Free Tangled Vines by Janet Dailey Page B

once. “You can tell the Rutledges for me that I’m wise to their ways.”
    â€œHow the hell are we supposed to tell them anything, Dougherty, if you keep shooting at us?” Ed Braiser shouted back, more anger than fear in his voice. But the appeal for reason was lost on Dougherty.
    â€œYeah, you’d like me to let you crawl outta there, wouldn’t you?”
    Crouching low and using what cover the young vines offered, Sam worked his way closer, moving past Ramon, Ed Braiser and Carlos Jones were a good fifty yards away, hugging the plowed ground next to the fence line. Carlos was closest, with Ed stretched out behind him, lying on his side and rubbing his right hand as if it pained him. A broken shovel handle lay in the next vine row, the ends of a knotted white handkerchief fluttering from the top of it. The other half of the shovel was on the ground near Ed. A surrender attempt that had obviously failed.
    Satisfied that neither man appeared hurt, Sam slipped into the next row to get a better view of Dougherty’s place. A narrow and rutted weed-choked lane led to the shallow valley high on the mountainside. Years of neglect had turned the once small but tidy cottage into little more than a shack. The paint had long since peeled from the boards, leaving them gray and rotted in places. The area immediately around the house resembled a junkyard of rusted and abandoned machinery parts. A jungle-thick growth covered the rest of the ten acres.
    The neglect, the decay, the deterioration of the place was enough to anger Sam. Grimly he scanned the area and finally spotted Dougherty’s wiry frame hunkered down behind his shiny Buick, using the hood for a gun rest. A whiskey bottle sat on the ground beside him.
    â€œWhat do we do, boss?” Ramon crouched down next to him.
    Sam had been mulling that same question over in his mind. Suddenly the rifle cracked again, kicking up a puff of dust directly in front of Carlos. Carlos flattened himself to the ground, covering his head with his hands.
    â€œDirty rotten snakes, you aren’t going to crawl out of here after you tore down my fence!” Dougherty shouted. “Try that again and I’ll put a bullet through you.”
    â€œThat settles it.” Sam’s voice was lower than a murmur. After making one last thorough sweep of the area, he backed away. Any thought of waiting for the sheriff or his deputies to arrive and defuse the situation had been discarded the instant Dougherty had made his threat.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Ramon joined him.
    â€œDo you hear any sirens?”
    Ramon listened a moment, then shook his head. “No.”
    â€œNeither do I.” With the demands of the heavy summer traffic and the shortage of staff mandated by countywide budget cuts, there was no telling when a car might be dispatched to the scene. Whether it was two minutes or twenty, either seemed too long. Sam pressed a hand on Ramon’s shoulder. “You stay here.”
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œDown there.” With a jerk of his head, Sam indicated Dougherty’s place. “If I can, I’ll create a diversion and, hopefully, distract him long enough for you to get those two out of there.”
    â€œHe will shoot you.” Ramon looked at him with widened eyes.
    â€œNot if he doesn’t see me.” Sam was counting on that.
    Staying out of sight of the shack, Sam worked his way down the slope to the fence along the west property line. There the overgrowth of grapevines and weeds in Dougherty’s vineyard offered heavy cover. He ducked between the wires and slipped into the leafy tunnel of vines. With the location of the dilapidated cottage and Dougherty fixed in his mind, he made his way toward it with slow and silent stealth – something he hadn’t practiced since he was a boy, when playing Indian and sneaking up on people had been his favorite pastime.
    The thought crossed his mind that