gns.snakes-第16部分
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etty 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 the difference anyway； probably had never seen or heard the good old English bunny in its life。
Peter heard a helicopter ing down off the moor； crouched low and ducked his head。 Deafening； the wind from the vanes wafting the corn； flying at no more than twenty feet。 The machine passed just to his left and he raised his eyes to follow its departure。 It swung round； headed back towards the village。 What a bloody waste of time； he thought。 If they can't spot me in the barley how the hell can they expect to see the snakes？
Boredom added to the disfort of his crouched position。 He found himself studying the engraving on his gun； marvelled at the intricacies； the workmanship that made English guns the best in the world。 In the right hands； with the right cartridge； this gun would kill anything。 Snakes were no exception； he had proved that already。 And he would prove it a second time。
He had a feeling that he was not going to see the snakes tonight。 Another few minutes and he would pack it in； head for home。 One more cigarette and I'll go。 He sucked his hand once more； now that was the best rabbit call he had done all night； enough to make 。 。 。
A swishing of wings above his head made him start and he was just in time to see a diving sparrow hawk check； jink and change direction。 Hard luck； you bugger； Eversham smiled to himself； I must be good to fool you。 You thought you heard your supper squealing but you had one helluva shock。 The moral of that story is don't take anything for granted。
The tall corn was beginning to cast its shadows across the small clearing； thousands of nodding； swaying heads that were to be given a brief few hours' rest from the labours of ripening； a sun…soaked crop that could be part of Man's winter food store； grain for malting； seed for poultry。 A source of life。
And death！
Peter Eversham started； almost dropped his gun。 There was a snake directly opposite him； its body partly concealed by the barley forest。 Red； black and yellow with white rings； gaudy with all Nature's warning colours blended into its scaly
