The Break

It was cloudless but cold and a late morning sun lit the skeletal boughs of the sycamore trees. Though the sleet had long ceased and the creek had now fallen, these bones were still heavy with glittering ice. They tinkled like jewelry with each swell of wind and cast wandering shadows upon the uneven ground.

Two men, wearing the field uniforms of Indiana State Farm custody officers, were traveling southward along the bank of the creek. Their movements -- slow and irresolute -- were perhaps too conciliatory to the pump-action shotguns cradled beneath their armpits or the shallow current that lapped at their boots. The men did not speak yet they moved as a team. With wary precision they crouched then inched forward, inspecting the pebbles and grass near their feet. Since sunrise, when they had detached themselves from the main body of the search party, they had followed the stream at this loitering pace.

The shotguns winked, casting off sunlight, as the men dropped slowly upon an open expanse of beach. The young man moved first over the pebbly sand. A huge farm boy of twenty with a slack windburned face, he appeared to have been shoveled into his powder blue jacket. The fabric was stretched and seemed likely to tear, but he knelt without incident near the water and signaled the lieutenant with a hasty sweep of his hand.

The sand crunched slowly. The other moved closer. His knees snapped like twigs as he knelt by the gurgle and studied the impression with limpid eyes. He was angular, lanky, with sensitive features. His forehead was shiny when he pushed back his hat. His skin loosely covered his pinched thoughtful face and his spectacles, steel-rimmed, were fragile and thin.

He studied the footprint for over a minute then he rose to his feet, shook his bald head, and brushed off his knee with matronly care.

"Hunters," he declared in a thin reedy voice. "The treads are froze stiff. Guess they been here and gone over two days ago."

The other man nodded. He rose with a grunt as though deigning to perform an unreasonable chore. The butt of his shotgun revealed a fine grainy cast where he had supported his weight in the sand. He cradled the stock as though warming a shoat then addressed the lieutenant in a well-practiced whine.

"Mr. Hill," he carped, "them hounds still chasin' rabbits? It's been over an hour since we heard 'em bark last."

The lieutenant shrugged patiently and straightened his collar. "Don't know what they're chasin'. Don't matter much anyhow."

He paused a long moment, squinting against the sun, but his eyes kept combing the woods with habitual caution. He then checked, for the fifth time that morning, the safety on his shotgun.

"It'll be our fortune to flush 'em," he finally observed. "They got too late a start to be wadin' upstream."

He did not move at once from the edge of the flow. Dipping into his jacket, he searched passively. Eventually, he discovered a crushed tobacco pouch which he held like a bird in the palm of his hand. Though his fingers found only a few nest-like strands, he seemed tenderly disposed to this task.

His jaws labored gently. The pouch hit the current.... The oyster he spat was slender -- brown -- and vanished at once in the boil of the stream.

The pouch shrank from sight while the younger man watched it. He shivered peevishly, as though personally affronted by the cold, and he slipped his free hand into a pocket of his jacket.

"A damn poor day for wadin'."

The lieutenant smiled wanly and spat once again.

"Once they've run off," he replied, "you can bet they'll start wadin'. They think it'll cleanse 'em -- mebbe throw off the hounds. But that don't do nothing but shorten the chase. They'll be too tired for much runnin' once we've picked up their trail."

"How far is that dam?"

"It'd be less than a mile now -- not countin' the bends. There's a fifteen foot drop from the lip of the dam and I'll bet you a dollar we flush 'em before then."

"They'll be froze before we flush 'em," the other reflected. "Ain't no sense in runnin' this late into winter. Heard one of 'em only had two months to go."

"Seen 'em run off with less."

The lad shook his head.

"Hell of a time to be scamperin' like hares.... Do you usually catch 'em?"

The older man shrugged.... "If they're lucky we do. Course some farmer might first. One night one of 'em even got hit by a tractor...."

He scratched his lean jaw, "It was the headlights that froze him. Knocked him clean to the ground. But that cracker turned around an' came barrelin' back. Would have struck him again if we hadn't sung out...."

