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shotgun lifted brightly and he shuffled two inches toward me.
    “Where is she?” he said.
    “Move the gun,” I said. “I’ll be as nervous as you in a minute. Something might happen. Move the gun.”
    “Where, is she?” he said again. “Let’s have a name.”
    The hound showed me his teeth. About four feet separated me from the end of the shotgun. I took a step backward.
    He moved forward. “I told you not to move.”
    The shotgun barrel dipped.
    I went for him hard and mad. I smashed the barrel to the left, wrapped my hand around it. The barrel swung up. The gun blasted straight through the roof. The guy yelled. The dog leaped, barking.
    We both held ends of the shotgun. I got a shoulder underneath and came back hard. The gun broke loose. I heaved it at the sink, wheeled and plowed into him with everything I had.
    He grunted as I whipped my fist into his gut, against the black slicker.
    We sprawled toward the door. The guy got his hand on the doorknob, holding it. The door swung open, with the hound snapping and snarling around our feet. I twisted and slung the guy against the sink as the dog flew at me. I ducked aside, and the dog flew right on out the door. I slammed the door. The guy came at me, swinging with both fists, his eyes bright with rage.
    I set myself.
    I nudged a long, looping right out of the way, let him get in close and lifted my fist. It caught him solidly on the chin. His teeth clacked. I brought my left down against his temple. His eyes rolled and he sat down so hard the trailer swayed. He sat there for a moment, head lolling, then spawled out on his side.
    Outside, the hound yelped, circling the trailer in wet gallops. At the sink, I filled the dishpan with water and poured it over the guy’s head. He swallowed, grunted, and lay there. I pitched the dishpan into the sink, found a cigarette, lit it, and waited. My hands shook and I was still mad.
    “You point a gun at somebody,” I said. “You should figure to use it. That’s what it’s for. Don’t just stand there and prove you’re a fool.”
    He grumbled something in a strange language nobody ever heard.
    My knuckles were all right. My wrist was sore, but it would go away. The blow had caught him neatly, and I had been lucky.
    Three times in my life I’d been up against a similar situation. Guys with guns. Only they used them. One slug was still in my left side. They didn’t want to dig for it. It hurt sometimes. The doc said it would eventually work itself out. The guy that did that had died on his feet a moment after shooting me. I didn’t like thinking about that.
    I leaned over and grabbed the front of his slicker, dragged him to his feet. He was sick-eyed. I shoved him around the table onto the bench.
    “What are you to Ivor Hendrix?” I said.
    The hound rampaged outside. The guy stared at me.
    I reached out and slammed my fist against the side of his face. He tipped over. I sat him up again.
    “What are you to Ivor Hendrix?” I said.
    His eyes steadied. “A friend.”
    “What were you doing, sneaking around here?”
    “Kind of neighbor,” he said. “I was rabbit hunting. I saw your car and thought I ought to investigate.”
    “You a watchdog?”
    His eyes swam, then saw me again.
    “What’s your name?” I said.
    “Gamba. Vince Gamba. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
    “Sure you do.”
    Behind his eyes he wanted me to believe he was suddenly tired of all this.
    He said, “She hasn’t been around. I haven’t seen her husband lately, either. I
was
kind of keeping an eye on the place.”
    “You and your dog. You got him trained to kill?”
    “Sometimes Buck gets excited.”
    We watched each other for a moment, like a couple of Jap wrestlers getting set to kick low.
    He said abruptly, “Why are you asking me all these things? Who are you? You a cop?”
    I said, “You and Carl Hendrix friends?”
    “I told you. We’re neighbors.”
    I leaned down and put my face closer to his. “How do