Part 9 (1/2)
Jack Callahan challenged, ”What do you mean by that?”
”Where you been the past twenty or twenty-five years, Jack? Smoky's been askin' for it at least that long.”
Callahan's voice was hard as ice and as brittle. ”You didn't answer my question.”
”So I didn't, but I will. I know nothin' 'bout who might've shot Smoky, but I can think of lots of reasons why.”
”Is this yours?”
Callahan's hand dipped into his pocket and came up bearing Al's distinctive tobacco pouch. Ted gasped. His father was unmoved.
”Yep. But I haven't seen it for two weeks or more.”
”That's true!” Ted a.s.serted. ”He hasn't had it for at least that long!”
Al said quietly, ”Stay out of this, boy.”
”You needn't stay out.” Callahan swung toward Ted. ”Was your father with you today?”
”Well--no.”
”Where was he?”
”He was out hunting a coyote.”
A note of triumph in his voice, Callahan turned again to Al. ”By any chance, a two-legged coyote?”
Al said disgustedly, ”Don't be a fool!”
”Did you have your rifle with you?”
”What would you carry if you was huntin' a coyote? A pocketful of pebbles?”
”Can you account for your actions of today?”
”Yep. Crossed the nose of Hawkbill, went into c.o.o.n Valley, climbed that to its head, swung behind Burned Mountain, crossed the Fordham Road and come back by way of Fiddlefoot Crick.”
”Can you prove all this?”
”Sure!” Al snorted. ”I'll get you an affy-davit from a couple of crows that saw me.”
”That is your tobacco pouch?”
”I've already said it is.”
”That pouch,” and again Callahan's voice rose in triumph, ”was found not six feet from where Smoky fell!”
”So?”
”Al, I'd hate to have to get tough with you.”