ve heard the shots. A gunshot is a hell of a lot louder than a Cessna passing at two hundred feet. It was someone taking pictures. Now, toss me that first-aid kit. But keep the stuff you need for your feet.”
He was still tracking the plane, which was no bigger than a vulture against the Gulf blue sky. Finally, though, he lobbed the kit to me, saying, “I’m surprised they gave up so easy. Someone’s out to get me, man. I told you.” He nodded at the retriever, which had yet to leave my side. “Like I said, snake’s bad juju.”
My pal was making no sense whatsoever, so I knelt and inspected the dog’s ears and neck, ignoring the carrion stench of the snake in his mouth. He was a fully grown retriever, medium height, a hedge of curly charcoal hair along his back, still a young dog, from his looks, but now oddly stoic after the excitement of being found. I removed