Free Alligator by Shelley Katz Page B

he had really seen anything, but he knew that he had.
    In the next second, Lee fired at the bear. It was good. The bear crumpled to his knees, shuddering violently, then sprang up again. Lee got off another shot. The bear stood up on his hind legs and howled, a long, anguished cry that sounded as if the very life of him were escaping with it. Then he fell forward and crashed to the ground.
    Lee approached carefully, but there was no need for precautions; the bear was dead. Flies had already begun to cluster around the carcass.
    Ten feet away, the lifeless body of Rab lay in the brush. Lee didn't approach it. Grief was a great hollowness inside him, and he turned away. It was then he heard the wail, a terrible, anguished, almost inhuman cry coming from the forest. He realized that he had forgotten about Clete and Randy. He took one last look at Rab, then headed toward the sound.
    Several yards back, in a thicket of scrub willow, Randy was kneeling on the ground. Clete was in his arms, and there was blood all over him. When Randy saw Lee approaching, he pulled a handgun and started yelling hysterically, "Get away. Do you hear me? Get away." He took a shot, just inches from Lee. "Stay away, I said." Hysteria strangled Randy's voice and made it sound very far away.
    Lee froze. He tried to keep his voice cool and soothing. "Let me come over and help."
    "You see, I thought he was the bear."
    "Now, easy, easy, I'm just going to come over..."
    "It's too late now!" Randy screamed. "He's dead! Where were you before? It's your fault. You should have been with us." Randy fired again. This time the bullet came so close, it was clear he was a good shot and had just missed Lee on purpose. It gave Lee the feeling that perhaps Randy was more in control than he had thought. "Next shot and I'll kill you!" Randy shrieked. "You want to help? Go back and get the sheriff."
    Randy turned back to Clete and began wailing, but he kept glancing back at Lee. There was the wild look of madness in his eyes.
    Lee didn't move any closer. He knew there was nothing he could do except go back for help. He began to back up, keeping his eyes on Randy. Clete still hadn't moved, and Lee knew he must be dead.
    Lee backed into the trees until he was out of sight, then turned and headed back to town. He played the hunt over and over in his mind. How had it happened? Randy was a good shot, too good to have made that kind of mistake. He knew there was going to be trouble; everything had gone wrong. Rab was dead; poor old Rab was worth ten Cletes, but there hadn't been anything he could do about it. He could still hear Randy screaming after him, and the words seemed to echo through the forest. "What kind of a son of a bitching guide are you, what kind of guide are you?"
    Sheriff Thompson was on the take. Everyone knew it, except his wife, who, if she thought about where the money for her new three-speed washer and dryer came from when their bank account was down to $147 and small change, might have been able to figure it out. But Ricky Thompson had been raised by a shrewd mother who shielded her from anything remotely resembling an inquiring mind, thereby insuring her daughter's early marriage and future happiness. So Mrs. Thompson remained in the dark.
    Sheriff Thompson was not a deceptive man, though. He readily admitted he was open to all possibilities. He knew taking money was no reflection on his ability to serve, and thought it was completely justified in light of the ridiculously low wages given to public servants who took their lives in their hands every time they stepped out the door. Most of the town agreed with him, and it worked to both Thompson's and the town's advantage. He got his money, and they got low taxes.
    Thompson put down his dog-eared copy of My Gun Is Quick and leaned back in his swivel chair, lost in thought. Late-afternoon light spilled through the dirty windows into his bleak office with its nicked wood desk and disemboweled easy chair. It