gns.snakes-第14节

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　　There's　two　rattlers。'　The　officer　stepped　back。　'I'd've　thought　being　a　pair　they　would　have　stuck　together。　Search　parties　have　spent　two　days　bing　the　moors　and　the　slopes　without　seeing　so　much　as　a　good　old　British　adder　sunning　itself　in　the　heather。'
　　
　　Then　they　were　looking　in　the　wrong　place。　Eversham　just　checked　himself　from　speaking　his　thoughts　aloud。　The　snakes　are　hanging　about　the　village；　right　under　your　bloody　noses　and　you　haven't　twigged　it　yet。　A　man　with　a　gun　who　knows　what　he's　about　might　have　far　more　success　than　hundreds　of　police　and　soldiers。
　　
　　'I'll　have　to　leave　this　for　the　experts　to　e　and　have　a　look　at。'　Aylott　turned　back　towards　his　vehicle。　'I'll　go　and　let　the　Super　know　at　once。'
　　
　　And　not　a　bloody　word　of　'well　done'　or　'thank　you'；　Eversham　reflected　as　he　stood　there　watching　the　constable　reverse　out　into　the　road。　Cynthia　was　getting　out　of　the　Jaguar；　trying　not　to　look　at　the　remains　of　the　rattler；　Doyle　was　back　in　his　van。
　　
　　Eversham　glanced　down　at　his　gun；　a　Holland　and　Holland　side　lock　Royal；　the　ultimate　in　English　gun…making；　a　beautifully　balanced　and　efficient　weapon。　If　you　knew　how　to　use　it；　it　killed　every　time；　grouse　or　snakes。
　　
　　He　looked　up　at　the　sky。　There　were　a　good　three　hours　of　daylight　left　yet；　the　perfect　evening　for　a　quiet　mooch　round　the　hedgerows　bordering　the　barley　and　oilseed　rape　fields　in　the　hope　of　a　shot　at　an　unwary　rabbit。
　　
　　Or　a　deadly　snake。
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　8
　　
　　PETER　EVERSHAM　moved　furtively　along　the　straggling　hawthorn　hedge　just　inside　the　field　of　growing　barley　that　was　showing　the　first　signs　of　ripening。　His　every　movement　was　that　of　the　acplished　stalker；　one　who　wished　to　see　and　yet　not　be　seen。　Neither　by　the　snakes　he　hunted　nor　his　fellowmen。
　　
　　His　gun　gave　him　a　new　sense　of　power；　one　that　he　had　not　fully　appreciated　until　now。　Man　was　a　hunter　by　nature　but　it　did　not　end　there。　He　was　a　born　predator　even　though　civilisation　had　attempted　to　eradicate　it　from　the　species；　all　part　of　a　Marxist　plot　to　bring　about　a　revolution；　they　branded　the　hunting　and　shooting　fraternity　as　upper…class　barbarians；　overlooking　the　fact　that　thousands　of　ordinary　working　men　enjoyed　field　sports。　Use　an　emotive　lever　to　prise　the　capitalist　clique　apart　and　the　masses　will　join　the　ranks。　Eversham's　lips　curled　into　a　contemptuous　smile。　Those　opposed　to　killing　ought　to　be　here　in　Stainforth　right　now　and　they'd　soon　change　their　minds。　He　wondered　how　that　fellow　Cousins；　who　lived　in　the　village　and　was　always　writing　the　predictable　emotive　anti…blood…sports　letters　to　the　papers；　was　feeling　at　this　moment。　Cowering　indoors；　doubtless；　listening　in　to　every　radio　and　TV　bulletin　to　find　out　if　the　hunters　had　accounted　for　any　of　the　snakes　yet。　Tally…ho；　go　get　'em；　you　chaps；　and　we'll　forgive　you　so　long　as　you　don't　go　back　to　killing　foxes　when　it's　ail　over。
　　
