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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