snowstorm, Clyde."
Clyde nodded to indicate the deer spoor. "That ain't no deer spoor, Manny." It lay on a slight rise in the land. To the east, the land sloped downward at a gentle angle for several hundred yards, where a newly installed, six-foot-high chain-link fence bisected it. Just beyond the fence, the land gave way to heavy thickets and small stands of evergreens. Granada lay three-quarters of a mile east of the fence.
"Sure that's a deer spoor, Clyde. You gonna tell me I shot at some damn cow?"
'That ain't a deer spoor at all Manny." He paused, suppressed a giggle. "That's a Steg-oh-saurus spoor. And it's a very rare thing, Manny."
Manny eyed him suspiciously. "That's a what, Clyde?"
"A Steg-oh-saurus spoor." He felt the laughter building in his stomach, like a whirlpool; he fought it back. "You ain't hearda the Steg -oh-saurus?"
"You jokin' with me, Clyde?"
"I ain't jokin' with you, Manny. That's an actual Steg-oh-saurus spoor, there. It looks like a deer spoor, but it ain't." He paused, grinned. "Woulda fooled me, too, if I didn't know the difference. It's a real subtle difference, Manny."
"Yer fulla shit, Clyde, 'cuz I know what a Stegoh-lasoris is! It's some kinda fuckin' dinosaur, some kinda fuckin' damn big dinosaur, and yer tryin' to make me look like a damn fool! Admit it, Clyde. Go on, admit it." There was no animosity in Manny's tone; he'd grown accustomed to his brother-in-law's off-key sense of humor, and it made him feel good when one of Clyde's jokes fell flat. "Go on, Clyde, admit it."
"Yeah, you're right," Clyde said, as if in apology. "But it ain't no dinosaur, Manny." Again he suppressed a giggle. "It's actually a kind of wild pig!" And then the whirlpool of laughter burst from his mouth, he dropped his rifle, fell to his knees and, the laughter frothing out of him, enjoyed himself immensely,
Minutes later, when he could open his eyes again, when, at last, the laughter had died, he saw that Manny was holding something in front of hisâClyde'sâeyes; a small, rectangular piece of tarnished metal; a badly rusted chain hung from it. "What's that, Manny?"
Manny held it up to his own eyes, and studied it critically. "I think it's somebody's bracelet, Clyde. And I think it's made of pure silver."
Clyde stood and picked his rifle up; he examined the bracelet closely, while Manny clung possessively to it, then he announced, "Sure looks like pure silver, Manny." He tried to take it from him; Manny yanked it away. "Finders are keepers, Clyde." He nodded at what appeared to be a broad, flat, dull white rock, half buried in the bare earth, about a yard away. "I found it. Over there, under that rock. I saw the chain stickin' out."
"Well let me tell you this, Manny. If it is silver, you just remember that it was my pickup that brought you out here, and my thirty-ought-thirty yer huntin' with, and my damned boots yer wearingâ"
"There's a name on it, Clyde."
"You listenin' to me, Manny?"
"Ever hearda someone named Mark Collins, Clyde?â'Cuz that's the name here: 'Mark Collins.'"
Clyde thought for just a moment, then, "Give it here, Manny."
"I sure as hell will not!"
"It's evidence, Manny."
"Evidence? What kind of evidence?" He sounded on the verge of a pout.
"You're thick, Manny! You got no brains, nor memory! Mark Collins was that colored man who disappeared around here six or seven years ago. You remember? It was in the papers, and I know you can read."
Something close to recognition settled into Manny's eyes; "Oh yeah," he said.
"So give me the damned bracelet, Manny, 'cuz it ain't yours, anyway, 'cuz first of all it's evidence, and second of allâ" He stopped, annoyed. Manny had stepped away from him and was prodding the dull white rock with the toe of his boot. "Clyde . . ." he said tentatively.