　　Cousins　was　a　convener　in　one　of　the　factories　in　the　city；　a　trouble…maker；　had　instigated　a　strike　only　a　few　weeks　back　over　some　petty　formality。　In　his　spare　time　he　campaigned　against　blood　sports　and　was　anti　anything　that　people　enjoyed　doing。
　　
　　Eversham　had　had　his　own　brushes　with　the　unions　and　on　a　couple　of　occasions　he　had　dug　his　heels　in　and　won。　If　necessary；　he　would　shut　his　business　down　and　take　early　retirement。　'It　suits　me；'　he　had　told　a　shop　steward。　'It's　you　chaps　who'll　lose　out。　I　can　sell　my　premises　and　machinery　and　put　my　feet　up。　Your　chaps　will　just　be　out　of　a　job。　Please　yourself。'
　　
　　Now　he　was　going　to　make　the　headlines　again。　He　paused　alongside　the　overgrown　hawthorn　hedge；　took　stock　of　his　surroundings。　There　was　too　much　damned　cover；　the　barley　waist　high　and　reaching　right　up　to　the　hedge。　A　fox　could　sit　and　watch　you　from　a　few　yards　away　and　you　would　have　no　idea　it　was　there。　Or　a　snake。
　　
　　He　thought　about　moving　on　up　to　the　grassland　beyond　but　the　reptiles　were　unlikely　to　be　where　they　could　be　spotted　easily。　They　would　be　in　the　thickest　cover。　Maybe　he　should　have　fetched　Kell；　the　springer　spaniel；　from　the　kennels　where　he　had　been　boarded　whilst　the　Evershams　were　away。　Kell　had　a　keen　nose；　he　was　able　to　scent　out　a　skulking　shrew；　anything　that　breathed；　he　found。　It　was　too　late　now；　Eversham　must　play　a　lone　hand。
　　
　　He　pondered　on　a　plan　of　action。　Assume　that　the　snakes　were　in　the　barley。　In　all　probability　they　would　not　be　found　round　the　edge　but　would　be　deep　in　the　stalky　growth。　It　was　no　good　blundering　through　it；　they　would　hear　him　ing　and　either　slink　out　of　the　way　or　else　attack；　a　sudden　ambush。　Yet　there　was　a　way　。　。　。　Modern　farming　methods　and　the　use　of　poisonous　chemicals　caused　barren　patches　of　ground　amidst　the　crops；　destroyed　the　vital　minerals　in　the　soil　and　created　mini…deserts　in　the　seemingly　lush　growth　akin　to　clearings　in　a　forest。　Find　one　of　these　and　take　up　a　position　there。　Vision　on　all　sides；　no　chance　of　being　attacked　from　behind　and　。。。　he　trembled　with　excitement；　if　he　imitated　a　rabbit　squeal　from　time　to　time　one　of　those　reptiles　was　sure　to　e　on　the　run。　Easy　enough；　the　same　way　that　you　fooled　a　fox　on　a　summer　evening；　you　sucked　the　back　of　your　hand　noisily　and　it　sounded　like　a　wounded　or　snared　rabbit　squealing。　Old　Kenning；　the　gamekeeper；　had　taught　him　how　to　do　it。　Now　he　would　put　that　knowledge　to　good　use。
　　
　　Peter　Eversham　moved　forward　into　the　growing　barley。　It　swished　loudly　as　it　yielded　a　passage　for　him；　springing　back　into　place；　swaying　and　rustling。　He　was　decidedly　uneasy；　the　shotgun　held　at　hip…level；　safety…catch　pushed　forward。　Christ；　you　couldn't　see　to　shoot　anything　in　here；　you　wouldn't　see　a　snake　until　。　。　。　don't　think　about　it。　They'll　probably　be　scared　to　hell　if　they　hear　you；　take　off　in　the　opposite　direction。　Or　attack。
　　
