Page 121 of Before We Say Goodbye
Otis directed his gaze to whatever it was Vance was aiming at. A target, maybe a bucket ... or a rabbit.
Another gunshot. Smoke rose from the rifle.
Then he saw it, a coyote clamoring for a hiding place. It looked like it had been hit.
There are times when a man calculates. When he sees a problem and considers the best way to eliminate it. When he pauses to wonder if the risk is worth the reward, if chasing after a man with a gun is a good idea.
This was not one of those times.
Otis raced down the steps of the deck, sprinted along the fence line, then crossed over the gravel road into Vance’s cherry farm.
Another gunshot only put more fire under Otis’s feet.
Ignoring the pain, he weaved through the cherry trees like a skier slaloming down a double-black diamond. Fury rose out of him from the great depths of his soul.
As he drew close, he saw Vance chasing after the coyote, pausing to shoot and then taking off again.
“Put the gun down!” Otis called, spit spraying from his mouth, his breathing broken and desperate.
Vance turned back but only for a second. He continued to stalk the coyote.
Otis didn’t slow at all. Racing as fast as he could, his heart roaring, his lungs heaving, he shouted with everything he had, ordering Vance to stop.
In the distance, the poor coyote—sand colored with patch fur—was racing away.
Vance looked like he had a clean shot on him. His finger was on the trigger when Otis plowed into him. They both hit the dust in a collision that knocked Otis’s breath out of him. The gun landed five feet away with athwack!
Vance rose to his knees, shouting, “What the ...?”
“Who do you think you are?” Otis roared.
Only then did he remember that Vance was fifteen years younger with biceps nearly double the size of Otis’s. The coyote, in the meantime, raced farther up the hill.
“You don’t shoot the animals here!”
“He’s trespassing, just like you.” Vance eyed the gun on the ground and worked his way over.
Otis mustered all the energy he had to barrel into the man, knocking him onto his side. Vance easily tossed Otis off him. Then he landed several punches onto Otis’s face, knocking his head back, splattering blood onto his shirt.
This made Otis only more furious, and he threw punches back, striking Vance in the stomach several times, making him fold into a ball.
They tumbled over one another, pulling, punching, kicking. “You don’t shoot a coyote!” Otis yelled as his knuckles met Vance’s teeth.
Vance’s friends had reached them, and one of them grabbed the gun. He shot it into the air.
Otis and Vance froze, and both fell back into the dirt, gasping for breath. Silence fell over the cherry farm. Otis felt dizzy enough to pass out. Blood dripped from Vance’s chin and ran down his beard.
“You don’t shoot coyotes on this mountain,” Otis said. “You ever do it again, I’ll kill you.”
Vance dragged himself up and took the gun from his friend. “I’m the one with the gun.”
Rebecca’s voice came from somewhere around them, shouting to stop. She raced up to the scene. “Otis, let’s go home.”
Fear shone in her eyes. She looked to Vance. “The cops are on the way. I’m going to take my husband. You don’t shoot animals around here.”
“Whose land is this? According to the law, on my land I can shoot any animal I see fit.”
“It’s the unwritten law of this mountain,” Otis said, pushing himself up with bloody knuckles.