The lieutenant's voice trailed. He looked towards the woods. He seemed keenly aware of the low winter sun and the smoke-like circling of distant birds.

He spat with contempt. He said, "Rabbits ain't smart."

He balanced his shotgun and trudged towards the woods.

The cornfield was barren, pocketed with snow, the furrows littered with short broken stalks. The creek bed was steeper, protected by bushes. Here the men walked single file, their muzzles trained earthward while their eyes searched the bare brambles for unusual movements or forms.

The air rattled sharply.

The youth raised his barrel.

His fingers relaxed as a covey of bobwhite quail rose out of the furrows and darted over the stubbled field.

"It starts out this way," the lieutenant remarked. "But it generally begins early in the spring. First just one or two of 'em catch the fever -- like they done today. But if you don't fetch 'em back quick you'll soon have 'em stampedin'."

He breathed on his fingers, now raw from the cold, and he watched the quail settle a short distance away.

"I remember one spring when the fever was high. Had to chase down almost two dozen of 'em before it was over. Seemed like we were spendin' almost every other day beatin' 'em out of the woods."

It was now almost noon and the snow seared their eyes. The ice on the trees remained diamond-like, hard, yet it glimmered like flame on the drooping boughs. Narrowing his eyes the lieutenant glanced creekward. The snow was unmarred as it followed the banks. It seemed ominous yet chaste, bearing no hint of prints or the wanton red blots, which earlier that morning had betrayed the scramble of the inmates over the high razor wire of the outer prison fence.

A murmur, not the youth's, scratched faintly at his ears. The voice, a disembodied squawk, was tonelessly repeating his number. He finally sighed, resigned to the aggravation, and unsnapped the leather carrying case on his belt.

"Hill here," he said, his tone slightly clipped.

The message was short, a perfunctory garble relaying that a tower officer had detected movement a half mile east of the stream. He acknowledged the message with a coded reply then he replaced the radio in its case.

"A deer more 'an likely," he scoffed to the boy. "Seen some droppings still steamin' just five minutes back. Guess not everyone knows that the woods here are full of 'em."

The farm boy sighed before speaking. He was restless, stiff, and no less irritable since the tingle in his toes was beginning to ache.

"Had one in my sights around sunrise," he offered. "Almost cracked off a shot just to open him up -- warm my hands in his guts."

The lieutenant stopped walking. The spiraling birds, smoke-like an hour ago, appeared to have solidified in the sky. They looked lifeless even for turkey vultures, but their improbability was not reassuring. Somewhere in the distance, like a slow train approaching, they could hear the dull vitality of the falls.

"Won't have no time for deer if we stick to the stream."

"Well I bagged mine last Sunday," the younger man boasted. "Put a slug up his ass when he showed me his tail. Exploded his heart, but he must have run another hundred yards before he fell."

"A man will fall quicker," the lieutenant remarked.

He could see a sliver of path beyond the cornfield. It was thin, undertrod, not much more than a deer trail, and it plunged from his sight near a piney slope. The gully below was a vein to the creek, but the water would be still at this time of year and its frozen crust would provide a safe crossing for the men.

The lieutenant spoke slowly, "One time I did drop one -- a kid 'bout like you only dumber and blonde-haired. That was twenty years back -- my first time out."

His head did not turn as he made this remark. His eyes remained steady, remote, and fixed intuitively on the scavenger birds.

"I made a fair enough shot when he chose to keep runnin'. A hundred yards off, but he fell like a tree."

"Good distance for buckshot," the younger man whistled. "You let the grain skip?"

"I tickled the ground -- but it still hit him flush. Must have bounced off some rock because it had plenty of sting left."

"You waste him?" the boy asked.

The lieutenant shook his head, "Guess the fool killed himself when he made for the trees. I combed his hair with the warning shot before he took off. Suppose he would have stopped then if he'd had any sense."

"He still cheated the state out of time," said the boy.

"A year or two perhaps," the lieutenant replied. "But he died quick enough once he went into shock. Course we could have let him run off an' then staked out his mama's house. More likely than not we'd have picked him up at the doorstep."

