The snake struck, its scaly head knifing toward Kirk's hand.475Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4aqTDhHvoc
He jerked his hand away, the snake missing his fingers by less than 1 inch.
Outside, the chuffing of the helicopter was unbelievably loud.
If he backed out, they'd have a nice, clear view of this backside.
The rattling of the snake's tail seemed nearly as loud as the puffing of the hovering chopper.
Very slowly and carefully, Kirk inched his hand away from the snake.
The snake struck again. Missed again, because Kirk had tucked himself suddenly to the left.
He moved his feet to do that, causing a trickle of sand and gravel to go spewing out of the cave.
They might have seen that!
Kirk waited.
The snake recoiled, head ticking from side to side.
"Fainter," he said.
Yeah, the sound of the watching chopper was a bit fainter.
And now even more faint. They were going away.
Kirk still didn't move. He waited, counting off seconds inside his head. One minute dragged by. Two.
Then he started to ease back.
Something dug into his chest. A rock. He closed his hand on it. Easing back some, he extended his left hand toward the rattler.
The snake watched the approaching hand, then snapped its head toward it.
But the hand wasn't there. Kirk brought the rock down with his other hand, hard. He could feel the snake's head going to pieces beneath the rock. Blood squirted.
He lifted the bloody rock away, watching the quivering body of the rattler.
"Lord," he said, knowing what he had to do next.
He picked up the dead snake, got himself out of the tiny cave, and sat with his back against the red rocks. From inside the tatters of his jumpsuit, he took half of the mirror.
"Wish Pike was here. He could make a joke about this."
Using the mirror for a knife, he skinned the rattler and hacked its flesh into strips.
Staying alive and free was all that mattered.
Without hesitation, he picked up a strip of snake meat and popped it in his mouth. Methodically he chewed and swallowed.
It squatted in the dry field, lopsided and weather-worn---part barn, part hangar; tin-roofed, with a hand-painted sign on its side announcing C & C Cropdusting Service.
Trailing dust and exhaust fumes, Cox drove along the drive which led to this forlorn building. Parked in front of the building was an ancient biplane, which might still fly. It also had C&C painted on its side.
After parking, Cox approached the plane. He was afraid that if he trod too heavily, it might collapse in a heap of wood and wire.
"Yeah?"
A hairless man in an orange jumpsuit had emerged from the barn-hangar, lugging a jug of chemicals. "You in charge here?" Cox inquired.
The man was about fifty, as weather-worn as his building. He set the jug at his feet and fished a faded Houston Astros baseball cap out of a lumpy pocket. "You look to me like a big city smart ass."
"That's because I am. Now are...."
"See that advertisement on the side of my hangar?"
"Yeah. It says C&C Cropdusting Service.
"So, what does that tell ya?"
"I guess you're one of those C's."
"Very good. Which one, smart ass?"
Cox scratched his chin. "The first one."
"Nope."
"Can I have one more guess?"
"Fire away."
"You're the second C."
"Not even close." He clamped the baseball cap on his bald head. "I'm both of them C's. How you like that, smart ass. Name's Cornell Connelly. I got a son. Carson. Used to be the other C. He didn't think much of flying, and went off to be a doctor. So I decided I got an asshole for a son, and I took his C away from him, thereby making myself both. So if you're lookin' for the man in charge, you're gazin' directly on both of 'em."
"Pleased to meet you. My name is Cox."
"We all got our crosses to bear."
"Mr. Connelly, how much do you charge to dust a field?"
"$25."
"Well. I'd like to hire your....uh....plane," said Cox, very carefully patting the side of the relic.
"Cost you a hundred."
"Didn't you just say the fee was twenty-five?"
"That's for dustin' a field. But you ain't got no field, 'cause you obviously ain't no farmer. Which also means you ain't poor, smart ass."475Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAlosZEkReW
"Okay, $100."
"It'll be $125."
"What?!"
"You said okay to $100 too fast. Means you can go higher."
Cox dug into his pocket and got his wallet. He removed all his cash. "I don't suppose you're on Visa? Let's see----I've got exactly $126 here, Mr. Connelly. Suppose we settle for a fee of a hundred, so as I'll...."
"No dough, ya don't go."
"$120?"
"$125 is the agreed-on price, smart ass."
"Well, I suppose I can always wire home for more." He gave Connelly all but his last dollar. "If I had a home."
"Hop in." The pilot indicated the rear of the two open seats. "Now, where do ya wanna go?"
"I'm not sure," he said, climbing up into the cockpit. "We're going looking for someone who's lost."
"It's your money," said Connelly, climbing into the front seat. "We'll waste it any way you wanna waste it, smart ass."
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