Deadline(153)

            “Not mine,” Virgil said.

            “Have you arrested anybody?” she asked.

            “Yes, I have,” Virgil said. “I’ve arrested D. Wayne Sharf, on a variety of state and federal charges. He is now handcuffed to that fence over there.”

            “Guarded by the lady with the baseball bat?”

            “Yes. Somebody had to guard him, while I tried to stop the shooting,” Virgil said.

            “That was very brave of you, Virgil. It makes me feel all funny inside.”

            “Daisy, a machine screw makes you feel all funny inside.”

            “That’s rude.”

            “Yes. It is. I apologize. Now. For your TV station, if you want it, you can say I arrested D. Wayne Sharf. You can say that many of the dogs here were stolen, and that the actions of the crowd were illegal, but sorting it out here, by myself, with no help, was simply impractical. I will be turning this investigation over to the Buchanan County attorney’s office for possible criminal prosecutions. That’s all I got.”

            She leaned closer, so that he could smell the Chanel: “Could you tell me, is there any one person here who’d be best to interview?”

            Virgil pointed out Johnson, who was still wearing the stupid mask: “That’s the ringleader.”

            “Ooo. He has big muscles.”

            “He’s a simple country boy, Daisy. Go easy on him.”

            —

            A SHERIFF’S CAR rolled up on the road, and a single deputy got out. Virgil walked across the field toward him, the yellow dog right at his knee, and the deputy came to meet him and said, “Virgil. Uh, what’s up?”

            Virgil turned and looked at the field. The dognapper crowd and the bunchers were in a bunch at one end, and were a tough-looking, mmm . . . bunch. The raiders were at the other end, trying to herd loose dogs across the alfalfa. Scattered among them were a dozen overturned trucks and trailers, and a few more still on their wheels. Even those on their wheels had been pounded like brass ashtrays, and none of them showed glass or rearview mirrors.

            “Well . . . what can I say?” Virgil waved a hand at the field.

            “What are we going to do?”

            “I’ve got a federal prisoner I’ve got to haul back to Trippton,” Virgil said. “As for these people . . . I think, well, hell, go ahead and arrest them.”

            “What?”

            “They busted up all these trucks.” He pointed to the circle of men at the far end of the field. “Arrest them, too. A lot of the dogs are stolen.”

            The deputy looked up and down the field and then said, “I would estimate—don’t hold me to this exactly—if I arrested these people, the sheriff would lose the next election by about ninety to ten.”

            “Do what you think is right,” Virgil said. “I’m going back to town.”

            The deputy looked at the yellow dog and said, “That’s a great dog. Wish I had one like that.”

            “Not mine,” Virgil said. “You ought to see if you could herd him back to the pen. If nobody claims him, maybe you could adopt him.”

            The deputy stepped toward the dog, which shied away and moved closer to Virgil. “I’ll let you handle it,” the deputy said. “But I think he’s your dog.”

            —