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The men fell on the food like vultures. As the last man, the black-haired Indian, sat down at the table, Meggy spotted the colonel on the porch, his gait slow and loose jointed, his unruly dark hair curling over the collar of his red plaid shirt. Talk ceased the instant he moved into the room.
Meggy turned back toward the kitchen. Something clunked onto the table, and Tom’s voice rose behind her. “Boys, we have among us a sharpshooter of the first water.”
Meggy stopped in her tracks.
“Well, who is it?” someone shouted.
“Shut up, ya numbskull. It’s the colonel that done it.”
“You mean he won his own whiskey? ’Tain’t fair!”
“Well, hell, what do we care? We got meat, ain’t we?”
“Boys,” the colonel said. The sound of his voice brought instant quiet.
Meggy’s neck grew warm. Would he tell them who had shot the deer?
“Now, boys, when a person’s this good a shot, it pays to take note. First off, it’s food on the table. And secondly—”
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