Sheriff Taylor had carefully estimated the yield on these fifteen plants, and by the time fall got here and they were fully matured, he was pretty sure he could make a really big bundle by selling the stuff to his brother-in-law, who also happened to own the finest whiskey still in this part of the state. But that wasn’t the whole story, not at all. Sheriff Taylor knew this particular patch of weed would probably be good enough to save back a couple of pounds for his own personal stash. He loved a good buzz as much as the next man.

He watched Jerry crest the last ridge, coming into the small clearing where the dirt was dark and sandy. He had to hand it to Barlow: he’d picked a very good spot for his weed. The soil here was just right, just loose enough for a good root system and rich enough to furnish the plants with the nutrients they needed. And there damned sure wouldn’t be anybody wandering around Rattler’s Roost in the summertime, not unless he wanted a fast, fatal case of snakebite. But Barlow had parked his bike in the same spot once too often, and Taylor had found his patch.

He had hoped the Barlow boy wouldn’t do anything stupid like trying to run or fight. He’d hate to have to shoot the shit out of him, because then he wouldn’t be able to keep the grass for himself. There’d be an investigation and some of those damned DEA boys would be in here and they’d confiscate the grass and keep it for themselves like they always did. Even so, he reached back and unholstered the heavy .357 Mark III Trooper and assumed the prone firing position.

From his hiding place under the low foliage of a small patch of honeysuckle vines, he was sure Barlow wouldn’t see him until he was ready for him to. He lay back and watched the young man as he eased carefully up to the clearing and looked all around. Sheriff Taylor chuckled to himself as Jerry laid the hoe down and began pouring the blue liquid plant food around each plant. Abruptly, the fat man hollered, “Heeeeeeeere’s Cecil!” and laughed out loud when Jerry spun to face him, his expression one of shocked surprise. Sheriff Taylor was a pretty sorry old sonofabitch, but he had a great sense of humor.

Jerry was in a low crouch, looking almost as if he meant to try and run for it, but he stopped when he heard the hammer come back on the big pistol. A drop of sweat ran down his nose and hung on the end, suspended in the hot dusty silence between them.

“I wouldn’t try that shit, boy,” Taylor said. “Not ’less you want the undertaker packin’ your asshole fulla cotton ’bout dark.”