Free Blue Lonesome by Bill Pronzini Page B

and watching some other poor schmuck hugging the floor of a barn. Stage set, scene in a John Wayne or Randolph Scott Western …
    An awareness crowded in: Outside, it was quiet again.
    With an effort, he forced his thoughts into a semblance of order. He couldn’t just lie there and wait for whoever it was to come in after him. Move—that was the first thing. He put his hands under his chest and pushed up, then over on to one hip. The shadows were thick, clotted in corners and among the rafters, but enough smoky-looking light penetrated through gaps in the walls and roof to let him see how the barn was laid out. Stalls along the far wall, an enclosed feed bin. Hayloft above, with an opening into it but no ladder for access. No windows, no other doors. Trapped here. And nothing he could see to use as a weapon; the barn had been stripped of machinery and tools and anything else it might have once held.
    The postshooting stillness remained unbroken.
    Several more deep breaths and then he crawled over against the wall, to where a missing piece of board provided an eyehole. His thin imagination, heightened and wild-running, led him to expect more than one armed man. What he saw made him suck in another ragged breath, as much in confusion as in relief. A woman, alone, walking alongside the house toward the barn. Short, wiry, youngish, wearing a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, khaki clothing, scuffed boots. Carrying a rifle waist high, at the ready, with the ease and competence of long familiarity. Nothing else moved anywhere except for watery sun-shimmers.
    He remembered the car engine he’d heard. It hadn’t been over on the valley road; the car must have been on the access track by then—her coming here. He watched her walk slowly to within thirty yards of the barn. When she stopped she shifted the rifle slightly and stood in an attitude of listening. Then—
    “Hey! You in there! Come on out where I can see you.”
    Hard, angry voice. A woman used to giving orders and having them obeyed. He stayed where he was, watching her.
    “I’m not gonna shoot you. If I’d wanted that, I’d’ve put the first round into your hide instead of the wall.”
    He didn’t move.
    “Better get your ass out here if you don’t want any more trouble. It’s too damn hot for a Mexican standoff.”
    Still he didn’t move.
    “I’ll give you two more minutes. Then I’ll disable your car and go for the sheriff, and by God I’ll press charges against you for sure.”
    Now he was convinced. He got shakily to his feet. His respiration and pulse beat had returned to normal; the fear-grip had left him and his mind was clear again. He stood for a moment to compose himself. Then he limped around the door and out into the yard.
    “About time,” the woman said.
    He shaded his eyes with one hand so he could see her better. “Why’d you shoot at me like that? You scared the hell out of me.”
    “That was the idea. Can’t you read, mister?”
    “Read?”
    “Sign on the gate, big as life. No Trespassing. Keep Out.”
    “I saw the sign.”
    “But you came down anyway. Where’s your camera?”
    “My … what?”
    “Camera. Tourist, right? Looking for something real quaint to take pictures of?”
    “No.” He reached down to rub his sore knee. “I’m not a tourist.”
    “Then what in the hell’re you doing here?”
    “I came … I wanted to see this place. Anna Roebuck’s place.”
    The woman scowled and advanced a few paces. The muzzle of her rifle remained centered on his chest. She appeared to be in her early thirties, cured by sun and wind to a creased-leather brown; too thin, all bone and sinew. But not unattractive and not dried out. Juices flowed hot in her—that was plain enough. A woman of mood and temper and passion.
    “What do you know about Anna Roebuck?”
    “Not very much. I didn’t have the chance to know her well.”
    “Where’d you meet her? You’re not from around here.”
    “San Francisco.”
    “When?”
    “Not long