He wrenched the stock of the shotgun out of the withered old fingers desperately clutching at it.

“No. I need it for when they come skulkin’ round here again. You wouldn’t leave a poor old woman defenseless would you. Sheriff?

“Defenseless, my eyesack.” Tormel grinned, “Lila, you’re mean as the night is long.”

Emboldened by not being shot or feeling sick from a shockless Caprice Classic fishtailing down a dirt road Winston decided to take his first stab at doing some police work. “Who’s been skulking around here, Ma’am? Can you describe them at all?”

“I heard noises and saw dark shapes going into the barn.”

“How big were these dark shapes?”

Sheriff Tormel squinted, “They furry?’

“You thinking dogs, Sheriff?”

“They was vaguely man shaped.”

Tormel pushed up on the brim of his stetson revealing the smallest wisp of just-greying hair. “Christ, Lila. Probably just the Valens’ boys smokin’ pot in there again.”

“That’s what Jamie thought. But he ain’t come back yet.”

“Who’s Jamie?”

“James Sullivan. He’s a live in ranch hand, started helping her out with the chores ‘bout five years back.” Tormel turned back to the widow. “How long ago, he go out there?”

“Bout forty-five minutes ago.”

“Sheeit. He’s probably smokin’ with ‘em. Alright, we’ll go check your barn,” He handed the shotgun back to the old woman, ” Now, if’n I let you keep this don’t you be pointin’ it near us no more.”

“Promise, Sheriff.”

“And no more shootin’ at blurry shapes. You best put ya’ glasses on and shoot proper if’n you gonna shoot at all.”

“I promise, Sheriff.”

“An, Lila, you brew us up a pot o’ coffee fer’ after, it’s colder than a river Trout’s asshole in February out here.”

*************