Clark was a lady-killer. Tall, well built, handsome, with the tight auburn curls that the babes loved. At twenty-five he had the world by the tail. He was also the night bartender at Smokey’s Corner and was thinking positively. The old man had stayed a little late, for him, until after six, drinking too much, shooting the shit with old buddies who stopped in. Which meant that he wouldn’t be back. He’d go home and settle in before the TV and fall asleep. About ten, he’d wake up and call the bar to say he was going to bed and was everything all right? And if the crowd was as nonexistent as Clark figured, he’d be out of here himself by midnight, easy. Maybe even eleven.
The after-work crowd was long gone. The only sports on the tube tonight was wrestling. There wasn’t that much interest in wrestling in Butte. Please, please, Clark prayed, don’t let a bunch of goddamn bikers or late-quitting construction workers come in and settle down for a night of boozing. It was a weeknight, not many people out and about. It looked very much like he’d be out of here in time to drop by Nancy’s pad—she’d let him in because it wouldn’t be too late for her to get her “beauty sleep.” And they’d be porking on the couch by midnight. He was almost positive that he’d timed her period right: she should be just about due, but not for a day or two. A good Catholic girl, she hated condoms and wouldn’t use the pill, so it was the rhythm method or take a hike. And if she didn’t let him in, he had some other numbers he could call.
In fact, things went even better than he’d hoped. Nobody even asked to see what was on the tube. Nobody came in but a few regulars for a quick shot and a beer, and still nobody came in, and Smokey called before ten. He sounded like hell, just woke up. He was going to bed. No way he could come over to check the receipts, no reason. He had full trust in Clark, who, like all of Smokey’s boys, was not so dumb as to think it might be all right to skim off a canny old crook like Smokey.
“Kinda slow tonight?” Smokey inquired.
“A fuckin’ morgue,” Clark said. “Hasn’t been anybody in for damn near an hour. Okay if I shut her down early?”
“Give her ’til ’leven,” Smokey said. “It’s prob’ly the same all over town. If Pat & Mike’s shuts down early, and the Racetrack, and the Helsinki, there’ll be guys running all over town looking for a drink.”
“The M&M’s always open,” Clark pointed out. He was amazed that the old man gave a shit about the convenience of Butte’s drunks. Lord knows, at least a half dozen other bars up and down the hill would be open until two A.M.
“Well, give her ’til ’leven,” Smokey said. “If you ain’t got no business, lock her down. I’ll see ya tamorra. And be sure the cases are all stocked before you leave.”
“They’re already stocked, boss. I finished half’nour ago. I was just gonna put the chairs up and sweep.” In fact, Clark had already put the chairs up on the tables and even the stools onto the bar. He’d done damn near everything, in fact, except turn out the damned sign. After the boss finally hung up he started to count the till.
And then the door banged open. Wouldn’t you know it? Clark saw that it was the big guy who had been in the night before. “We’re about closed,” he called out.
“Aw, it’s early,” the guy said. He yanked a stool off the bar and sat on it heavily, as if he meant to stay. “Gimme a shot a that … lessee,” he said, scanning the back bar. “You don’t have no sliv’vitz. No? All right, make it the Stoli. Make it a fuckin’ double, Jack. Er, pard. That’s what you say around here, ain’t it?”
He hauled out a fistful of bills and dropped some fifties on the bar and on the floor. He bent down to pick up the fallen bills, one hand covering those on the bar. When he straightened up Clark was holding the Stolichnaya and a double shot glass and making a face. “What’s the prob, Bob?” the guy said.
“Aw, hell,” Clark said. “I just counted the till. I ain’t got change for that. Here, I’ll pour you one on the house.”
“Well, shit, pard, I’m gonna need more than one,” the guy said. He fumbled in his pocket again and found a ten.
“There’s other bars up the hill,” Clark said. He poured the shot glass full. “There, drink that up.”
The guy picked up the shot glass and emptied it in one quick jolt. “Ah, yes,” he said and drew in his breath gratefully. “Another.” He shoved the glass forward.
Clark shook his head. “Sorry, pal.”
“Hey,” the guy said, leaning forward. His eyes were watery and he wasn’t focusing well. He probably shouldn’t be served, Clark thought. But the guy concentrated now and said, in a low, ominous tone, “I’m try’na be nice, pard. Just a customer. I can pay.” He shoved the ten forward.