"No sense coddlin' rabbits," the boy remarked promptly.

"Damn waste of good buckshot to tell of it now."

A gleam of foreknowledge came into his eyes as he continued to look past the pine trees that crowned the ravine. The forms were still circling, impassive and large and frozen irrevocably in their dark intent.

The lieutenant coughed crisply. He lowered his eyes.

"They got 'em a carcass," he finally said.

They did not watch the birds as they crossed the dead stream and began their ascent towards the pines. A talcumy snow shrieked like chalk beneath their soles. The snow had not crusted in the deep shade of the trees and their boots gripped easily as they scaled the slope.

The cold burned their lungs as they approached the trees and they paused, panting rapidly, seeing white veils that grew paler as they recaptured their breath. Through the cluster of trees they could see much of the prison -- the tall double fence capped with spirals of razor wire and the industry buildings that lay beyond it. The electric fence of the dairy was also within view and they could count several Holsteins standing like black and white sculptures within the cramped muddy sanctuary of the yard. There was no inmate movement to note at the time since all of the dorms had been locked down to facilitate the manhunt.

The snow smoked faintly where the lieutenant stood and a lemony stain spread slowly near his boots. When he had finished urinating he zipped up his pants with a tidy jerk. Retrieving his shotgun from the snow, he wiped off the barrel with the sleeve of his jacket and sighted it tentatively in the direction of the creek.

"There's been drops in these woods," he announced to the boy. "Booze and pot mostly. They're dropped near the highway -- tossed out of cars -- and the labor gangs pick 'em up."

The younger man snorted, "Hope they left us a bottle. I could use a hard belt if we're kept out here much longer."

"Don't get that relaxed. There's been guns dropped as well. My snitch told me last week there's a .357 squirreled away somewhere near the water treatment plant."

"Was it Franklin who told you that?"

"He swore it was true."

"I got no use for chit-chat -- especially Franklin's. He's fed me some lies 'cause he thinks I'm a rube. Just a silly old man who likes to hear himself talk."

"Suppose it's safer to trust him." the lieutenant replied. "Been some guns found last week and he helped point 'em out to us."

"We could use one gun more if them rabbits need dustin'. I been told we can pop 'em on sight if they're armed. I got me a throw down -- a .22 handgun. Next time we're out trekkin' I'll bring it along."

"It's today you might need it," the other advised him. "They don't always halt after coming this far."

"We still combin' their curly locks?"

"Just you tell 'em to freeze. Make 'em hold up their hands. If one of 'em won't comply, try and score him dead center. Now he'll hit the ground crappin' or his face may be gone, but don't let that stop you from shootin' again. Send that second spread whinin' just over his head."

The youth shook his head. "You must like wastin' pellets. Can't finish 'em off if we're strokin' their hair."

"You ain't wastin' shells if you spend 'em in pairs. A warnin' shot is still called for. That ain't goin' to change. So if you bring it up barkin' make sure it speaks twice."

The younger man said, "I hear enough barkin' already."

The lieutenant perked hopefully, straining to hear since the wind indeed carried a distant bluster. The sound remained dissonant – a jumbled commotion that was distinguishable eventually as a chorus of excited dogs.

"They just treed 'em a squirrel," the lieutenant said flatly. "We had best make less noise as we move down the ridge."

The younger man grunted. He stamped the hard ground, but the cottony sensation remained in his toes. With his bore drooping slightly he took calf-like steps as he followed the lieutenant down the steep slope.

They could hear the creek roll as it edged into sight. The bank had collapsed on the prisonmost side and a sycamore, towering though partially uprooted, sagged lazily over a mantle of earth. The gray velvet writhed beneath the thick choppy shadow. The water was silty but swift and looked powerful enough to trip up a man.

No words were exchanged as they followed the creek. Though cold fingers caressed them, they ducked the stiff branches then once more looked over the virginal snow. The lieutenant's demeanor remained tense, expectant; his movements, deliberate, seemed those of a man who was trusting his weight to the ice of a pond.

