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goddamn bit and you never have. You shoot me, every police officer for three counties around will come huntin you.”
    John Ashley moved the gunsights down to Bobby Baker’s heart and stroked his chin in affected contemplation for a moment, then shook his head and raised the sights to Bobby’s forehead once again. “Bang!” he said and lowered the pistol and grinned. “You that important now, hey Bobby? All them police would be lookin to even the score for you?”
    “I aint no Indian, Johnny?”
    Bob Ashley said “You sure aint, bubba. You got to be near deaf not to heard us comin up behind you.”
    “You’re under arrest too,” Bobby Baker said to him. “As an accomplice.”
    Bob Ashley hooted and shook his head. “I guess we best shootthese boys, Johnny, before this hardcase decides to tote the whole damn family off to jail.”
    “Oh lord, boys,” the deputy called Sammy said, “dont shoot us, boys.”
    “Shut up, Sammy,” Bobby Baker said. “They aint about to shoot anybody.”
    “Maybe yes and maybe no,” John Ashley said. He gestured at Bob Baker’s leg and said, “Take that thing off and hand it here.”
    Two years earlier Bob Baker had tracked down a Negro fugitive wanted for the murder of his wife and brother and in the ensuing confrontation he had shot the Negro dead at the same moment that the man blew off most of his lower leg with a twelve-gauge buckshot load. The doctors amputated just below the knee and he had since worn a wooden prosthetic. He had become so proficient with it that his walk showed only a hint of awkwardness. None who knew him considered him handicapped. It was a point of pride with him never to mention the leg and his friends knew better than to refer to it in his presence.
    “Well dont just stand there gawkin,” John Ashley said. “Take it off and hand it over.” Bob Ashley guffawed.
    Bob Baker stood fast and glared at him. John Ashley cocked the .44 and aimed it at Bob Baker’s good foot. “You tirin my patience, peckerwood,” he said. “You dont take that thing off right now, I’m gonna shoot you in the other foot is what I’m gonna do.” The early dawnlight had not yet dispersed the ground darkness and everyone’s feet were but vague entities.
    “You aint gonna shoot any part of me, John, and you damn well know it.”
    John Ashley fired. The round tore a chunk off the heel of Bob Baker’s boot and the deputy yipped and flinched sidewise and the loud crack of the gunshot was swallowed almost instantly by the breadth of the surrounding country.
    “Goddamn me if I aint a piss-poor shot,” John Ashley said. Bob Ashley laughed so hard he had a coughing fit.
    John Ashley cocked the piece and this time held it with both hands and aimed at Bob Baker’s foot again and the deputy said, “ Hold it! Hold it, you crazy son of a bitch!” He sat on the ground and tugged up his pants leg and unbuckled the straps holding the prosthetic in place. He handed it up to John Ashley. “You aint right in the head, you know that? You never been.”
    John Ashley was enjoying himself immensely. He hefted the prosthetic leg with its boot still attached and said, “Do much dancin with this thing, Bobby? I guess you lost your taste for dancin since before you got crippled, huh? You know, I dont recall seein you at one single dance after that one you took what’s-her-name to. Judy? Junie? Julie —thats it. Say, whatever become of her, anyhow?”
    Bob Ashley whooped and had another spasm of coughing laughter. Bob Baker sat in place and said nothing but glared at John Ashley who could almost smell the anger rising off him like a malefic vapor. He smiled at how easy it was to rile him with just mention of a girl from their past. “Ah well, enough of relivin the good old days, eh Bobby? You, Sammy, help this poor crippled man to his feet—his foot, I mean.”
    Deputy Barfield pulled Bob Baker up onto his good leg and Bobby braced himself on Sammy’s shoulder. Still chuckling, Bob