The rifle was cold and heavy. Dew formed on the barrel, and his hands complained, threatening to cramp. He held the rifle in one hand while he flexed the other, then traded hands and flexed again. The woods were alive; the night shift was on duty. Leopard frogs in the nearby streambed called each other at regular intervals; a crowd of coyotes howled and yapped in their usual, ghostly fashion, never there as much as out there somewhere. Every few seconds, a bat flickered like a giant, ghostly moth across the field of his night goggles. Below him, the half drum of rotting refuse sent up its stench, but so far, no visitors. Wiley Kane almost dozed off, but one tiny snore brought a quick elbow from Steve Thorne, the only one allowed to sleep at the moment. Kane lifted his night goggles long enough to rub his eyes, then went back to scanning the woods. Movement down by the cabin caught his eye immediately, but he was disappointed. The half drum of grease and doughnuts had attracted its first visitor: a skunk.
