Long shadows fell across a device on a hill two kilometers from the
river. The thing was a large firearm with a heavy barrel about three
meters long. The barrel rested on wooden supporting and trailing pieces
and projected from between two high wheels. Rasmussen lay with his fat
right leg crushed and twisted under a wheel.
The old hunter shook an optical instrument at Betty Toal and me. We
were wet from the usual daily thunderstorm, which had delayed our
search for the killer of the Hog. "Blasted him!" Rasmussen groaned.
"Take this cannon off me! Have waited hours. Why did you not come?"
I grasped two spokes and pushed with what little energy remained in my
depleted body, but I could not tilt the ponderous firearm. I said,
"Can you drive his tractor over here, Toal? You can tow the canner off."
"Not enough pain for you?" Rasmussen gasped. "Use a lever. Lift the
wheel."
"Cut a pole," Toal said and drew a knife.
Rasmussen continued to rave. "Where is gratitude? I saved you! Could
not kill him by spraying his head."