The garden on the other side of the track was also overgrown, the fences broken, and the clapboard farmhouse beyond dilapidated, shingles missing in places from the roof. There was an atmosphere of decay about everything.
An old hound dog nosed out of the undergrowth and limped toward Doc Floyd, who leaned down and fondled its ears.
“All wore out, Sam, just like you.”
He straightened at the sound of a car approaching and said softly, “Looks like they’re here, Sam. Let’s go.” He went up through the broken fence toward the house, the dog trailing him.
When he went around to the front, a DeSoto sedan was parked there. The man in the dark suit who leaned against it, wiping sweat from his face, fanning himself with his hat at the same time, was middle-aged and overweight. His name was George Harvey, and he was manager of the Huntsville National Bank. The man beside him could have been any one of a hundred local farmers to judge by his faded jeans and sweat-stained felt hat. The only difference was the deputy’s badge on his chest and the pistol in the holster on his left hip.
Harvey said, “Ah, there you are, Doc. You know Larry Schultz?”
“Sure I do,” Doc said. “Mary okay now, Larry? I heard she was under the weather.”
“It was nothing. She’s fine now.” Schultz was embarrassed, and it showed.
“Okay, let’s get down to business,” Harvey said. “The bank’s been very patient, Doc, but enough is enough. I have to ask you formally now. Are you in a position to settle?”
“You know damn well I’m not,” Doc told him flatly.
Harvey turned to Schultz. “Serve your papers.”
Schultz produced a folded document from his shirt pocket and held it out to the old man who took it from him. “Sorry, Doc,” he said.
Doc shrugged. “Not your fault, Larry, we all got to eat.”
Harvey got behind the wheel of the DeSoto and switched on the motor. “Okay, Larry, let’s go. I’m a busy man.”
Schultz went around to the other side and got into the passenger seat. Doc ran a finger over the gleaming paintwork. “Some car, Mr. Harvey. I suppose a car like this must cost a heap of money?”
“Seven days, that’s what you’ve got,” Harvey said. “Then the bank forecloses, and that means everything, Doc, so don’t you move a damn thing out of here.”
He drove away very fast, spraying dirt, and disappeared along the track through the trees toward the main road. Doc Floyd stood there for a long moment, then turned and mounted the steps to the porch and went inside, the dog following him.
He found a half-full bottle of whiskey and a glass and sat at the table in the untidy, shabby room, drinking slowly, savoring it as if it might be the last drink he was likely to have.
His eyes roamed around the room, taking in the sagging furniture and the worn carpet and finally came to rest on the photo of his wife in the old silver frame.
“Not much to show for forty years of living, old girl,” he said softly.
He toasted her, emptied the glass in a quick swallow, and poured another.
It was perhaps an hour later that he became aware of the sound of a car approaching up the track outside. By then he was drunk enough to be angry.
“The bastard, Sam,” he said softly to the dog. “Back already.”
He stood up, took an old double-barreled shotgun down from the wall, found some cartridges in a drawer, and loaded it as he went to the door. The hound dog whined anxiously and followed.
Doc stood on the porch outside, the gun ready in his hand, only the car that had stopped in the middle of the yard wasn’t the DeSoto. It was a Ford coupe, and the man in the black felt hat and neat dark blue suit who slid out from behind the wheel was definitely not George Harvey.
“Hello, Doc,” he called softly. “That’s a hell of a welcome.”
Doc lowered the shotgun in astonishment. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Johnny Dillinger. You shouldn’t be here. They come looking for you just day before yesterday.”