He went after it.
Not that he really wanted the whiskey, although having to put up with Smitty could drive a preacher to drink. Now it was the principle. Damn females—human and animal—kept swiping his booze.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later,Hank came stumbling out of the jungle, sweat pouring from his hair and down his face and neck. His shirt was soaked, his pants had fern fronds and flower petals clinging to them along with a few gnats and bugs. He took deep breaths, and his chest burned like hell, but it didn’t matter.
He had the whiskey bottle in hand. He broke into the clearing and held up the bottle as if he’d just caught a fly ball and expected cheers.
Smitty stood alone near the doorway of the hut. She looked at him from narrowed eyes.
“The last bottle, sweetheart.” He crowed. “And I got it. You lost the final battle.” He bent over, one hand resting on his knee while he caught his breath. He was still laughing when he straightened.
“Drop the bottle, Hank.”
“Like hell! Give me that gun, Smitty! You might hurt someone.”
She shook her head.
“Well, then, you’re just going to have to shoot me, sweetheart, ’cause I’m not letting go of this bottle.”
“Fine.” She raised the pistol.
He laughed. “Oooo-whee! I’m scared.” He took a step.
She held the gun with two hands.
“Hey, sweetheart. You almost look as if you know what you’re doing.” Then he laughed again.
She aimed, and he watched her finger slide to the trigger.
“Wait a damn minute, Smitty. I—”
She shot the bottle.
Shattered glass and whiskey flew like winter sleet. He froze. He looked at his right hand.
Whiskey dripped from it. All he was holding was the glass neck of the bottle. “No shit.” He clamped his gaping mouth closed and looked up again.
She smiled, blew the smoke from the pistol like a gunfighter, and calmly went back inside the hut.
21
Margaret tied the last ribbon in Lydia’s braids. “There. All done.”
Lydia turned around. The part in her hair was off by a good inch. One loose and lumpy braid was in front of her ear and the other started two inches higher, was too tight, and stuck out from behind her ear at a ninety-degree angle. Margaret chewed her lip for a second. “I think they’re a bit lopsided.” She reached for the hairbrush. “Let me try again.”
Lydia sighed and sat back down on a barrel. She sat there utterly silent while Margaret brushed her dark blond hair and divided it into sections.
She would try counting each link in the braids so they’d be even. She cast a quick glance at Annabelle, who was asleep on a nearby mat.
Lydia was absently staring at her hands. After a minute she asked, “How did you learn to swim?”
“My dad taught me.”
“Oh.”
“Why?”