　　Something　moved　to　his　right；　three　or　four　yards　away；　sent　the　ears　of　corn　swinging。　Oh　God；　he　half…turned；　had　the　gun　to　his　shoulder　in　readiness；　beads　of　sweat　forming　on　his　forehead。　All　in　the　imagination；　your　nerves　are　stretched。　Don't　let　'em；　you　are　the　hunter　out　here；　Peter　Eversham；　you　have　a　weapon　far　more　lethal　than　the　deadliest　snake　in　the　world。
　　
　　He　took　another　step　forward　and　the　corn　rustled　again；　a　sound　as　if　the　wind　was　blowing；　yet　heavier；　a　small　body　crashing　through　the　forest　of　stalks　screened　from　his　view。　He　almost　panicked　and　fired　blindly；　I've　got　a　gun；　you　bastard；　don't　you　e　anywhere　near　me。
　　
　　Then　sudden　relief；　a　releasing　of　pent…up　breath；　lowering　the　gun。　Whatever　it　was；　it　was　darting　away　in　the　opposite　direction。　A　rabbit　probably。　Or　a　hare。
　　
　　Now　there　was　a　sense　of　urgency　about　Peter　Eversham's　movements；　crashing　his　way　through　the　ripening　crop；　searching　desperately　for　a　clearing　somewhere。
　　
　　He　had　gone　about　a　hundred　yards　before　he　found　one　to　his　liking。　Not　quite　as　big　as　he　had　hoped；　possibly　five　or　six　yards　in　diameter；　but　it　would　do。　He　might　blunder　around　all　evening　without　finding　exactly　what　he　was　looking　for　and　time　was　not　on　his　side。
　　
　　He　settled　down　on　his　haunches；　tried　not　to　notice　that　he　was　trembling　slightly；　and　glanced　up　at　the　sky。　The　sun　was　low　in　the　west；　perhaps　an　hour　and　a　half　away　from　dusk。　He'd　give　it　an　hour；　no　more；　the　last　thing　he　wanted　was　to　be　walking　back　through　that　barley　in　the　dark。
　　
　　He　waited　five　minutes；　time　to　let　anything　that　had　heard　his　noisy　passage　forget　about　it；　then　he　pressed　his　lips　to　the　back　of　his　hand　and　began　to　suck。　It　wasn't　easy　but　after　several　attempts　he　produced　a　fair　imitation　of　the　squeals　of　a　terrified　or　injured　rabbit。　'Don't　overdo　it；　rabbits　don't　squeal　continually；'　Kenning　had　said。　'Give　a　call　every　few　minutes。'
　　
　　Eversham　was　desperate　for　a　smoke。　He　resisted　the　temptation　until　his　keen　memory　churned　out　something　he　had　read　somewhere；　or　maybe　seen　in　a　TV　documentary；　something　about　wildfowl　hunters　in　the　Fens　during　the　last　century　carrying　burning　peat　to　mask　any　scent　they　gave　off。　Perhaps；　then；　a　cigarette　would　be　to　his　advantage　and；　anyway；　didn't　most　of　the　old　big…game　hunters　in　Africa　always　smoke　a　big　foul…smelling　pipe？
　　
　　He　put　a　cigarette　to　his　lips；　flicked　his　lighter　and　inhaled　the　smoke　gratefully。　e　on；　you　buggers；　I'm　ready　for　you。
　　
　　Half　an　hour　passed。　The　sky　was　beginning　to　turn　saffron　and　the　only　creatures　which　seemed　to　have　located　Peter　Eversham's　hiding　place　were　swarms　of　tiny　midges；　their　ploy　was　to　hover　incessantly　over　your　head　and　whilst　you　were　swatting　at　them；　a　small　detachment　would　e　in　from　behind；　find　a　patch　of　exposed　flesh　and　alight　on　it。　He　blew　smoke　at　them　but　it　did　not　deter　them。　And　when　finally　they　did　decide　to　depart　they　left　him　scratching　a　number　of　itchy　swellings　on　his　neck　and　ears。
　　
　　He　tried　the　rabbit　call　again。　Much　better　now；　it　really　sounded　something　like　a　distressed　coney。　Surely　a　snake　in　an　alien　environment　wouldn't　be　able　to　tell　th