A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [66]
“What I mean is,” insisted Cici, “was it poisonous? Some snakes are good, you know.”
Lindsay groaned, closed her eyes, and sank back against the tree trunk. “And I was having such a good day.”
Noah, glancing at the huddled group of women, pushed open the door and eased inside. Three pairs of eyes followed him as though he were an infantryman preparing to launch a grenade. In a moment he returned, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans, and spoke around the cigarette that dangled from his lips. “Rattlesnake,” he pronounced. “Big ’un. Wish I had my gun.”
Lindsay’s knees buckled. Bridget caught her arm to brace her. “Good heavens,” she said, eyes big.
To which Cici replied, “Farley! I’ll bet he’s got a gun!”
She raced to the house to call him.
Five minutes later, Farley roared up in his truck, slammed the door behind him, and strode toward the dairy barn with a shotgun under his arm and a determined expression on his face. Feeling like maidens in a comic horror film, the three women pointed toward the door of the dairy. “In there,” they cried, almost as one.
Farley stared down the door grimly, cocked the shotgun, and nudged the door open with his shoulder. Noah followed closely behind, his excitement almost—though not quite—disguised by his aura of slouching nonchalance. The women edged close behind—but not too close. They stood just outside the door while Noah pointed toward the corner. “There she is.”
Farley shuffled his weight, planted his feet, and raised the gun to his shoulder. Cici gripped Lindsay’s arm. Bridget clutched Cici’s hand. They all squeezed their eyes closed and tried not to squeal like girls at the huge ka-boom that seemed to shake the ground beneath their feet. When they opened them cautiously again, Farley was muttering beneath his breath, his face bright red. Over his shoulder, they could see ragged daylight pouring in through a hole the size of a doggie door in the far wall. The snake, still curled in the corner, rattled its tail ominously.
“Missed ’er a little,” commented Noah, deadpan.
Farley raised the gun again, and this time all three women turned away and covered their ears with their hands. Two concussive blasts later, Noah let out a triumphant, “Eeee-haw ! You got ’er dead between the eyes!”
Farley shouldered his weapon and turned to the women. “Ten dollar,” he said,
Bridget said shakily, “I’ll get my purse.”
Lindsay said, “I’m going to be sick.”
Noah said, “What do you want to do with it?”
The three women stared at him wordlessly.
“Makes good eatin’,” said Farley.
“Indians used to wear the rattles around their neck,” added Noah.
Lindsay said, “I am seriously going to be sick.”
“You want ’em?” asked Noah.
“What?” Cici managed.
“The rattles.”
Cici glanced at the other two, took a breath, and said, “I think I can safely say—no.”
“Can I have them?”
Lindsay started toward the house on unsteady legs. “Is there any aspirin?”
Cici said to Noah in a tight, strained voice, “Help yourself.”
Noah pulled out a pocketknife and went to collect his prize. Farley repeated, “Ten dollar.”
“Um . . . right.” Bridget turned to follow Lindsay to the house. “My purse.” She stopped suddenly and turned back, looking dazed. “There was something I wanted to ask.”
“About the snake?” prompted Cici, when she said nothing further.
“No . . . I don’t think so.”
“The sheep?”
“Oh,” said Bridget, still looking a little unfocused. “The dog. That was it. The dog. How does he like his chicken livers?”
Farley looked at her with absolutely no expression. “Raw,” he answered.
Bridget blinked. “Oh,” she said. “Of course. I should have thought of that. I’ll get your money.”
As it turned out, the excitement was not over for the day. No sooner had Farley bounced down the drive in his truck than Deke’s cousin arrived with two other men, a pulley ladder, and a chain saw in a pickup with a magnetic sign on its door that read, Tree