carefully laying down the pine-needle pathway to the two pounds of cinnamon buns.
"Do you always put them near a tree?"
"Yep. And the tree must be big enough. You have to anchor the cable."
Going back to the truck, Telford said, "We'll probably set more right in trails than anywhere else. They use the same ones again and again. You dig under the prints, place the snare, then cover it with leaves or pine needles...."
During the morning, Chip told him about visiting Jack Slade.
Telford shrugged. "Tell a hunter he can't hunt in his own backyard and you've got a problem."
They placed four more snares about a mile apart, two of them on trails covered with prints, before winding up in late afternoon.
"We'll check all of them early tomorrow to see what we've caught," Telford said.
"They always get trapped at night?"
"Anytime. But we'll check them constantly in this warm weather so they won't spend much time in captivity. The idea is to catch them, do all the necessary things, then turn them loose. Two hours or less if possible."
Soon Chip was crossing the lake toward home.
***
ALVIN HOWELL was a worn-out subject in the Sanders house. Sam's papa said two years ago that he never wanted to hear the name again, and even Sam's usually sympathetic mother said it was high time to bury Mr. Howell forever.
But Mrs. Howell's mention of Alvin raising fighting roosters and gambling on them sent Sam to Dunnegan's on her bike. She considered Dunnegan her best adult friend.
There was always a rich coffee smell in his store, most people around the Powhatan drinking fresh-ground regular. Decaf was considered dishwater. Dunnegan had all the usual 7-Eleven, AM-PM, and Jiffy Market wares, plus fishhooks and sinkers and lures, shotgun shells, duck calls, and decoys. Worm beds were out in back, night crawlers being a big item.
Dunnegan had a first name, Desmond, which he didn't like, so everyone in the area called him by his
last name. A bald-headed, pudgy man, he was in his early forties. He'd bought the general store about ten years ago but had almost lost it to Kentucky bourbon, booze on his breath from dawn to dark. So Sam hadn't been surprised to learn that Dunnegan went to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in Lizzie City.
After buying a Sprite, popping it, and taking a sip, Sam asked, "You know anyone around here who goes to cockfights?"
Dunnegan's brows inched up. "Hmh. A few. Why do you ask?"
"Alvin Howell raised gamecocks and bet on them, his widow said."
"I haven't heard his name in years. Yeah, he was into cockfights, as I remember. It's not legal, you know. I only went to one and didn't stay. I drove ol' Jack Slade to a barn on a farm off East One Fifty-nine. It was a tournament fight, with steel spurs on the roosters. I couldn't stomach it and told Jack to find another way home. Just the sight..."
He stopped and widened his frown. "Why do you ask?"
"I think gambling on those fights had something to do with his murder."
"Whoa, Samuel! You found him, I remember."
She nodded.
"Give you some good advice. Forget all about Alvin Howell, and stay away from those gamecock people.
They're mostly no-goods. By mostly I mean ninety-nine percent. Some sport. Chicken fights..." He made a sour face.
"Anyone else, aside from Jack Slade?"
"You couldn't pay me to tell you, and I'm sorry I mentioned his name. You caught me by surprise. You ought to be headin' home."
Sam agreed and departed, but not before she asked, "Where does he live?"
"Pardon me, I just forgot...."
***
THE YELLOWFLIES ate the swamp mosquitoesâbut they were a lot more vicious to humans than to mosquitoes, so Chip and his father were safely inside at dusk, behind window and door screens, out in the kitchen.
"This has to be the best day of my life,
the
best day. There may have been better ones before I was six, but I can't remember any."
"I'm glad. I'm really glad."
"And the thing I like about Telford is that he never once belittled me. He made me an equal,
"Do you always put them near a tree?"
"Yep. And the tree must be big enough. You have to anchor the cable."
Going back to the truck, Telford said, "We'll probably set more right in trails than anywhere else. They use the same ones again and again. You dig under the prints, place the snare, then cover it with leaves or pine needles...."
During the morning, Chip told him about visiting Jack Slade.
Telford shrugged. "Tell a hunter he can't hunt in his own backyard and you've got a problem."
They placed four more snares about a mile apart, two of them on trails covered with prints, before winding up in late afternoon.
"We'll check all of them early tomorrow to see what we've caught," Telford said.
"They always get trapped at night?"
"Anytime. But we'll check them constantly in this warm weather so they won't spend much time in captivity. The idea is to catch them, do all the necessary things, then turn them loose. Two hours or less if possible."
Soon Chip was crossing the lake toward home.
***
ALVIN HOWELL was a worn-out subject in the Sanders house. Sam's papa said two years ago that he never wanted to hear the name again, and even Sam's usually sympathetic mother said it was high time to bury Mr. Howell forever.
But Mrs. Howell's mention of Alvin raising fighting roosters and gambling on them sent Sam to Dunnegan's on her bike. She considered Dunnegan her best adult friend.
There was always a rich coffee smell in his store, most people around the Powhatan drinking fresh-ground regular. Decaf was considered dishwater. Dunnegan had all the usual 7-Eleven, AM-PM, and Jiffy Market wares, plus fishhooks and sinkers and lures, shotgun shells, duck calls, and decoys. Worm beds were out in back, night crawlers being a big item.
Dunnegan had a first name, Desmond, which he didn't like, so everyone in the area called him by his
last name. A bald-headed, pudgy man, he was in his early forties. He'd bought the general store about ten years ago but had almost lost it to Kentucky bourbon, booze on his breath from dawn to dark. So Sam hadn't been surprised to learn that Dunnegan went to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in Lizzie City.
After buying a Sprite, popping it, and taking a sip, Sam asked, "You know anyone around here who goes to cockfights?"
Dunnegan's brows inched up. "Hmh. A few. Why do you ask?"
"Alvin Howell raised gamecocks and bet on them, his widow said."
"I haven't heard his name in years. Yeah, he was into cockfights, as I remember. It's not legal, you know. I only went to one and didn't stay. I drove ol' Jack Slade to a barn on a farm off East One Fifty-nine. It was a tournament fight, with steel spurs on the roosters. I couldn't stomach it and told Jack to find another way home. Just the sight..."
He stopped and widened his frown. "Why do you ask?"
"I think gambling on those fights had something to do with his murder."
"Whoa, Samuel! You found him, I remember."
She nodded.
"Give you some good advice. Forget all about Alvin Howell, and stay away from those gamecock people.
They're mostly no-goods. By mostly I mean ninety-nine percent. Some sport. Chicken fights..." He made a sour face.
"Anyone else, aside from Jack Slade?"
"You couldn't pay me to tell you, and I'm sorry I mentioned his name. You caught me by surprise. You ought to be headin' home."
Sam agreed and departed, but not before she asked, "Where does he live?"
"Pardon me, I just forgot...."
***
THE YELLOWFLIES ate the swamp mosquitoesâbut they were a lot more vicious to humans than to mosquitoes, so Chip and his father were safely inside at dusk, behind window and door screens, out in the kitchen.
"This has to be the best day of my life,
the
best day. There may have been better ones before I was six, but I can't remember any."
"I'm glad. I'm really glad."
"And the thing I like about Telford is that he never once belittled me. He made me an equal,
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