Clark glanced up at the clock. He had plenty of time. This guy wouldn’t need much. The only thing was, he feared, the longer he stayed open, the more likely that someone else would come in. But—he sighed—it was probably less time-consuming to give this bird his shot, or two, and get rid of him that way—avoid a hassle. So he smiled and shrugged and poured another. “On the house,” he said.
“I like that,” the guy said, with a grin. “Price is right.” He tossed the shot down. “Another,” he said.
Clark sighed again. “Tell you what,” he said, “there’s … what?” He held up the bottle and shook it. “A good half a bottle here. I’ll sell you the rest for ten bucks.” He pushed the bottle over.
The guy grabbed the bottle and poured himself another shot, slopping it over the top. He eased the glass aside and leaned his big head down to suck up the spilled vodka from the bar with a slurp. Clark was tempted to crack the oaf over the head with the bottle. Instead, he patiently said, “Go ahead, take the bottle.” He waved toward the door.
The guy picked up the shot glass and tossed down the vodka. “Wow,” he said and gave a little shudder. “I just wanta ask a question,” he went on when he’d regained his composure. “Pour me another one, my hands are a little shaky.”
Clark poured another. This time the guy let it sit.
“I was in here last night and I ask you about a guy named Franko Bradovic. Only, I find out he goes by Frank Ob’ravich. ’Member?” When Clark nodded, the guy went on, “You said you din’t know him. But I seen the way you said it, you did know him. Then I seen you look down the bar”—the guy cast a glance down the empty bar in demonstration—“and there was this old fart standin’ down there and he gave a little sign, with his head. But I seen it.”
The guy paused and drank down the shot of vodka and gestured for another. Clark complied. Again, the man let it sit.
“So, you do know Franko. I was gonna come back, but I thought … well, what the fuck does it matter what I thought? Anyways, I’m back. So tell me about Franko.” He folded his arms on the bar and looked at Clark.
Clark considered briefly, then said, “You’re a friend of Frank’s?” The guy didn’t look like any friend, but Clark didn’t know Frank all that well. This guy was younger than Frank though probably not by too much, and kind of rough but wearing what looked like a cashmere turtleneck and a fine dark leather coat. Obviously he wasn’t a bum. Maybe someone Frank had met in California. What the heck, Oberavich could look after himself, Clark thought. Still, there was a rule: if anything funny happened with Frank and Smokey found out he’d told the guy…. But how could Smokey find that out? The important thing, he decided, was to get this yahoo out of here before someone else came in.
“Me’n Franko go way back,” the guy said.
“Are we talking about the same guy?” Clark said. “What does this Franko look like?”
“Jesus,” the guy said with a sigh. He propped his head between his hands, his elbows on the bar. He groaned and held his head tightly. When he looked up he seemed less drunk, obviously concentrating mightily. “I’m just askin’ ’bout a ol’ buddy,” he said. “You wanta know, he’s about thirty-five, medium height”—he held his hand out at his side at about a foot less than his own six feet and a few inches—“dark hair, a mustache. Not a bad-looking fella, if he’d lighten up, once.”
“Nah,” Clark said, shaking his head. “Frank Oberavich I know is, oh, not quite thirty, blond—dishwater blond, you know? He’s skinny, ’bout five-six or -seven. Wears glasses, or used to. Different guy entirely. Here, here’s your bottle, pard.” He pushed the Stolichnaya forward.
The guy sat back with a puzzled look. He reached out absently and picked up the full shot glass and drank it off. This time he didn’t shudder, just looked thoughtful. “No shit,” he said, finally. He looked at Clark closely. “No shit?”
“No shit,” Clark said.
The guy thought for a second, then said, “Well, where’s this fucker live?”
“Out in the boonies,” Clark said. “North of here. He’s got a place way back in the hills. I couldn’t begin to tell you how to get there. It’s way up French Forque, somewhere.”
The guy looked confused now. “You got his number?”
“No, I sure don’t,” Clark said.
“Who would have it?” the guy asked.
Clark shrugged. “His family, maybe. His uncle Gary works for the railroad. You might be able to get hold of him.”
“You got his number?”
Clark eyed the man calculatingly, registering a description, in case it became necessary: big guy, about twenty-five, drunk, open face, dark hair with a white patch in front, alternately amiable and hostile…. He searched for an apposite term, but the best he could come up with was bombastic, which didn’t quite say it. “Who’s asking, pard?” he said, temporizing.
