Hunting Season
“Her vehicle was totaled, the wreckage blocking the southbound traffic lane. Until it was towed she and Barth had to remain, lest some unwary traveler plow into the mess and kill himself. The best she could do was to radio the Natchez and Port Gibson sheriffs' departments and the state troopers to put out an all points bulletin for an old Ford pickup, probably burgundy, driving without headlights and sporting a homegrown cast-iron grill probably with bits of National Park Service ranger patrol v...ehicle stuck between its teeth.The troopers or sheriffs might turn up something, but Anna doubted it. The Trace, fairly straight and decidedly narrow, harbored hundreds of small, half overgrown dirt tracks that provided access and egress to those who knew the country. Even in winter the growth was thick enough to hide a whole battalion of pickup trucks.After setting flares at intervals fifty yards to the north of the wreck there was nothing more for them to do, and Anna and Barth retreated to the shelter of his patrol car.MoreLess
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