whatsoever, except to make it easier for the hunters.
Twombley seemed unable to accept Jackâs reassurances. âI mean, itâs not enough snow, and wonât be for a while. Not for tracking the bastards,â Twombley said. âThereâs no advantage there, kid. And itâll be hard, you know, to see very well in the damned stuff.â
Three rifles, two with scopes, hung in the rack against the rear window of the cab, and all three swung and clunked against the rack in tandem as the truck dipped into a gully and out. The incline got steeper, and Jack double-clutched and shifted down, and the truck leapt ahead.
Jack said, âDonât worry, Mr. Twombley, I know where those suckers are. Rain or shine, snow or no snow, I know where they hide. I know deer, Mr. Twombley, and this particular piece of land. Weâll kill us a buck today. Guaranteed. Before ten.â He laughed lightly.
âGuaranteed, eh?â
âYep,â he said. âGuaranteed. And itâs because of the snow. Weâll be still-hunting, see, instead of stand-hunting. This here is your best snow for tracking, actually, real powdery and dry, couple inches deep. You donât want no foot-deep wet stuff. Right about now the does are holing up for the day in brush piles, and the bucksâre right behind them. And here we come right behind the bucks. I guarantee,â he said, âthis gun gets fired before ten oâclock.â
Jack crooked his thumb at the rifle hung from the bottom hook of the rack behind him. âWhether it kills a deer or not is more or less up to you, of course. I canât guarantee thatmuch. But Iâll put you inside thirty, thirty-five yards of a buck the first four hours of the season. Thatâs what youâre paying me for, ainât it?â
âDamn straight,â Twombley said. He yanked the cigarette from his mouth and rubbed it out in the ashtray. The windshield wipers clacked back and forth, and large beads of melted snow skittered like water bugs across the wide flat hood of the truck.
At first glance and often for a long time after you got to know him, Evan Twombley gave the impression of being a physically and personally powerful man, and most people tried to give him whatever he seemed to want from them. Often, later on, they realized that they had been foolishly intimidated, but by then it was too late and they would have other reasons for continuing to give him what he wanted. He was one of those American Irishmen who find themselves in their mid-fifties with a body that, in its bloat and thickened coarsened face, looks large, bulky, formidable, when in fact it is a small body, even delicate, with fine hands, narrow shoulders and hips, small precise ears, eyes, mouth. Forty years of heavy consumption of whiskey and beefsteak can turn a dancerâs body and a musicianâs face into those of a venal politician. That other, much younger man, the dancer, the musician, was nonetheless still there and was wide awake somewhere inside and making trouble for Twombley now by questioning the venal politicianâs right to bully people with his loud voice, by mocking his swagger and brag, his claims of physical fearlessness, and finally making the loud burly red-faced man often come off as hesitant, conflicted, vulnerable, even guilty. In the end, although one neared Twombley feeling intimidated by him and wary of and possibly hostile toward him, up close one quickly discovered a fellow feeling for him and a genuine sympathy, sometimes a protectiveness.
Twombley himself, of course, knew nothing of this transition; he only perceived its effects, the most useful being that it gave him power over people: at first, people were afraid of him; then they warmed to him. In human relations, this is a sequence that invites dominance and creates loyalty. And in Twombleyâs particular line of workâwhich, after a long careful climb from the local organizing level,
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