“Just a ol’ pal of Franko’s,” the guy offered, breaking into a disarming grin. “All’s I want is to give him a call.”
Clark nodded, resting his hands on the bar. “So, what’s the deal, your name a state secret? Next time I see Frank in town I’ll say, ‘Hey, did what’s-his-name ever get in touch with you?’ Give me a break.”
The guy leaned forward with a belligerent look on his face, but Clark stepped away and dropped his hand down out of sight. The guy hesitated. He had learned that bartenders were not good people to mess with, especially big, athletic ones like pretty boy here. He had a feeling that there was something useful to a bartender at hand back there—a bat, possibly a gun, a shotgun even. He started to slip his hand into his coat pocket but realized that pretty boy was watching him very carefully. Instead he reached out for the vodka bottle and took a jolt from it directly.
“It’s a long story,” he said, when he had swallowed the good smooth, warming liquid. He sat down on the stool again and Clark relaxed, folding his arms and leaning back on the back bar. “Franko had a chick,” the guy went on. “She run off with me. Franko was pissed, natcherly. I felt bad about it, but what can a guy do? A babe makes up her mind, she does what she wants. But then we broke up. I just happened to be going through town and I thought I’d look up Franko, tell him what happened, maybe bygones will be bygones. See?” He spread his hands openly. “No big deal.”
Clark shook his head and looked disgusted. Was this asshole ever going to leave? “So, do you have a name or not?” he asked.
The guy rolled his eyes and looked about him as if appealing to an invisible audience, his hands spread in innocence and long-suffering patience. “Jeez! I all’s heard Butte was a friendly town. Okay, tell him Badger was asking after him. All right?”
“Badger? That a last name or a first name?”
“Just Badge. Or Boz. Yeah, tell him Boz.” He pronounced it Boze. “Franko’ll know. So what’s his uncle’s number?”
Clark opened a drawer in the back bar and brought out the telephone book, opening it on the bar. He paged through it, then read out the number. Boz reached over and tore the page out from under his hand.
“Thanks,” Boz said. “Lemme use your phone.”
Clark had lost patience. “Get the fuck out of here, pal,” he said. He reached under the bar again, and this time he came up with a Little League baseball bat. A very handy and dangerous-looking weapon.
Boz started back, his hand going to his coat pocket. But then he grabbed the bottle and stalked out, shouting over his shoulder, “Thanks for nothing, dickhead!”
Clark blew out his breath in relief. He quickly locked and bolted the door behind him and switched off the sign. He glanced at the clock. Plenty of time. His agile mind turned instantly to more lustful thoughts.
Boz drove his rented car uptown—very carefully, after a Silver Bow sheriff’s car cruised across an intersection before him. He realized he didn’t know where he was going. He parked the car uptown and went into another bar, the M&M. This place was livelier than Smokey’s. It had a keno game going and a lunch counter. He’d been in here before. They hadn’t known Frank Oberavich, either. Friendly Butte, he thought, bitterly. This time he stepped up next to a fellow at the bar who looked a little tattered and worn, gazing forlornly at a half-empty glass of beer.
Boz called out, “I’ll have a double shot of Stoli and a beer. And give one to my pard here.”
The bartender said, “No Stoli. Smirnoff’s. That do?”
“Sure,” Boz said. He smiled at the little guy next to him. “Whattaya say, pard? Smirnoff?”
The little guy smiled back; he lacked a few teeth. “Kessler’s, if you don’t mind. And a beer.”
Boz nodded, and the bartender brought the beers and the drinks. Boz lifted his shot and nodded to the little guy. “Nasdravie,” he said, tossing down the shot.
The little guy sipped his Kessler’s and replied, “Smooth as silk.”
Boz said, as soon as they were comfortable, “You live around here, pard?”
“All my life,” the fellow said.
“Where’s this Quartz?”
“The street? Just a couple blocks over,” the little guy gestured. “What number?”
Boz gave a number, not the right one. He figured if he could find the street he’d find the address. A few minutes later he left, having bought his friend another drink, as well as one for himself. He found Quartz easily enough. It wasn’t too difficult to locate the house, an older two-story behind a little picket fence, with neighbors an arm’s reach on either side. Boz took another swig out of the vodka bottle and went up to the house.
