Dee Raymond-Canada

PRINCESS LAKE

FICTION

The chopper set Bud Hamilton down on the main highway north out of the state capital. Two police cruisers were parked facing in along a dirt road linked with aspen and occasional cottonwood poplars. A uniformed cop in a large, grey stetson squatted beside one car, one hand holding lightly to his hat. Even as Hamilton crouched low on the roadway, gripping his Roadster in his right hand, he had to clap his hands over his ears as the chopper took off again. The peace after the departure of the machine over the tree tops was unexpectedly sudden. The figure by the car had straightened up and was heading forward to meet the Detective-Sergeant.

"Welcome to Allen County, Sergeant," the tone was laconic and drawled, though the big mouth was pressed into a tight line. "I'm Gantsby." A large, calloused hand threatended to crush Hamilton's softer product of a life devoted to report-writing.

"Hamilton," the detective said, but wasn't able to say more as the big man hustled him over to one of the cruisers, threw Hamilton's bag into the car, indicated the passenger seat to Hamilton and, when the city detective was in the car, too, took off fast, showering the puzzled- looking policemen in the other car with dirt and gravel.

"You're sure to be wondering what this is all about," stated Mel Gantsby, as the car careened down the center of the track, gravel beating a steady tattoo on the underside of the car.

"Yes," said Hamilton simply.

Gantsby gave him a quick glance, grunted and concentrated on avoiding potholes for a little while, without slackening speed. "We've got a murder," he finally grunted.

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