Jerry ducked back behind the tree as four deafening blasts rocked the woods around him. The soft-nosed slugs tore into the trunk of the tree, and he pressed his face flat to the ground and trembled as shock after shock ran through the wood. Then he heard the dull click of the hammer striking on spent cartridges and looked up. The sheriff’s face was a pasty white color, drained of blood: the man realized that he was about to die a slow and horrible death here in these woods where the maggots and buzzards would strip his rotting carcass. He was crying now. The pistol fell from his stiff fingers and dropped to the dusty ground. Jerry got up immediately and walked toward the fallen man, holding the cuffs in front of him.

“Open ’em quick if you want me to help you.”

He knelt in front of Taylor and the fat man fumbled for the key on his belt. His hands were shaking but he found the tiny hole in the cuffs and they clicked open.

“Cut it—you gotta cut it quick!”

Jerry dug in his pocket and found his knife, a three-bladed Case that would shave the hair on his leg. He didn’t waste any time telling Taylor how bad it was going to hurt: he just grabbed the sweaty arm and made two deep, slashing cuts across the fang marks. The skin and meat peeled apart like overripe fruit as the blade bit deep. Blood jumped out in two gushing streams but Taylor didn’t seem to feel the fiery bite of the knife. A look of relief washed across his face.

“Okay,” Jerry said, “that oughta hold you till you can get to the hospital if you hurry. I don’t think he hit a vein or you’d be having a heart attack by now.”

Taylor got to his feet and swayed dizzily. He clutched at Jerry with his bloody hands and begged him for help.

“You got to walk me to my car. It’s parked right up here about two, three hundred yards away.”

Jerry pushed his hands away and backed up.

“No way, man. I did all I’m gonna do for you. I’m gettin’ the hell outta here.”

“You can’t leave me! I can’t make it out! Help me to my car!”