He addressed the boy finally, "Your union pledge paid?"

"Got some bills I ain't settled. Them Teamsters can wait."

The lieutenant crouched, his eyes on a swirl.

"You'd best get it paid while the trekkin' is on"

The youth nodded noncommittally. His eyes had now dropped and he seemed to be studying a curious rut....

"How long till they cleared you for wastin' that bojack?"

"They waltzed me around for more 'an eight months. I faced three different boards. Didn't have unions then so I faced 'em alone."

"Three boards!" the youth spat. "They sure filled up your dance card."

"He didn't die neatly," the other replied.

"He died by the book."

The lieutenant smiled. "What book would that be if you don't mind my askin'?"

"You did give him a warnin'."

"Ain't always enough. Course his folks sang the song that he stopped before I shot him. Then some governor's aide called. Chewed on everyone's ear. The punk wanted me charged just to play to the press." He shook his head slowly, "My name made the papers -- the evenin' news too. Unless they're dead sure you stroked 'em you're dancin' alone."

He rose cautiously since the creek bank was dented. The water below him was darker than lead and it chuckled hollowly as it nipped at the bank.

They had one bend left to traverse till the dam could be sighted, but already they could hear the pitched calling of the falls. The lieutenant led the way slowly, his thin shoulders hunched. His fingers shook gently -- the cold metal stung them -- but slowly he groped, ignoring the bite as he released the safety on his shotgun.

"Three boards for one bojack," the younger man muttered.

The lieutenant sighed. His hand probed a pocket.... He cupped the spare rounds in his trembling palm, tucking them conveniently behind his belt before speaking again.

"For the fuss that he caused guess he died kinda peaceful. His chest was a pulp 'cause he had raked out some grain.... But he rattled real smooth -- like a tree stoppin' shot -- then his fingers spread open like petals at dawn. Seemed he let go his life as though freein' a bird."

"He still shorted the state," the boy insisted.

"Well they won't be collectin'," the other replied.

The falls were in sight now. The creek, vastly swollen, had practically buried the top of the dam. They could not see the drop but the thunder was heavy. The water, though dense and deceptively still, was creeping irresistibly towards the falls.

"There was one other board," the lieutenant said sadly. "A fourth one I guess I was luckier to clear."

His voice seemed inaudible. Reverent and hushed, it could scarcely compete with the rumble of the falls.

"A rake job?" the boy sneered.

The older man laughed. "I was there to make sergeant," he wistfully said. "Don't know why a promotion board wanted my name. But it went well enough. Didn't take 'em much time. Weren't long after that I was given my stripes."

They were close to the dam when they spotted the marks. These were impossible to overlook since the snowdrift was thick and the bank inclined gradually into the stream. The lieutenant breathed deeply, but made no remark. There were two sets of fresh footprints compressed in the snow.

The prints led them eastward away from the water. Irregular, scuffed, too easy to follow, they scarcely suggested an orderly flight. It was only the blood that implied moderation. The droplets, no larger than bittersweet berries, were frugally dotting the ground.

As the shade became scattered the men pulled down their cap bills. The snow glowed then sparkled. The glare became blinding. The men moved begrudgingly, appraising the trees as they lowered their eyes and walked into the sun.

"It's as white in the Keys," the lieutenant said finally.

"The beach as uncrowded?"

"I'll know in a week."

"Hope we've bagged `em all by then. If the season ain't done, I'll be trekkin' with Flannigan till you get back."

The boy paused as he spoke, suddenly diverted. A nearby crackle had seized his attention. The racket -- similar to a fusillade of pistol shots -- was followed by a thundering explosion of branches and ice.

The silence returned but the men remained motionless. The wind seemed remote when they felt its caress. The branches around them flailed weakly and died, marking time with a rhythm too frail to be heard.... When the boy spoke at last he again seemed insulted. His voice was thick, impatient, the tone of a man who had been cheated at cards.

"Ain't nothin' but squirrels could perch in them maples."

"They're too high for rabbits," the other replied.

"That ice ain't grown no thicker," the boy retorted. "It's late for them branches to drop on their own."

