Hunter’s Dance Read Free Page B

throttling him herself. Let John McIntire break up another scuffle, earn the two and a half dollars they were paying him to be here. The man met her glare with a jack-o’-lantern grin, stuck a fork and knife into his shirt pocket, and picked up the plate.
    Mia watched the skinny shoulders disappear into the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea for his passing. Obnoxious runt. And they’d probably never see that fork again. She wondered how he’d gotten here.
    Her speculations were cut short by Sally’s nudge to her elbow, and Mia looked up into the face of an angel. The next patron at the trough was definitely no hog. Here was a vision of thick silver-white hair, a gentle smile, and bottomless hazel eyes that said that smile was for her and her alone. The room suddenly became, once again, far too hot. Rivulets of sweat began to flow, sending chill tracks from Mia’s armpit to her waist and gluing her blouse to her rib cage. She felt an overwhelming desire to scramble over the counter and nestle into the stranger’s sweater-covered chest.
    â€œNo beans, thank you. Give my share to Yosemite Sam there.” The man picked up his plate and bestowed his intimate smile on Evelyn Turner, who led him off, stuck to his side like a leech.
    Sally poked her again. “Do you know that guy?”
    â€œNever seen him before,” Mia answered, without taking her eyes off the dampish curls at the back of his neck. No, they weren’t long enough to be curls. Just endearing little wisps of silver lying on suntanned skin. The man found a seat and was descended upon by a group of middle-aged women who suddenly remembered that they had not yet paid their respects to Mrs. Turner. Mia had the feeling that, if the enchanting newcomer stuck around, they’d all be hearing plenty of him. Nick might have more than his reputation as chief imbiber to look out for.

III
    Can anyone whose soul has been filled with legends ever free himself of their dominion?
    Adam Wall lived in a twenty-five foot trailer house wedged among the stately beech trees that fringed the shore of Lake Superior. He’d hauled it over the ice the previous winter. This time of year his home was accessible either by water or a half-mile footpath that led from the grounds of his parents’ only slightly more impressive dwelling.
    McIntire chose to walk, even though it would mean a staring match, or worse, with Charlie and Eleanor Wall’s two dogs, animals that Charlie proudly claimed to be “purebred Australian shepherds.” McIntire might not be an expert on canine pedigrees, but even he could see that these two brindled brutes weren’t pure anything except evil. This morning they occupied their usual positions on the faded boards of the Walls’ front porch, chins on paws, eyes lazy yellow slits. He left the car at the end of the short driveway and set out, with feigned confidence, toward the yard.
    On his first step, four bristled ears lifted almost imperceptibly. On his second, the two sets of malevolent eyes opened and locked on his. On his third step, the pair rose as one, silent, languid, not a wasted movement, block-like front quarters slowly coming erect, then a momentary hesitation before the haunches followed in one sinuous movement. On his fifth step the blankets of hair on the shoulders rose up. McIntire decided against a sixth step.
    The Walls’ Plymouth was not in the yard. They’d likely gone to Mass in Aura; no hope of rescue from that quarter. But McIntire knew his part in this minor pageant, and he played it out as he had many times before.
    Adam Wall’s Ford pickup sat on low tires in its customary spot under a willow tree at the side of the drive. McIntire sidled up to it, and, without taking his eyes off the twin hounds of hell, felt for the door handle, pulled it open, and gave a short blast on the horn. The sound was met with a ferocious baying, not from the alleged Australian shepherds