Warlock moved quietly off through the forest toward the chainsaw noise. He quickly came upon a well hidden blue Ford pickup. Was it the same pickup that had swerved at him during his sex fantasy near Epoufette the day before? Not likely. As a precaution he took the .33 rifle off the rack and pitched it out into the ferns. Then, as an afterthought, he pulled a valve core on a back tire.

They were at the edge of a clearing trimming a giant hemlock that they had just felled, making his heart jump wildly. He walked directly into the clearing, then stared through the binoculars at the top of a tree above the two woodchoppers, drawing the binoculars down through the tree until he had them in focus. Big fuckers. They stared back in amazement, then walked toward Warlock so that he had to keep readjusting the focus. They paused at a range that they were able to see his pistol. He dropped the binoculars to his chest.

“Whadda you think you’re doing? This is private property.” The voice was not without edge.

“No shit, Sherlock. I’m on an Audubon bird count. I got permission.”

“What kind of birds?” the other said, obviously the dumber of the two.

“Cooper’s hawk and Connecticut warbler.” He had done his homework.

“This ain’t Connecticut, so get on out of here.”

“Sorry, I must have taken the wrong turn.” They oddly sounded as if they were from Kentucky, Warlock thought. Probably outside talent.

“I said get on out of here.” The larger of the two was now probing for weakness.

“Say it again and I’ll blow your guts all over the clearing. Fox food, you know. Go back to cutting limbs.”

“Fuck you,” they said in unison but went back to cutting limbs.

Bob drove him back to the Subaru and he added an extra hundred bonus, saying good-bye. Hudley had nearly finished the veal knuckle and pretended that nothing had been amiss in the past twenty-four hours. He was covered with flies and snapped at them with vicious clacks, protecting the remnant of his knuckle.