The barb in his voice did not fool the lieutenant. The older man spat and resumed walking slowly. His manner was distant, but clearly annoyed as he measured his stride in the deepening snow.

"You're too useless for Flannigan," he finally conceded. "He's weak for a captain. Too scared of his rank. An' he'll snitch you out quick if it keeps him his bars.... But I told 'em I wouldn't miss no more vacations."

"The Farm will miss you," the lad replied bitterly.

"Ceptin' the hares. You'll have plenty to chase."

"Oughta drop one today just to shape up for spring. There's just three weeks till spring. You come back to the Farm."

The lieutenant chewed slowly then sighed.... "Three weeks will 'bout do me. I'll miss it by then."

The snow groaned beneath their weight; they were climbing once more. A leafless pattern appeared on the snow as the sunlight was strained through another thin grove. The trees did not sway; no itinerant shadow conflicted with the dead branches upon the ground. It seemed almost a sacrilege that the smoke crept towards them. A sinewy tendril, defying the stillness, attracted their eyes to a small pile of sticks.

The lieutenant paused, recovering his breath while examining the heap for deposits of ash. When his eyes left the mound he shook his head slowly. A glance was enough to conclude that the wood was too rotted and wet to burn indefinitely.

"Hares," scoffed the boy. "They can't even light kindlin'."

"They're lucky they're pea-brained," the lieutenant replied. "They'd have fallen asleep if it had warmed 'em up much."

His gaze drifted northward, pursuing the prints. They were watery, veiled by the membrane of heat that still managed to climb from the smoldering mound. He deduced that the inmates had spotted the highway -- a goal it would take them an hour to reach. The road was obstructed by a dense grove of pines and the easterly bend of the creek.

The boy was dejected. "They seen us for sure."

"Wouldn't swear to that yet," the lieutenant replied. "They've come too far for rabbits when all's said and done. More 'an likely by now they're done havin' their fun and they're just lookin' for someone to surrender to."

His hand did not shake when he lifted the radio. After reporting their coordinates, he listened a moment then slipped the radio back into its leather case.

"Not much use hurryin' now," he remarked to the boy. "They'll run smack into Flannigan recrossin' the creek. If he hushes up those hounds they'll fall into his lap."

"He don't have that much sense."

"Ain't our fault if he don't. But as froze as they are, guess the hounds won't upset 'em much. They'll risk a few bites to get out of this cold."

They were walking more slowly, the boy again shivering. Snow crunched at his boots, but the ground felt remote to him and he suspected that frostbite was hardening his toes. He looked down at his boots and his barrel sagged impotently, the pursuit of the inmates a foreign concern.

They could hear the hounds bark as they moved down the knoll. The clamor, soft but erratic, was chastised suddenly by a sharp empty bellow. The baying grew faint as the creek bed drew nearer and was drowned out finally by the whispering boughs and the perpetual laughter of the creek.

The boy remained glum, "Bet he missed by a cornfield. He'd have took one shot more if he'd bloodied 'em up."

"He ain't got no more comin'," the lieutenant remarked. "Be a shitload of paperwork pepperin' 'em now. Bet they're peein' their pants just to turn themselves in."

Ignoring the tracks the men trudged on in silence. Their shotguns were locked while their pace grew heavier. Their shift would probably end with the three o'clock whistle, but no tangible comfort could come from this thought. It could scarcely contend with the powdery wind or the cold, brittle limbs that pawed silently at their cheeks.

The lieutenant now noticed a limp to his stride. This surprised him at first since he had felt no sharp pain and it took him a moment to glance towards the ground and discover his boots wore a transparent skin. He shook his head slowly remembering the crackle then the babbling flow that had wetted his pants.

A drawl broke the stillness.

He listened resignedly.

He did not touch his belt when he once again heard it. A neutral sound, unencumbered by static, it was almost indistinguishable from the rustle of the trees. He paused for a moment as he cleared a ravine, casually studying a cluster of pines.

When another sound drifted he felt assured. He could make out the timber of casual voices. The flutter and ebb of these muffled tones suggested the highway was not far away.