There were lights, including the telltale flicker of the television in the front room. A little dog yapped. A man’s voice shushed the dog, and a man came to answer the doorbell. He was in his fifties, dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt with NAVY stenciled on it. He was a good-sized man, hefty, bald, wearing steel-rimmed glasses. “Yanh?” he said as he opened the door, holding the little dog back with his slippered foot.
“Hi,” Boz said, leaning on the jamb. “Say, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for a fella—they tell me he’s your nephew.”
The man looked Boz over and frowned. “Which one?” he said. “It’s kinda late, you know.”
“Frank,” Boz said.
“Whattaya want with Frank?” the man asked. Then he said, “Maybe you better look him up yourself, tomorrow.” He started to close the storm door.
Boz caught the door. He smiled broadly. “Oh, say, pard, I drove clear out here to see Frank. All I want’s his phone number, tell him I’m here, where I’m staying.”
The man pursed his lips with annoyance. “What’s your name?” he said. “Where you staying? I’ll tell him in the morning.”
“All I need’s his number,” Boz said. “Don’t mean to bother you. I’ll call him tomorrow, after I rest up a bit.”
“He don’t have no phone,” the man said. “You better go sleep it off.” He tried to close the door, but Boz had stuck his big shoe into the opening. “Hey, asshole! Beat it!” the man said. He reached through the opening and shoved Boz backward.
Boz lurched but didn’t remove his shoe. His hand came up with a large brushed-metal Glock 9mm automatic. He held it pointed at the man’s head. “I tried to be nice, fucker,” he said. He yanked the door open and entered the house as the man backed into the living room, his hands held up.
“Whoa,” the man said. “Be careful with that thing!”
The little dog, a tiny ball of white wool, dashed forward. Boz kicked it across the room. It squealed and ran behind the couch, whining and mewling. A comedian on the television was grinning and talking; people were laughing. A woman came out of the back of the house, wearing a robe. She was gray-haired and stout. She saw the gun and started to retreat.
“Come back here!” Boz ordered. She crept back into the room. “Sit down, both a you.” He gestured with the gun while he extended his arm behind him to close the heavy front door. He stepped into the living room again and glanced at the front windows. They were large, double-hung casement windows, covered with lace curtains. Boz didn’t think he could be easily observed from the street, but he thrust the gun into his coat pocket with his hand on it.
The couple sat on the edge of the couch. The woman was frightened, but the man was angry. He put his arm around his wife. “What the hell you want?” he said belligerently.
Boz was excited. He started to yank the gun out of his pocket, but instead he just swore. “Goddamn it,” he said, “I didn’t want to…. All right.” He paused to get hold of himself. “All I want, I mean…. I been trying to find this fu—” He stopped. “This guy. He’s a buddy. Franko. Your nephew. He’s a friend of mine. I swear. No harm. See?” He released the gun in his pocket and held both hands out to his side, palms open.
The woman looked horrified, but the man glared. “You better beat it, guy. I mean it. Just get on out of here and no harm done. You scared my wife.” He glanced at her.
“Gotta have that number,” Boz said stubbornly. He stuck his hand in the coat pocket.
“I told you,” the man said, “he ain’t got no phone.”
“Then, where does he live?”
“He lives way the hell out in the brush,” the man said. “You’d never find it, drunk as you are. You better go sleep it off.” With the last phrase his voice had lost some of its sharpness. He was a man familiar with Boz’s condition. He knew how to handle drunks. “Come see me tomorrow. I’ll take you out there, personally. You okay to drive? You don’t look too good.”
“I can drive,” Boz said. “Draw me a map.”
“I don’t think so,” the man said. He stood up. “I’m gonna call the cops if you don’t leave. Go on back to your motel, or whatever, sleep it off.”
“Jesus,” Boz said. He drew out the gun. “What the fuck is it with you people? Draw me the fucking map!” His voice had risen to a near shout. The little dog, which had peeked around the edge of the couch, withdrew.
“All right, all right,” the man said. “I have to get a pencil.” He made as if to leave the room.
“There’s a pencil right there,” Boz said, pointing to a half-finished crossword puzzle in the daily newspaper, folded and lying on the coffee table in front of the couch. “And turn off that goddamn TV.”
The woman reached out and picked up the remote. She switched off the television and sat back, watching while her husband began to sketch a map on an envelope that lay on the table.
The man said, as he drew, “You go on north on the freeway, toward Helena. Get off at the French Forque exit.” He described the turns, the roads not to take, and ended by making a cross on the paper. “You won’t be able to get in that gate, and it’s a mile back to the house. You’ll just be sittin’ out there in the dark.”
