By
Bettyann Moore
Rufus
stood dead still, all his senses alert. He turned his head – and
his headlamp – in a slow circle. He couldn't imagine Bud,
superstitious, rabbit-scared Bud, taking off on his own. So, where'd
he get to? The passenger side door was shut; Rufus hadn't heard it
open or close.
“That
don't mean nothin',” he said aloud, but not too loudly. “A guy
can get pretty het up on somethin' and never hear or see hell-all.”
Rufus
shut off the lamp and waited for his eyes to adjust. He listened
hard. The quiet was absolute. Not a rustle of critters in the grass
nor a whisper of cattails by the pond. The back of his neck prickled.
He felt like he was being watched. With slightly shaking hands, Rufus
turned on the headlamp and whipped his head around to shine the light
behind him. Something, something inky black slithered just out of
sight and back into the mist.