He remained near the slope, too prudent to move: the pop of a twig was particularly loud. The voices had died as though smothered by breeze, but his eyes remained fixed on the snow-wigged boughs. He was doubting his ears when they came into focus -- two youths, unescorted, wearing jeans and blue shirts.

They were pallid, bone-white, as ragged as lepers, but they looked too familiar to merit alarm. He could recognize Hacker, a tall knobby lad with a talent for handling the spoiled dairy cattle. The other, named Pollock, was pimply, thinner -- a broom shop assignee afraid of the prison yards and the risks of working a less segregated line. Although dopers and thieves in the eyes of the law, he could think of them only as addle-brained pests -- lank adolescents who lived by their instincts and could not think more than twelve hours ahead.

As his hip braced the shotgun the creek gurgled faintly. The voices grew fuller. The wind again stirred. The lieutenant swore softly, reluctant to move, as he toyed with the safety and shivered once more.

He shook his head finally. He once again spat.

"Ain't it just like a hare to come doublin' back."

Snow burst into powder. The thunder rebounded, but his hearing was numbed by a riveted whine. The veil also lingered. Hoary, frail, it was drifting like smoke from a buckled bough.

Ejecting the shell, he lowered the bore but the footfalls had faded. The woods seemed empty. Still the air boomed and trembled; the ground also flinched. The puff of snow tarried --another late shroud.

A plume crept from his bore as the second shot echoed. The scent of burned sulfur emboldened the air. The insular pines seemed asleep beneath sheets, yet the hum, cold and probing, remained in his ears.

The boy, plainly dazed, was now standing beside him. Confused by the echoes and the suddenness of the shots, he had thrown himself on his belly near the slope of the ravine. Even now, as he stood there and looked at the woods, he seemed barely convinced that he had not been shot at. His eyes were muddy; his hands scraped and soiled. A fat dirty lump, the size of a sparrow egg, had appeared almost magically in the center of his forehead.

The boy's tone was faint, "They'll stop lead before it's over." The words came in gulps. Though his voice kept its edge, he was winded and weak from the impact of the hard ground.

"Could have sworn they had seen us," the lieutenant remarked. "They kept hurryin' towards me like Christmas had come. Weren't but thirty yards off when they bolted like deer."

The boy rubbed his egg angrily.... "Should've walloped 'em back."

The lieutenant consoled him, "It's harder up close."

He reached towards his belt, diminishing the squawk, then he lifted the clamorous box to his ear. His lips were compressed when he had finished his message. He sheathed the radio, picked up the spent shells, then he looked pityingly at the boy.

"If we're quick about it," he said, "you may still get a round off. There'll be too many questions if your bore ain't been dirtied."

The boy made no reply. He pinched his stiff neck. His head was cocked backward, like a bird drinking water, and he followed the lieutenant drunkenly towards the pine grove where they had last spotted the inmates.

There were numerous footprints criss-crossed in the snow -- a scene somehow at odds with the nimble retreat. The blots, tiny berries, seemed sparingly flung while a map scrawled in pencil lay torn on the ground. The shattered bough, green though now uselessly sagging, still clung to the tree by a sinew of hard bark.

The lieutenant paused to look for a body. The boy's voice was hopeful.

"You wing 'em?" he asked.

The lieutenant kept chewing. He shook his head slowly.

"Can't tell you for sure. There was already blood."

The cornfield was empty, as still as a canvass -- a backdrop for only the movement of quail and the wavering shadow of a red-tailed hawk. Roaming over the furrows, the tint stretched and shriveled. It did not hold its shape till it skirted the creek and the scarecrow-like visage awaiting the men. The figure was sitting, propped up by an oak tree, and it seemed to be studying the passage of the hawk.

The men approached wearily, shotgun bores pointed. A ribbon of smoke trailed the boy as he walked. The burst -- a sharp boom -- had frayed only their nerves since the bone of his hip had deflected the butt. Though the shower of dirt had kicked short of the oak, he had little enticement to narrow his range. The figure sat rigidly, hands slightly raised, as slowly they approached over the deep ruts of the field.