Boz had replaced the gun in his pocket and now leaned forward to look at the map. The man took his glasses off and set them on the table, then suddenly grabbed at Boz. The woman screamed. The two men grappled, Boz clawing at his pocket. The two men fell to the floor, knocking the coffee table sideways. The older man had gotten a powerful arm around Boz’s neck and his other hand on Boz’s right wrist. The little dog had dashed out and was tugging at Boz’s pantleg.
“Jesus!” Boz yelled. He kicked at the dog but missed it. He groaned as he tried to writhe out from under the heavier man. Suddenly, he wrenched his arm free and fired the gun.
The older man cried out and rolled off him, then lay still, on his back, his mouth open. The woman screamed. Boz got to his feet, panting. “Shut up!” he bellowed, but the woman screamed on. Boz shot her. The bullet struck her in the chest and she was knocked sideways on the couch, then rolled onto the floor. She was crumpled in a heap at the base of the couch, her varicosed legs exposed, the remote still clutched in her hand.
Boz turned to the dog, but it ran behind the couch again. Boz yanked at the couch back, but the woman’s body prevented it from moving, and the dog retreated around the end, whining.
“Fuck you,” Boz snarled at the dog. He turned to the couple. He shot the man again, and then the woman, their bodies jumping at the impact, then subsiding into final rest. Boz snatched up the envelope from where it lay on the floor and lurched out.
The air was cold and refreshing. He stood on the little porch and looked around. There was no sound, no commotion from the neighbors. He let the storm door bang behind him and stumbled down the walk to his car. A few minutes later he found himself driving down the hill on an unfamiliar street, with no idea of how to get to the freeway. He reached across, found the bottle of vodka and drained it, then tossed it out the open window. Shit, he thought, I gotta get some more booze. He had no idea how long it would take him to find Frank’s. He had no notion of driving around all night with nothing to drink.
Through sheer luck he glanced down a cross street and it seemed familiar—Smokey’s! He pulled up in front of the bar, got out, and tried the door. Locked. Then he realized the tavern light was off and the lights in the bar had been reduced to just the back bar, which glittered with lots of bottles of booze. He kicked at the door and cursed.
When he stepped back and looked around, disgusted and angry, he saw a light go on upstairs. Maybe it was that fucking pretty-boy bartender, he thought. But he saw a woman peering out. The building was brick, and the three upper stories were evidently apartments. Someone was bound to call the cops if he kept raising hell.
He drove off, and either through sheer luck or gravity, he kept heading down the hill, and shortly he saw the freeway. Even better, he saw a lighted tavern sign just beyond it. The bar had a pool table, at which some young guys were playing. Others sat in booths or at the bar. There were three or four women, as well. A jolly evening at the pub in Butte. Boz bought a fifth of vodka and left. Miraculously, he got on the freeway in the right direction and soon he was zooming north, toward Helena, climbing up toward Elk Park. Before long the lights of Butte had disappeared and he was in total night, under a sky sparkling with stars.
He drove with confidence now. It was odd, he thought, how he could feel drunk and confused at those people’s house, but now, having taken a few fortifying swigs of vodka, he felt calmer, quite clearheaded. Those fucking people! he thought. What were they thinking? Assholes! People like that got what they deserved. Always fucking around, stalling. Ask a simple question and all you get are more stupid questions. Then they start getting pissy. Well, they weren’t getting pissy now! He laughed. He felt damn good. He regretted not popping that fucking little dog.
The Home Guard, that’s what the ’boes called the squares. The old ’bo he’d met on the train, years ago, when he was last out in this part of the country, the one who told him about the Stuka and the bazooka—Boz couldn’t think of his handle, if he’d ever known it—had told him about the Home Guard. The ones who stayed home, who pulled the daily job, pissed their whole lives away in some shithole, afraid to get out and see what the world was really like. And yet, they thought their shit didn’t stink. They worked for wages, day after day, got a mortgage, married some fat whore, had a bunch of kids, maybe got drunk at the bar once a week. Jesus, what a fucking life! And they thought that was what it was all about! Fuckin’ suckers.
He rolled down the window and stuck his head out into the cold rushing wind and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Fuckin’ suckers!”
The right front wheel went off the road, the car pulled violently to the right. He managed to swerve back on, but then the car fishtailed and he nearly lost it.
