edges and the old alpaca coat hung from bony shoulders.
The garden on the other side of the track was overgrown, the fences broken and the clapboard farmhouse beyond was dilapidated, shingles missing in places from the roof. There was an atmosphere of decay to everything.
An old hound dog nosed out of the undergrowth and limped towards him and Doc Floyd leaned down and fondled its ears.
'All wore out, Sam, just like you.'
He straightened at the sound of a car approaching and said softly, 'Looks like they're here, Sam. Let's go.' And he went up through the broken fence towards the house, the dog trailing him.
When he went round to the front, a de Soto sedan was parked there. The man in the dark suit who leaned against it, wiping sweat from his face, fanning himself with his hat at the same time, was middle-aged and overweight. His name was George Harvey and he was manager of the Huntsville National Bank. The man beside him could have been any one of a hundred local farmers to judge by his faded jeans and sweat-stained felt hat. The only difference was the deputy's badge on his chest and the pistol in the holster on his left hip.
Harvey said, 'Ah, there you are Doc. You know Larry Schultz?'
'Sure I do,' Doc said. 'Mary OK now, Larry? I heard she was under the weather.'
'It was nothing. She's fine now.' Schultz was embarrassed and it showed.
'OK, let's get down to business,' Harvey said. 'The bank's been very patient, Doc, but enough is enough. I have to ask you formally now. Are you in a position to settle?'
'You know damn well I'm not,' Doc told him flatly.
Harvey turned to Schultz. 'Serve your papers.'
Schultz produced a folded document from his shirt pocket and held it out to the old man who took it from him. 'Sorry Doc,' he said.
Doc shrugged. 'Not your fault, Larry, we all got to eat.'
Harvey got behind the wheel of the de Soto and switched on the motor. 'OK, Larry, let's go. I'm a busy man.'
Schultz went round to the other side and got into the passenger seat. Doc ran a finger over the gleaming paintwork. 'Some car, Mr Harvey. I suppose a car like this must cost a heap of money?'
'Seven days, that's what you've got,' Harvey said. 'Then the bank forecloses and that means everything, Doc, so don't you move a damn thing out of here.'
He drove away very fast, spraying dirt, and disappeared along the track through the trees towards the main road. Doc Floyd stood there for a long moment, then turned and mounted the steps to the porch and went inside, the dog following him.
He found a half-full bottle of whisky and a glass and sat at the table in the untidy, shabby room, drinking slowly, savouring it as if it might be the last drink he was likely to have.
His eyes roamed around the room, taking in the sagging furniture, the worn carpet, and finally came to rest on the photo of his wife in the old silver frame.
'Not much to show for forty years of living, old girl,' he said softly.
He toasted her, emptied the glass in a quick swallow and poured another.
It was perhaps an hour later that he became aware of the sound of a car approaching up the track outside and by then he was drunk enough to be angry.
'The bastard, Sam,' he said softly to the dog. 'Back already.'
He stood up, took an old double-barrelled shotgun down from the wall, found some cartridges in a drawer, and loaded it as he went to the door. The hound dog whined anxiously and followed.
Doc stood on the porch outside, the gun ready in his hand, only the car which had stopped in the middle of the yard wasn't the de Soto. It was a Ford coupe and the man in the black felt hat and neat dark suit who slid out from behind the wheel was definitely not George Harvey.
'Hello, Doc,' he called softly. 'That's a hell of a welcome.'
Doc lowered the shotgun in astonishment. 'Jesus Christ,' he said. 'Johnny Dillinger. You shouldn't be here. They come looking for you just day before yesterday.'
'Who's they?'
'A bunch of lawmen. Come in two cars. Fellow who
The garden on the other side of the track was overgrown, the fences broken and the clapboard farmhouse beyond was dilapidated, shingles missing in places from the roof. There was an atmosphere of decay to everything.
An old hound dog nosed out of the undergrowth and limped towards him and Doc Floyd leaned down and fondled its ears.
'All wore out, Sam, just like you.'
He straightened at the sound of a car approaching and said softly, 'Looks like they're here, Sam. Let's go.' And he went up through the broken fence towards the house, the dog trailing him.
When he went round to the front, a de Soto sedan was parked there. The man in the dark suit who leaned against it, wiping sweat from his face, fanning himself with his hat at the same time, was middle-aged and overweight. His name was George Harvey and he was manager of the Huntsville National Bank. The man beside him could have been any one of a hundred local farmers to judge by his faded jeans and sweat-stained felt hat. The only difference was the deputy's badge on his chest and the pistol in the holster on his left hip.
Harvey said, 'Ah, there you are Doc. You know Larry Schultz?'
'Sure I do,' Doc said. 'Mary OK now, Larry? I heard she was under the weather.'
'It was nothing. She's fine now.' Schultz was embarrassed and it showed.
'OK, let's get down to business,' Harvey said. 'The bank's been very patient, Doc, but enough is enough. I have to ask you formally now. Are you in a position to settle?'
'You know damn well I'm not,' Doc told him flatly.
Harvey turned to Schultz. 'Serve your papers.'
Schultz produced a folded document from his shirt pocket and held it out to the old man who took it from him. 'Sorry Doc,' he said.
Doc shrugged. 'Not your fault, Larry, we all got to eat.'
Harvey got behind the wheel of the de Soto and switched on the motor. 'OK, Larry, let's go. I'm a busy man.'
Schultz went round to the other side and got into the passenger seat. Doc ran a finger over the gleaming paintwork. 'Some car, Mr Harvey. I suppose a car like this must cost a heap of money?'
'Seven days, that's what you've got,' Harvey said. 'Then the bank forecloses and that means everything, Doc, so don't you move a damn thing out of here.'
He drove away very fast, spraying dirt, and disappeared along the track through the trees towards the main road. Doc Floyd stood there for a long moment, then turned and mounted the steps to the porch and went inside, the dog following him.
He found a half-full bottle of whisky and a glass and sat at the table in the untidy, shabby room, drinking slowly, savouring it as if it might be the last drink he was likely to have.
His eyes roamed around the room, taking in the sagging furniture, the worn carpet, and finally came to rest on the photo of his wife in the old silver frame.
'Not much to show for forty years of living, old girl,' he said softly.
He toasted her, emptied the glass in a quick swallow and poured another.
It was perhaps an hour later that he became aware of the sound of a car approaching up the track outside and by then he was drunk enough to be angry.
'The bastard, Sam,' he said softly to the dog. 'Back already.'
He stood up, took an old double-barrelled shotgun down from the wall, found some cartridges in a drawer, and loaded it as he went to the door. The hound dog whined anxiously and followed.
Doc stood on the porch outside, the gun ready in his hand, only the car which had stopped in the middle of the yard wasn't the de Soto. It was a Ford coupe and the man in the black felt hat and neat dark suit who slid out from behind the wheel was definitely not George Harvey.
'Hello, Doc,' he called softly. 'That's a hell of a welcome.'
Doc lowered the shotgun in astonishment. 'Jesus Christ,' he said. 'Johnny Dillinger. You shouldn't be here. They come looking for you just day before yesterday.'
'Who's they?'
'A bunch of lawmen. Come in two cars. Fellow who
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