"Guess he ruined his pants," the lieutenant said finally.

He lowered his bore as he stood by the tree, diverting his eyes to the bushes and creek. There was no further movement to claim his attention and he did not seem perturbed when a sputter and cough compelled him to deal with the matter at hand.

He lifted the radio, muting the static, then made his report with a brief series of codes. When he had cleared the receiver he paused just a moment then he shut off the box with a twist of his thumb.

"They nabbed 'em the other. He got to the highway."

The boy clutched his pump-action. Wrinkling his nose, he let several full shells topple onto the snow. He seemed somewhat perplexed that the jaw remained dropped though a drift like fresh compost had ripened the air. The demeanor was wooden, the palms dry yet shredded, and the shirt, barely soiled, appeared hardened with starch. Although as spry as a fox several minutes ago, Hacker seemed to have been there a very long time.

"What snuffed him?" he asked.

The lieutenant shrugged.

"He's stiffer 'an a pecker," the other went on.

Since no wound was apparent, the form did look sculptured. The porcelain bearing and granular skin were too smooth to repel the lieutenant's still eyes. He saw also the turd that the split pants had thrown and the small nutty stain it had left in the snow.

"They go that way sometimes," he told the boy flatly. "Ain't always much warnin' when one of 'em drops."

The boy seemed unconvinced.... "Seen him jump when I popped him."

His voice lost its edge as a soft shadow passed. A clamor of hounds could be heard through the trees.

A belch broke the silence. The hawk disappeared. The boy cleared his sour throat with a lungful of air. He had noticed the nuggets the cloth could not hold -- the teeth, brown as teak yet completely exposed. He was also aware that the stiffness was marred by the hair, softly rising, lighter than straw.

The lieutenant said sadly, "Weren't nothing we done.... It just ain't in the nature of hares to live long."

He shouldered the shotgun, his manner unchanged, and methodically studied the woods one more time. There was no reason to wait for the copter. The lone sagging oak and the bend of the creek provided easy coordinates for the pickup of the body.

An organ-like tone could be heard afar as the men trudged slowly. The note beckoned then stopped. Several minutes had passed, an interminable pause, before the powerhouse whistle again cleared the count. It stubbornly lingered, a long hollow drone confirming their shift would soon come to an end.

When the highway appeared there was no one to meet them. The prison patrol vans as well as the dog truck had already left the juncture where the remaining inmate had been apprehended. The lieutenant spat but made no remark as he contemplated the half-mile walk to the prison.

The boy muttered, "Hares! Get better service than we do!"

"Well, they do cause more ruckus," the lieutenant replied.

The boy patted his stock, "Just as well that they panicked. A half a step slower an' I'd have scored me the pair."

The sun, drifting westward, again stabbed their eyes as they began the uphill climb towards the parking lots and administration buildings. Since trees no longer impeded their view, they could make out the archway and the tall northernmost watchtower. Their soles remained packed and cracked dully upon the frozen blacktop road.

The boy was still sullen. His face had grown flushed. His breathing was labored, too rapid for the pace of the climb, but the cold barb of anger remained in his voice.

"Ain't no profit in rabbits," he tartly concluded. "Out freezin' our jewels just to stroke us a hare. Hell, I hear once they're caught they get only five years more."

"Not much of a rate," the lieutenant agreed.

"Oughta put 'em in stocks if they want to get frisky -- or geld 'em like colts at the first sign of spring."

"Seen 'em put on display. Stops the rest of 'em cold. If the season ain't over before Easter comes, you might see 'em paraded in chains past the dorms."

Conserving his breath, the boy trudged on in silence. His stride was lighter, his boots free of snow. He seemed vaguely at ease as though weighing good news, but his gaze remained stolid.

The last whistle blew.

"They'll be struttin' like lords. You may just as well stroke 'em."

"Don't make me no difference," the older man sighed. "They can stroke 'em or geld 'em -- whatever will hold 'em. I'm bettin' by then that I'll be in the Keys.

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