Actually he didn't say, "Nice morning"; he said, "Nice mahrnin'." But I'm not going to try to give you the native lingo, at least not often. I only want to report what happened, and that would complicate it too much and slow me down.

I agreed that it was a nice mahrnin', to be polite, though it was more than an hour past noon, and he said, "My dad told me not to talk to you."

I nodded. "Yeah, he would." His dad was Morley Haight, the county sheriff. "He has practically told me not to talk to anybody, but I can't break the habit, and anyway it's how I make a living."

"Uhuh. Fuzz."

Television and radio certainly spread words around. "Not me," I said. "Your dad is fuzz, but I'm private. If I asked you how you spent the day Thursday a week ago, you could say it was none of my business. When your father asked me I told him."

"So I heard." His eyes went to Lily and came back to me. "You've been asking around about me. I'd just as soon save you some trouble."

"I'd appreciate that."

"I didn't kill that skunk."

"Good. That's what I wanted to know. That narrows it down."

"It's a insult. Look at it." He ignored his colleague, who had filled my order and was there behind his elbow. "The first shot, from behind, got his shoulder and turned him around. The second shot, from in front, got him in the throat and broke his neck and killed him. Look at that. It's a insult. I have never used more than one cartridge for a deer. Ask anybody. I can take a popgun and slice off the head of a snake at thirty yards. I can do it every time. My dad told me not to talk to you, but I wanted you to know that."