East of Delmar, Idaho.

Farmer Joe Clarke, and wife, Mary, heard the local radio news flash. This morning, armed thieves stole Charlie Singleton's 1949 Buick. They are heading east from Delmar. Do not approach. Report sightings to Sheriff Dobie in Delmar. This intrigued Clarke, a survivor of the Allied Normandy invasion. He lived in the past and judged the world by those now redundant standards. Clarke believed in tackling problems head-on. He reached up and recovered a double barrel over and under shotgun hanging just inside the veranda door. "Mary," he called to his wife, "brings me extra shells."

     Mary knew her husband's quirks. He wore army uniform every day of every week, supposing that someday an unknown enemy would invade this part of his world. He slipped into the woods, near the acres of wheat crops, shotgun in hand, practising moves and manoeuvres as if he were under attack and fired at targets set up on tree trunks, on fences and against bushes. "Why do you need shells, Joe? Those men will not come here."

     Clarke scowled. "Don't question me, woman. I stay on guard and defend my land. No stranger gains access without my permission. I'm waiting for these thieving bastards and I say to hell with informing Dobie. He is a new sheriff without sense. I will meet them direct."

     Mary wiped her brow. The kitchen was hot. Rolls were cooking in the oven, their smell pervading the kitchen. She stared at her husband of twenty-nine years. "Nobody will call here - they will make for the highway."

     Clarke glowered. "Don't you believe it, if they are heading for the highway then what are they doing travelling west from Delmar?"

     Mary shook her head. "I don't know, but you should stop acting the World War II soldier. That war is over. We live alone in a wilderness, yet you patrol the fields each day as though you are landing again in Normandy. Forget that. Normandy happened thirty years ago."

     Clarke snapped open the shotgun and loaded it with two shells. "I can see Omaha beach as if it were yesterday." He closed the shotgun, his eyes searching the distant past. "I was with the US 1st Army Corps assault infantry. They brought us in on a landing craft and would you believe it - I had seasickness. We landed short of the beach because the enemy had driven huge stakes in the foreshore and laid reels of barbed wire. It tore at you as you left the craft and hustled to the beach. Some boys drowned right then. Heavy fire pinned us down; we had no cover. I remember a bullet ricocheting off Billy Camber's helmet. You could smell the stench of gun fire and see the plumes of smoke as enemy artillery blew the sand in the air. It got into your eyes and in your ears. You could hardly see to fight back. Men were falling around you, some crying in agony, others just floating, lifeless, bobbing in the swell and coming in with the advancing tide." Clarke's tired eyes flickered to his wife then back to the view beyond the veranda. "I felt weird, because I was fighting for a piece of ground that did not belong to me. Many of my buddies were killed or wounded - and for what?" He shoved a few shells into his tunic pockets and glanced again at Mary. "We lost almost two hundred men. Billy Camber was one of them. He said his last words to me. I remember them very clear. He said, It is getting dark, Joe. Then his head went down to his chest, and he had gone. There were two hundred yards of sand to cross before we reached a bank of shingle heaped against a seawall. I remember feeling exhausted, and we had only just landed."

     Mary checked the rolls were cooked and removed them from the oven, replacing them with more rolls, closing the door with her knee. "I know about Normandy, Joe. You have told me so many times. You cannot do anything for the friends you have lost. Live for the present day and not for past days long gone."

                                                          ***

Lou Levinski wiped his perspiring brow. It was tough work checking spring wheat and spring barley crops in this hellish heat. Maybe he was a fool for doing it: he should be resting under the nearby Spruce trees, but grizzled farm owner Joe Clarke was an inflexible boss who drove farm workers hard, extracting every bit of sweat from them in return for a dollar an hour. Levinski looked across the regimented crop rows, standing proud and tall, their leaves swaying slightly in a cross breeze from the west. At the far end of a row, in another field, roustabout Eddy Birch was resting on his hoe after tending crops of peas, chickpeas and lentils. Levinski glanced across to his own left toward the farm buildings, squinting in the lowering sun to see if Clarke was watching them. There was no sign of him.

     A faint hum came to Levinski from the winding narrow road that connected with Delmar. The hum became a noticeable whine. Levinski frowned: he recognised the sound as the engine of Charlie Singleton's Buick. What was Charlie doing out here in the fields? He was an old-timer who generally stuck to his own homestead and seldom drove further than Delmar itself. Levinski checked his wristwatch. It showed ten minutes before five o'clock. Shouldering the hoe, he caught Eddy Birch's attention and motioned for him to head to the gate. It would take three minutes to reach the farmyard area. He saw the approaching car. Yes, it was definitely old Charlie.

     Joe Clarke also heard the car. He moved to the veranda and stared along the road, no more than a well-used path, to see dust swirling upward and forming a miniature whirlwind. He knew the sound of Singleton's Buick. A tingling apprehension shuddered down his back. The Buick was now a hundred yards away and Clarke could see two occupants, neither of them being Charlie Singleton. "This is trouble," said Clarke. "Go into our bedroom, Mary, and stay there."

