“Mal,” said Man Rivers once time, gnawing on a tobac leaf like he always was as he wound up wire and pulled stake. “There come a time you have to accept you’re bein’ snookered.”
“Howdat?” I asked watching how he coiled the snare for used elsewhere.
Man shot an glance sidewise up to the steading. You could see that fatboy Lawson up the guardtower looking real hard like his attention was on something, anything, other than Man and me.
My eyes narrowed.
“I’m just sayin’ you need know when time’s come to find a new place to snare a bit of game. ‘Times there’s a fox waiting in the underbrush waiting for your snare to catch.”
(more…)