Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

It was a fact that Sheriff Hamilton didn’t feel the need to be nice to you if you couldn’t vote. He’d have probably been a little nicer to Billy Joe if he had known Billy Joe turned eighteen tomorrow.

Billy Joe went down to the edge of the lake and started casting for large-mouth bass. While he fished, he kept looking back up the hill to see what Sheriff Hamilton was going to do with the two men. Billy Joe’s plan depended on their paying him a finder’s fee for returning their property, and they couldn’t do that if they were locked up.

Billy Joe could see but not hear Sheriff Hamilton raising hell with the men. He figured the sheriff didn’t have anything to hold them on or they would already be on their way to jail. Deputy Monroe started walking back up to Cedar Lake Road, looking along both ditches as he walked.

Two large-mouth bass and an hour later the deputy returned empty-handed. The sheriff spat a glob of tobacco and stomped around screaming at the men. He finally stopped ranting and wrote the tall one a ticket. The man signed the ticket; then they got in their car and drove away with the deputy following closely.

Billy Joe settled down to do some serious fishing. If his plan worked, it would be a couple of hours before the men would be able to shake the sheriff and return.

It was closer to three hours before Billy Joe saw the BMW come over the hill. By then he had enough bass to last a month. He reeled his line in, put the fish and his tackle in the burlap bag, and waited in the shade of a pine tree for the men to walk down to him.

The tall one wasted no time. “Where’s our stuff, hayseed?” he asked. The short one just scowled and opened and closed his hands. Trying to look menacing, Billy Joe supposed.

Billy Joe shrugged his shoulders and played the country bumpkin. “I don’t believe I know what you’re talking about. If you lost something, I’ll be happy to help you look for it. Is there a finder’s fee for the person who finds it for you?”

“Don’t be stupid, kid,” the short one said, rolling his shoulders and moving forward zigzag like a boxer. “I’ll knock your ass out, and you’ll wake up on the bottom of that lake.”

Billy Joe held up his right hand to stop him. “Before you do anything rash, I think you ought to take a look behind you.”

The short one kept his eyes on Billy Joe while the tall one looked. Sheriff Hamilton’s car was sitting at the top of the hill.

“Okay, kid. We play it your way,” the tall one said. “How much of a finder’s fee do you want? Five thousand enough?”

Billy Joe thought for a minute. If he was willing to offer five thousand, he’d probably be willing to go higher. “No, I want ten thousand dollars to help you find what you’re looking for.”

The two men looked at each other. Then the tall one said, “All right, but it’ll take us a couple of hours to get the money together. How about we meet back here at midnight?”

“Fine,” Billy Joe said. “You have the money; I’ll have your stuff.”

They went back to their car and drove slowly back up the hill past Sheriff Hamilton. While the sheriff was watching them, Billy Joe slipped into the woods that bordered the lake and started making his way back to where he’d left the bag. He didn’t want to run into the sheriff again.

The sun hid behind a cloud, and a spring shower soaked Billy Joe as he ran through the woods. He rushed up to the hollow tree only to have his dreams come crashing down around him. The plastic bag and the paper sack it had been in were lying on the ground at the base of the tree, ripped to shreds. The rain had already washed away most of the powder, and what was left wasn’t worth trying to save.

“Damn!” Billy Joe said. He must’ve trapped the coon in the tree, and the coon tore the bag to pieces getting out.

Billy Joe was not one to cry over spilt milk, but he knew those two guys were going to be mighty upset when he told them what happened to their powder. Come to think of it, they might not even believe him. Billy Joe thought for a few minutes and came up with what he figured was a pretty good plan to get himself out of this jam.

He set out for home at a jog. There was no time to waste. It was twilight and he was covered with sweat by the time he jogged into the yard. A few of the hounds barked halfheartedly at him. As he approached the house, he heard a low rumbling growl coming from under the front porch and he came to an abrupt halt.

“It’s me, Boss. Good dog, good dog.” Ignoring the hounds was one thing, but ignoring Boss was something nobody in his right mind did. Boss was Pa’s catch dog, and Billy Joe along with half the surrounding county was scared spitless of him. Boss came out from under the porch and shook the dust from his short brindle coat. A massive brute, Boss was mean as a snake and feared neither man nor beast. A fact attested to by his tattered ears and the scars that decorated his muscular body. All the hounds gave Boss a wide berth.