Clyde stepped over to him, hesitated a moment, then leaned over and pushed him away. For a long while he studied and fingered what they had supposed was a rock, then he
Clyde nodded to indicate the deer spoor. "That ain't no deer spoor, Manny." It lay on a slight rise in the land. To the east, the land sloped downward at a gentle angle for several hundred yards, where a newly installed, six-foot-high chain-link fence bisected it. Just beyond the fence, the land gave way to heavy thickets and small stands of evergreens. Granada lay three-quarters of a mile east of the fence.
"Sure that's a deer spoor, Clyde. You gonna tell me I shot at some damn cow?"
'That ain't a deer spoor at all Manny." He paused, suppressed a giggle. "That's a Steg-oh-saurus spoor. And it's a very rare thing, Manny."
Manny eyed him suspiciously. "That's a what, Clyde?"
"A Steg-oh-saurus spoor." He felt the laughter building in his stomach, like a whirlpool; he fought it back. "You ain't hearda the Steg -oh-saurus?"
"You jokin' with me, Clyde?"
"I ain't jokin' with you, Manny. That's an actual Steg-oh-saurus spoor, there. It looks like a deer spoor, but it ain't." He paused, grinned. "Woulda fooled me, too, if I didn't know the difference. It's a real subtle difference, Manny."
"Yer fulla shit, Clyde, 'cuz I know what a Stegoh-lasoris is! It's some kinda fuckin' dinosaur, some kinda fuckin' damn big dinosaur, and yer tryin' to make me look like a damn fool! Admit it, Clyde. Go on, admit it." There was no animosity in Manny's tone; he'd grown accustomed to his brother-in-law's off-key sense of humor, and it made him feel good when one of Clyde's jokes fell flat. "Go on, Clyde, admit it."
"Yeah, you're right," Clyde said, as if in apology. "But it ain't no dinosaur, Manny." Again he suppressed a giggle. "It's actually a kind of wild pig!" And then the whirlpool of laughter burst from his mouth, he dropped his rifle, fell to his knees and, the laughter frothing out of him, enjoyed himself immensely,
Minutes later, when he could open his eyes again, when, at last, the laughter had died, he saw that Manny was holding something in front of hisâClyde'sâeyes; a small, rectangular piece of tarnished metal; a badly rusted chain hung from it. "What's that, Manny?"
Manny held it up to his own eyes, and studied it critically. "I think it's somebody's bracelet, Clyde. And I think it's made of pure silver."
Clyde stood and picked his rifle up; he examined the bracelet closely, while Manny clung possessively to it, then he announced, "Sure looks like pure silver, Manny." He tried to take it from him; Manny yanked it away. "Finders are keepers, Clyde." He nodded at what appeared to be a broad, flat, dull white rock, half buried in the bare earth, about a yard away. "I found it. Over there, under that rock. I saw the chain stickin' out."
"Well let me tell you this, Manny. If it is silver, you just remember that it was my pickup that brought you out here, and my thirty-ought-thirty yer huntin' with, and my damned boots yer wearingâ"
"There's a name on it, Clyde."
"You listenin' to me, Manny?"
"Ever hearda someone named Mark Collins, Clyde?â'Cuz that's the name here: 'Mark Collins.'"
Clyde thought for just a moment, then, "Give it here, Manny."
"I sure as hell will not!"
"It's evidence, Manny."
"Evidence? What kind of evidence?" He sounded on the verge of a pout.
"You're thick, Manny! You got no brains, nor memory! Mark Collins was that colored man who disappeared around here six or seven years ago. You remember? It was in the papers, and I know you can read."
Something close to recognition settled into Manny's eyes; "Oh yeah," he said.
"So give me the damned bracelet, Manny, 'cuz it ain't yours, anyway, 'cuz first of all it's evidence, and second of allâ" He stopped, annoyed. Manny had stepped away from him and was prodding the dull white rock with the toe of his boot. "Clyde . . ." he said tentatively.
Clyde stepped over to him, hesitated a moment, then leaned over and pushed him away. For a long while he studied and fingered what they had supposed was a rock, then he
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