He rolled a cigarette and replaced the package of tobacco in the breast pocket of his tailored shirt and lit the cigarette and descended the stairs, a proprietary squint to his eyes as he studied the morning aspect of this small upland county seat.A man opened the door and called down to him and the sheriff turned.Mr Gibson’s huntin you, the man said.You don’t know where I’m at.Okay.And where the hell is Cotton?He’s went to get the car.He better get his ass on up here.Yonder he comes now, Sheriff.The sheriff turned and went on out to the street.Mornin Sheriff.Mornin.Mornin Sheriff.Hey. How you.He flipped the cigarette into the street and stepped into the car and pulled the door to. Mornin Sheriff, said the driver.Let’s go get the little fucker, said the sheriff.Me and Bill Parsons was goin to go birdhuntin this mornin but I don’t reckon we will now.Bill Parsons eh?He’s got a couple of good dogs.O yeah. He always has the best dogs. I remember a dog he had one time named Suzie he said was a hellatious bird dog.
