stand of young vine
maple two yards away. "Looks like he must have throwed his arms up when
he got hit," Beach said. He photographed the rifle without touching it,
then took several more pictures of the revolver where it lay.
"Let's see if I've got this straight," he said. "Jerry's here, hiding
in the brush." He stood beside the sprawled body. "Kid comes up over
there -- you be the kid, Tom."
Reluctantly, Cooley walked over and stood beside the dropped revolver.
"Good," said Beach. "Kid hears Jerry, I guess, Jerry stands up and the
kid shoots him." He crouched a little, holding an imaginary rifle aimed
at Cooley. "That's about the way it had to be, wouldn't you say?"
"Right," Cooley said uncomfortably..
"Hits Jerry right here," said Beach, touching his own chest. "Jerry's gun
goes off, shoots the kid, they both fall down." He picked up his camera,
took a picture of Cooley. "Kid was hit where?"
"Right about here," Cooley said, indicating a spot high on his chest.
"You know, Tom, it's funny. Man is shot in the heart, throws up his
arms, heaves that rifle six feet away, and still shoots the kid right
in the chest."
"Way I look at it, must have been the other way around," Cooley said. "The
kid pulled a gun, Jerry seen he was about to shoot and got him first. Then
the kid's gun went off. Just dumb luck."
"Could be," Beach said. He glanced up at the tree house. "What's up
there?"
"Kid's junk. Listen, Wayne, if you can spare me, I sure would like to
get back and see what the troopers are doing about those road blocks."
"Hang on a minute," Beach said. He climbed the tree, swung the door
up and disappeared inside. When he came out again five minutes later,
he was holding a bulging gunny sack. He saw the clothesline knotted
to the limb beside the door, pulled it up, tied the gunny sack to it,
and lowered it to the ground.
He climbed down again, holding an empty gunny sack in one hand. He picked
up the revolver by the end of the barrel, looked it over curiously, then
dropped it into the sack. Next he went to the rifle in the bushes, wrapped
the sack around it and picked it up. "Guess that's all for now," he said.
"Tom, if you wouldn't mind -- " He gestured toward the full sack. Cooley
untied it in silence and hoisted it over his shoulder. They climbed down
the slope.
"I'll have to send somebody back for the rest of the stuff," Beach said.
After a moment he added, "You tell Jerry's wife?"
"Hell!" said Cooley, stopping short. "No, I never. I'll do it, first
thing."
When they got to Beach's car, the sheriff unlocked the trunk and Cooley
dumped the gunny sack in it. Beach laid the other sack with the two guns
carefully in the back seat.
"I'll go on up to Miz Gambrell's and make a coupie of calls," Cooley said.
"Check with you later, Wayne."
"No, now," said Beach, putting a hand on his arm, "we're not half through
yet, Tom. You follow me down to my office -- you can make your calls from
there."
"Meanwhile that kid's getting away. Won't it keep till tomorrow?"
"That's for me to say."
Cooley stared at him for a moment, then turned and got into his car. They
drove to the parking lot behind the courthouse in Dog River; Cooley
helped Beach carry the sacks of evidence inside. A young deputy was
sitting behind the desk smoking a cigarette. He nodded to Cooley. "Tom."
"Hello, Stan."
"Call Eileen and see if she can get over here right away," said Beach.
"Tell her I need her for an hour or so." He cleared some books off a
table and dumped the contents of the gunny sacks on it: books, a stack
of papers, games in boxes, tools, some painted wood carvings, pencils
and pens. Beach pushed the two guns to one side and began separating
the other things with one finger.
"She'll be right over," the deputy said.
"Good." Beach motioned Cooley to a seat. "Make yourself comfortable,
Tom. You wanted to call Jerry's wife7"
"Was going to call the troopers, too, but maybe that'd come better
from
maple two yards away. "Looks like he must have throwed his arms up when
he got hit," Beach said. He photographed the rifle without touching it,
then took several more pictures of the revolver where it lay.
"Let's see if I've got this straight," he said. "Jerry's here, hiding
in the brush." He stood beside the sprawled body. "Kid comes up over
there -- you be the kid, Tom."
Reluctantly, Cooley walked over and stood beside the dropped revolver.
"Good," said Beach. "Kid hears Jerry, I guess, Jerry stands up and the
kid shoots him." He crouched a little, holding an imaginary rifle aimed
at Cooley. "That's about the way it had to be, wouldn't you say?"
"Right," Cooley said uncomfortably..
"Hits Jerry right here," said Beach, touching his own chest. "Jerry's gun
goes off, shoots the kid, they both fall down." He picked up his camera,
took a picture of Cooley. "Kid was hit where?"
"Right about here," Cooley said, indicating a spot high on his chest.
"You know, Tom, it's funny. Man is shot in the heart, throws up his
arms, heaves that rifle six feet away, and still shoots the kid right
in the chest."
"Way I look at it, must have been the other way around," Cooley said. "The
kid pulled a gun, Jerry seen he was about to shoot and got him first. Then
the kid's gun went off. Just dumb luck."
"Could be," Beach said. He glanced up at the tree house. "What's up
there?"
"Kid's junk. Listen, Wayne, if you can spare me, I sure would like to
get back and see what the troopers are doing about those road blocks."
"Hang on a minute," Beach said. He climbed the tree, swung the door
up and disappeared inside. When he came out again five minutes later,
he was holding a bulging gunny sack. He saw the clothesline knotted
to the limb beside the door, pulled it up, tied the gunny sack to it,
and lowered it to the ground.
He climbed down again, holding an empty gunny sack in one hand. He picked
up the revolver by the end of the barrel, looked it over curiously, then
dropped it into the sack. Next he went to the rifle in the bushes, wrapped
the sack around it and picked it up. "Guess that's all for now," he said.
"Tom, if you wouldn't mind -- " He gestured toward the full sack. Cooley
untied it in silence and hoisted it over his shoulder. They climbed down
the slope.
"I'll have to send somebody back for the rest of the stuff," Beach said.
After a moment he added, "You tell Jerry's wife?"
"Hell!" said Cooley, stopping short. "No, I never. I'll do it, first
thing."
When they got to Beach's car, the sheriff unlocked the trunk and Cooley
dumped the gunny sack in it. Beach laid the other sack with the two guns
carefully in the back seat.
"I'll go on up to Miz Gambrell's and make a coupie of calls," Cooley said.
"Check with you later, Wayne."
"No, now," said Beach, putting a hand on his arm, "we're not half through
yet, Tom. You follow me down to my office -- you can make your calls from
there."
"Meanwhile that kid's getting away. Won't it keep till tomorrow?"
"That's for me to say."
Cooley stared at him for a moment, then turned and got into his car. They
drove to the parking lot behind the courthouse in Dog River; Cooley
helped Beach carry the sacks of evidence inside. A young deputy was
sitting behind the desk smoking a cigarette. He nodded to Cooley. "Tom."
"Hello, Stan."
"Call Eileen and see if she can get over here right away," said Beach.
"Tell her I need her for an hour or so." He cleared some books off a
table and dumped the contents of the gunny sacks on it: books, a stack
of papers, games in boxes, tools, some painted wood carvings, pencils
and pens. Beach pushed the two guns to one side and began separating
the other things with one finger.
"She'll be right over," the deputy said.
"Good." Beach motioned Cooley to a seat. "Make yourself comfortable,
Tom. You wanted to call Jerry's wife7"
"Was going to call the troopers, too, but maybe that'd come better
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