As Good As Gone (9781616206000) Read Free

nap.
    He woke to the sound of two words—
Don’t move
—and Bill’s first thought was that a rattlesnake was nearby, and he made sure he moved nothing but his eyes.
    Which revealed to him a figure aiming a pump-­action .22 at him.
    The rifle was in the hands of a teenager, maybe fourteen or fifteen, and tall and sunburned. The hair curling out from his battered straw hat was so blond it was almost white, and the hat was pulled low and cast his eyes entirely in shadow. Over his shoulder he called out to someone Bill couldn’t see, “Hey, if I shoot this one here, we can bury him on the spot.”
    Another voice, deeper and more serious, answered, “Bury him? What in hell for?”
    The voice attached itself to another tall blond in a straw hat. He was older than the man pointing the rifle at Bill, and there wasn’t much doubt they were brothers. The most important similarity, however, was that he too was armed. His carbine was pointed at Sleepy and Chuck, marching up from the riverbank with their hands raised over their heads.
    The younger man asked his brother, “Should I have this one here stick his hands up too?”
    â€œHe’s laying down, for Christ’s sake. He don’t need his hands up.”
    â€œWas this land posted or something?” Sleepy asked. “We didn’t see any signs. We parked up by the road and hiked down here.”
    â€œWe know where you parked your goddamn car,” the older brother said. “And you don’t fish around here without we say so.”
    â€œYou don’t own this river,” Chuck said. Sleepy’s tone had been conciliatory, but Chuck could barely contain his anger. “We don’t need your permission to fish here.”
    â€œThen how come you got your hands in the air like a scared sonofabitch?”
    That remark brought a giggle from the younger brother. For some reason, his good humor was especially frightening. The older brother’s surly attitude seemed more in keeping with the situation; the younger one’s laughter was the behavior of someone whose next action could not be predicted.
    Still lying flat in the cottonwood’s shade, Bill asked, “Either of you fellows work with the Slash Nine?”
    â€œWhat the hell’s it to you?” the older brother asked.
    â€œI know this is Slash Nine country,” Bill answered, in a voice far too cheerful to belong to a man with a gun pointed at him, “and I thought you boys might be with their outfit.”
    â€œWe don’t work for nobody,” the younger man said hesitantly.
    â€œJust thought I’d ask,” Bill said. “My old man rides with the Slash Nine. You know him? Cal Sidey?”
    â€œNever heard of him,” the older man said, but it didn’t matter. Bill’s willingness to name himself had made him impossible to kill.
    The brothers spat out a few more threats—“Don’t ever wet a line along this stretch of the river or you’ll find yourself facedown in the water”; “Any fish you caught you leave ’em on the stringer; they’re ours now”—but their venom had lost its potency, and they soon sent Bill and his friends on their way.
    Later, back in Gladstone, after Bill, Chuck, and Sleepy told others about their run-­in, they learned about the Hanlon brothers, owners of a small ranch that shared some fence line with the Slash Nine. The Hanlons had a reputation not only for being maniacally territorial but also for black-­hearted meanness. Rumor had it they had once cut the balls off an Indian and left him in a ditch, possibly to bleed to death. Chuck swore that he would return to that span of the river and have his revenge on the brothers. Maybe on his first furlough he’d load up a truck with Gladstone’s toughest men, and they’d give the Hanlons the beatings they deserved. Chuck McMahon was not inclined to bluster or boast; that he never