“Of course,” Bill says. The flask has disappeared back into his coat. “Of course, of course. I should— Susan’ll be wondering. I’ll be in the tent if anyone needs me. I don’t think I have the stomach for killing this morning after all.”
He doesn’t look at me again as he goes.
Raymond watches him go with an expression I cannot quite parse, and then turns back to me. “Christ,” he says. “That man is one bad hip away from a funeral urn.”
I force a polite chuckle. “He didn’t look well.”
“He never does, lately.” Raymond cracks his shotgun open, peers down the barrels with no real interest, and snaps it shut again. “Feeble old men. They reach a certain age and start jumping at shadows. Forget what side of the table they’re sitting on, and how they got to the table in the first place.”
The win
