Raylan didn't say a word, not till he opened the door and slipped into the back, picked up the shotgun and rested the barrel on the front seat, between the cowboy hat and the gator killer's dyed hair.
He said, "Tell me what's going on."
Silence, neither one of them saying a word.
Raylan racked the shotgun and saw them jump.
"I didn't hear you."
"There ain't nothing going on," Devil said. "We's out riding around."
Raylan squeezed the trigger, putting a big hole in the windshield with the explosion, and the two skins clamped their hands over their ears, turning their heads back and forth.
Raylan racked the pump again and Devil said, "Boyd wants to talk to you is all."
"He told me he's gonna shoot me."
Dewey turned his head to say, "Then what're you asking us for, asshole?" and Raylan laid the shotgun barrel across his face, a quick hard stroke that drew blood from his nose.
Raylan said, "An outlaw's life's hard, ain't it?"
He fished handcuffs from his belt and gave them to Devil on the muzzle end of the shotgun, telling him to cuff his right hand, put it through the steering wheel and cuff the gator killer. "Now hand me your pistols."
"We don't have none," Devil said.
"All right," Raylan said, "but if you're telling me a story I'm gonna break your nose like I broke Mr. Crowe's. That okay with you?"
It got him a couple of Beretta nines.
"And the car keys."
Raylan got out, went around to the back of the Cadillac and called Art Mullen's pager. While he waited he opened the trunk to see a couple of Kalashnikovs inside, threw the pistols in there and closed the trunk. He looked in the car again, on Devil's side this time, and said, "You fellas wait here, okay?"
His cell phone buzzed as he was moving through the trees toward Ava's house. It was Art Mullen, Art telling how they were bushwhacked by a couple of baldheaded kids with a machine gun. "Fired at the cars but didn't hit either one, so nobody's hurt. We went up after 'em with sheriff's people and the kids threw down their weapons. I'm still up on the hill, behind the motel. Where're you?"
Raylan told him and Art said, "Wait for us, we won't be long."
"I'll go slow," Raylan said. "If I see he's laying for me I'll hang back. But let's find out where he is."
He was still holding the shotgun, pointed down at his side, going up to the door. Ava opened it and stood there. He didn't care too much for the green dress or the way she was looking at him. He said, "Don't feel you have to say anything."
But she did. "I swear to God, Raylan, I didn't know he was coming."
He believed her and told her so in a nice tone of voice. He wanted to tell her it was a pretty dress, but couldn't. He waited and now Ava motioned with her head as she moved aside. Raylan stepped through the doorway to see Boyd at the table that was laid out with a platter of chicken, bowls of mashed potatoes, peas and carrots, a plate of biscuits and a gravy boat. It looked like Boyd had already started, white gravy covering everything on his plate, a pistol lying next to it. Boyd picked it up.
Raylan saw it was an old Army Colt .45 as it came to point at the shotgun he was holding at his side. Boyd said, "No shotguns allowed." He told Ava to take it and throw it outside, then motioned with the .45 for Raylan to come over to the table.
"Sit at that end and help yourself. The gravy ain't bad, but not as good as your mama's. It never is, huh?"
Raylan took his place and Boyd said, "When you shot the guy, that wop? You were sitting at a table like this?"
"We were a little closer."
"There was food on the table?"
"No, but it was set, glasses, dishes."
"Have something."
Raylan picked up a drumstick and held it in his left hand to take a bite.
"You had your gun—what was it?"
"That time? A Beretta nine, same as your two morons were packing."
Boyd said, "I believe I heard one shot."
"That's all it took. They're waiting in the car."
"Which one'd you shoot?"
"Neither, but they're out of business."
Boyd said, "You're sitting at the table," getting back to it. "Where was your gun—where mine is?"
"It was holstered."
"Bullshit."
"It was holstered."
"Where was his?"
"In a beach bag, between his knees."
"He's going swimmin' and stops off?" Raylan didn't answer that one.
"What'd he have in the bag—what kind of piece?"
"I don't recall."
"How'd you know when to pull?"
"Somebody yelled he had a gun."
Boyd paused, staring the length of the table, about eight feet, at Raylan. "You give him twenty-four hours—the time was up when you shot him?"
"Pretty close. I'd remind him how much time he had left. Ten minutes, two minutes... I believe we got down to around twenty seconds...''
"You're looking at your watch?"
"Estimating the time."
"How much you think you got left now?"
"I thought till noon tomorrow."
"I'm saying it's right now, less you want to eat first."
"You can call it off," Raylan said. "I don't mind.''
Boyd shook his head. "If you're gonna keep after me, we may as well get 'er done."
"Your forty-five's on the table but I have to pull," Raylan said. "Is that how we do it?"
"Well, shit yeah, it's my call. What're you packing?"
"You'll pay to find that out," Raylan said.
"Ice water in your veins, huh? You want a shot of Jim Beam to go with it?" Boyd looked away from the table saying, "Ava, get Raylan—" and stopped.
Ava had the shotgun pointed at him, stock under her arm, finger on the trigger.
She said to Boyd, "You want to hear my story, how I shot Bowman? He never sat on the end, he liked the long side of the table so he could spread out, rest his elbows when he was eating fried chicken or corn'n the cob. You want to know what Bowman said when he looked up like you did and saw me with his deer rifle?"
Boyd said, "Honey, you only shoot people when they're having their supper?" He looked at Raylan for appreciation and got a deadpan stare.
"Bowman's mouth was full of sweet potato," Ava said. "I watched him shovel it in as I come out from the kitchen with the rifle. He said, 'The hell you doing with that?' "
Boyd said, "Honey, put it down, would you, please?" He picked up a paper napkin and began wiping his hands.
Raylan took one and stuck it in his shirt collar. He kept his hand there, the right one, smoothing the napkin, the hand that would slide down the lapel of his suitcoat, sweep it open and in the same motion cover the walnut grip of his gun and pull it high to clear the six-and-a-half-inch barrel. He saw himself doing it.
And saw himself in the Cadillac with the shotgun blowing a hole in the windshield and tried to remember if he'd racked the pump after, because he sure didn't hear Ava rack it.
She was telling Boyd, "And you know what I said to Bowman? I said, 'I'm gonna shoot you, you dummy.' "
Raylan saw her jerk the shotgun to her cheek.
Saw Boyd bringing up the Colt, putting it on her.
And had no choice. Raylan pulled and shot Boyd dead center, the force of it punching him out of his chair as Ava in her party dress fired the shotgun and a 12-gauge pattern ripped into the bare wall.
It told Raylan he must've racked it.
Ava said, "I missed, huh?"
She watched Raylan get up, the gun still in his hand, walk around to Boyd and stoop down over him. "Is he dead?"
Raylan didn't answer. She saw him go to his knees then to bend close to Boyd's face. She believed Raylan said something, a word or two, but wasn't sure.
"Isn't he dead?"
Raylan got to his feet saying, "He is now."
Art Mullen arrived wanting to know how the rear end of the Town Car got fragged, but saved
asking when he saw Boyd on the floor. Raylan stood by, relating the scene step by step as Art rolled Boyd over to look at the exit wound. He said there wasn't any doubt in his mind, a single shot from a high-caliber weapon had done the job. Art looked up at Raylan.
"He have any last words?"
"He said I'd killed him." Raylan paused. "I told him I was sorry, but he had called it."
Art was frowning now. "You're sorry you killed him?"
"I thought I explained it to you," Raylan said in his quiet voice. "Boyd and I dug coal together."
Elmore Leonard, Fire in the Hole
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