     Mary Clarke did not argue. She had suffered many beatings from her husband, and she obeyed his words - without question.


The Buick windscreen streaked dirt where Tommy Wade had driven into water and spattered mud onto the glass. The damaged wipers had left marbled semi-circular patterns. Frank Rickard was suffering stomach pains, had endured similar anguish in jail. This current journey of poor food and infected water was bringing back agonies of his confinement. Wade wanted to drive on, to get well clear of this State but Rickard needed rest. "Pull in here, Tommy."

     "There's a guy on the veranda with a shotgun, Frank. Maybe we should drive through."

     Rickard clutched at his stomach. "I said pull in, damn you." He checked the 9mm Luger. It was loaded, with the safety catch off.

     "Take a look at him," said Wade. "He's decked out in army gear. I mean who does the silly bastard think he is - General Patton?" Rickard looked and saw that Wade was right: the man was wearing a full rig of warfare clothing. Tommy slowed down. Two men came through a gate from the crop fields, hoes slung over their shoulders, and joined the man on the veranda. "I don't like this, Frank. There's something wrong. Those guys know about us."

     "They know nothing," Rickard snarled. "Pull in by the veranda door with you nearest the steps. "If that mug tries a shot, I'll kill him." Wade drew a deep breath. He looked around - there was no escape from a showdown. He pulled in beside the veranda and left the engine ticking over, foot hovering above the accelerator.

     Rickard got out. Clarke raised the shotgun. The two men with him dropped to the veranda floorboards. "Hold it right there, mister," said Clarke. "Step away slow from the car or this shotgun goes off."

     Rickard, having hidden the pistol behind his legs raised it quickly and fired four shots. The first round hit the doorpost, splintering the wood; the second shell hit Clarke in the throat. As he collapsed, his belated reaction blasted both shotgun barrels against the roof, shedding bamboo canes onto the veranda. Before Clarke hit the boards, bullets three and four almost blew off his head. Rickard gave Wade a leering grin, rounded the Buick and advanced to the veranda.

     Lou Levinski peered over the rail, raising his hands. Eddy Birch got up with him, trying to hide behind Levinski's bulk. "We had nothing to do with this, mister," Levinski stammered. "I don't know what Joe was thinking of. He always was crazy with a shotgun."

     "He ain't crazy now," said Rickard.

     Eddy Birch quivered. Somehow, the sun appeared cold. "We just work here, mister, that's all."

     Rickard grinned, but the smiled never reached his eyes. His expression remained passive as he put a bullet through Birch's head. Birch fell across Clarke's body. Levinski made for the door, stumbling over fallen canes. Two bullets hit him in the back, carrying him over the kitchen threshold. He slumped face down and lay still. Rickard winked at Wade. "Go inside. Maybe there's somebody else who wants killing. Then we grab ourselves food and whatever there is to drink."

     Mary Clarke, panic surging through her, closed the bedroom door, opened a drawer on Joe's side of the bed, rummaged quickly under the piles of socks and found a 32 automatic. Many years ago, when Joe did not thrash her, he showed her his stock of weapons. She knew of several handguns in the house. Joe had shown her how to load and fire an automatic pistol. All the weapons in the house were loaded for Joe believed in 'being ready.' She checked the weapon's safety catch and clicked it off. Footsteps sounded in the kitchen. She decided to wait next a large wardrobe, which gave her sight of whoever entered.

     She heard voices, one shouting and the other whining. Footsteps clumped along the corridor and stopped outside her door. A foot kicked the door open. Mary levelled the pistol, using both hands. A sneering face peered in. She fired two shots. The pistol kicked in her grip. Rickard dropped to his knees, blasted two shots at a figure beside a wardrobe.

     A faint cry, a sob of pain. Mary Clarke dropped the pistol and fell backward, partially over the bed, her blood seeping into the bed linen. Rickard checked that she was dead and cursed - her second shot had taken him in the left shoulder. He went to another door, hammered on it, flung open other doors but found nobody. He returned to the kitchen. They sat for ten minutes, gorging food and drinking beer. Rickard shrugged off his jacket. "Take a look at my shoulder. There's a bullet in it. What am I doing when I allow a bloody woman to put a slug in my shoulder?"

     Wade, hands shaking, unbuttoned the shirt and eased the cloth clear of the injury. The bullet had struck the shoulder joint and must had ricocheted for there was no exit wound. He grabbed a cloth next the oven and soaked it under a cold water tap and cleaned the wound. "We can't stay much longer, Frank. There could be other workers in the fields."

     Rickard cursed silently that a woman had put a bullet in him. He clasped the cloth and held it over the injury. "Yeah, you're right. Grab whatever food you can find. Check if there's a better car on site. If not, let's get moving." He frowned, "I can't figure out how this shotgun guy knew we were coming."

     Wade loaded food and drink into bags. He nodded to a radio. "They must have heard about us on that."

     Rickard raised his loaded Luger and blasted the radio with three rounds.