Whoa, he thought, and slowed down. That was fuckin’ close! He took another hearty hit of the vodka and felt better, more like his own self. Then he began to think, How far did I come? Did I miss the road to this French Forque? He slowed to a crawl, alternately peering at the crude map and out at the road. He hadn’t passed or met a single car since he’d come over the pass from Butte, and thought, Where the fuck am I?
Then, like magic, there was the reflecting sign that indicated the exit to French Forque, one mile. He got off and cruised slowly through the village. Hardly a light was on. Frenchy’s bar was closed. Too bad. He hoisted his bottle again and drove to a stop sign. This was the road he wanted.
The road turned to gravel. He drove on. It became dirt. He found the turnoff. Still not a single light, not a car. The Home Guard went to bed early out here. It occurred to him that the little dog was the real Home Guard. He laughed. That was a real dog, he decided. He ought to go back and get that dog. He’d never had much luck with dogs, but he could tame it, he was sure. That dog would become his dog. His best friend. Faithful, feisty. He’d name it Home Guard. He’d call it Homes, for short.
“Here, Homes!” he bellowed out the window. He laughed. The road turned rough, then rougher. All of sudden he came on a turn too fast and bounced right off the road and into some heavy brush. The car stalled. He sat there for a minute, dazed. He drank some vodka. The car started right up. At first he couldn’t back out, and the brush was too heavy to go forward, but the ground was not boggy, and soon he was able to back far enough that he was clear of the brush and he was able to turn and go forward and get back on the road.
This road was a nightmare, he realized. There was a damn good chance that this rental sedan would never make it to Franko’s place. The road angled up, switching back to get over a rocky knob, and at the high point he saw a light. He stopped and got out.
The light was distant, maybe a yard light. As dark as it was and not knowing the terrain, he couldn’t be sure just how far that light might be. A mile? Five miles? Closer to five, he thought, but at least it was a light, and this road had to be going there. He’d just drive as far as he could and walk the rest.
He got almost two miles before, in his drunken state, he let the right front wheel drift off the narrow rutted road. The car slid sideways and down into the ditch, coming to a rest on its side. There was no moving it now. He was lucky, he knew, that he hadn’t been going fast. The car was at such a steep angle that he had to push the door upward until it stayed open. He found the vodka bottle at the bottom of the car, up against the righthand door, and he clambered out.
Okay, he thought. Now it’s walk. It was chilly, but his coat was adequate. What a night! He stood in the middle of the road and stared up at the billions of stars. He took a long drink of vodka. He still had at least half a bottle left. That was comforting. But man, what a night, what a sky! This was a very big place, he realized.
He checked his pockets. He had the gun and a couple of spare clips. If only he had his dog, faithful Homes. He set off. There was enough starlight to see the road, although he stumbled a good deal. At the bottom of the hill he had to ford a stream, which was almost enough to make him despair. A good pair of shoes ruined, he thought. He’d spent two hundred dollars on these goddamn shoes! Well, Franko would pay for this. He trudged on.
He began to think about what lay ahead. He was still baffled about this Frank Oberavich crap. There was always the chance that he’d made a big mistake, but he didn’t think so. The minute he’d heard the name from that dumb bartender he’d known this had to be the guy. That jerk had thrown him for a minute, with his description, but then he’d realized that it was just part of the crap the Home Guard always puts in your way. He should have shot the bastard, he thought. Maybe he still would, when he got back to town. That cheered him up.
No, he was sure he had the right guy. And when he found him he could take care of business. Item number one: get the rest of the goods that the sneaky fucker had stashed. Boz could sure use the money. Item two: make sure the fucker didn’t testify to no goddamn war-crimes tribunal. Vjelko had made that clear.
He came to the gate. It was locked. No sweat. He had one leg over the top rail of the gate when the lights came on, high up on poles. He was surprised, but more glad than frightened. He clambered over and set off up the road. He hadn’t gotten more than a hundred feet when the dogs arrived, barking madly. Boz got the gun out in time. They attacked and he clubbed the first one and shot the second one. The other two ranged off.
Boz stood there, raging. His good coat was ruined. The one dog had taken a sleeve and nearly destroyed it, but the coat had saved him, Boz realized. The other two dogs stayed well away, racing about beyond the edge of the bright light, but occasionally showing themselves. It would be futile to shoot at them. He replaced the clip with a fresh one. Who knew what lay ahead?