Rough Country

aimed at your stomach. I can’t miss.”
    Slibe turned his head, looking for Virgil, finally found him, saw the gun.
    “Drop your rifle,” Virgil said.
    Slibe didn’t.
    Virgil said, “People keep talking about me massacring those Vietnamese up in International Falls. I’m not afraid to kill you, Slibe, but I don’t want to. Now drop the gun, and let’s go into town.”
    Slibe looked back along the line where the cops were and said, “You were the one I was worried about. I could have dodged Sanders’s boys.”
    Virgil said, “I’ll tell you what, Slibe. You’re going to prison—but you’ll get out. You’re young enough. You get a good attorney, you can deal. We don’t have anything solid on McDill or Lifry, and we got no idea about Washington or Windrow, where you put him . . . so it’s down to your wife and Hector, and you can deal. Ten years, maybe. When you get out, Wendy’ll be here with the business.”
    Virgil was lying through his teeth. Slibe would never see the outside again, not this side of eighty, anyway.
    “Wendy and that fuckin’ Deuce,” Slibe said.
    “Hey—he’s Wendy’s brother.”
    Slibe still had the gun in his hand; the drizzle picked up, and was dripping off the aspen leaves and soaking both of them. “You know about that?”
    “Yeah. People kept telling me about your wife running off with a Mexicano, and I finally took a look at the Deuce. He doesn’t look much like an Ashbach.”
    Slibe laughed, shortly. “I would’ve been okay if you hadn’t shown up. I had it under control.”
    “Ah . . . maybe,” Virgil said. “Why don’t you just toss that gun over there—”
    “You’re not really giving me a chance here, are you?” Slibe asked.
    “Not really,” Virgil said.
    Slibe looked back toward the shouting cops and said, “Ah, fuck it,” and tossed the gun to the side.
    Virgil didn’t move. “I worry a little about you having a pistol, so why don’t you just walk down the hill with your hands on top of your head, back toward the pasture.”
    Slibe nodded, and turned down the hill. Virgil followed behind, well back, called Sanders on the radio, and said, “I’ve got him. We’re coming down to the pasture, off to the right of my truck.”
    “Gotcha,” Sanders said.
     
     
     
    SLIBE LED THE WAY down the hill, then up the fence line to the left, saying, “There’s a hole in the fence up the way. I always meant to fix it; but it was a good spot to set up during deer season, so I left it.”
    “Did you break into Zoe’s one night?”
    “You recordin’ this?”
    “Nope. Just you and me. And given what else has happened, nobody’s gonna give a shit. I’d just like to know.”
    Slibe almost laughed. “I just wanted her to shut up. I went in there thinkin’ . . . I don’t know what I was thinkin’. I’d had a few bourbons, down at Jack’s. Anyway, I went sneakin’ in there, quiet as a mouse, and all of a sudden this voice says, in the dark, ‘I got a shotgun. I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.’ I was drunk, but not that drunk—I snuck right back out of there.”
     
     
     
    VIRGIL SAW THE HOLE in the fence, and Slibe crossed over into the pasture. Virgil followed, and down the hill, saw cops running for their cars. Slibe took his hands off his head, and Virgil said, “Hands on top of your head.”
    Slibe said, “Go ahead and shoot me down, right in front of all them witnesses. I don’t have a gun.” He pulled off his jacket. He was wearing a T-shirt, which was soaked and stuck to his body. He turned around, hands up: no gun.
    He said, “I got no gun, and you’re gonna have to shoot me down. Either that, or get your ass kicked. Because you are the one that done this to me, Virgil. Bigger than shit. I’m gonna kick your ass.”
    He came at Virgil with a rush, and Virgil tried to butt-stroke him with a shotgun—he’d once had a two-minute butt-stroke lesson in the army, and it didn’t seem any more useful then than it did now, as Slibe dodged the shotgun butt. Virgil twisted away, heard people yelling, almost lost his footing on the wet pasture grass, and then Slibe came back again, low, tackling, and Virgil tried to move around him, but couldn’t, and when Slibe hit him, he heaved the shotgun over the fence into the woods, and they both went down, rolling in the grass and the mud.
    He only had to hold on for a minute, Virgil knew, and the deputies would be there. Then Slibe clouted him on the side of the head and Virgil