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of terror she saw its injury； the lower part of its body crushed and flattened like the hose that time when Doyle had washed the car for them and had left it lying on the drive and she had backed over it。
'Oh； my God！' she was going to be sick any second。 'Peter； you've run over it！'
He jerked the handbrake back on； halted the car； then started the engine； drove forward in a wide sweep that took him to the front of the house alongside Doyle's parked van。 He killed the engine； glanced in his mirror。 The rattler was thrashing fiercely from side to side； rattling and hissing its pain and fury but it wasn't going anywhere。
'Peter； don't get out！'
'Stay where you bloody well are。' He slammed the car door and ran for the porch； fumbling for his key。
Breathlessly he leapt up the stairs； on to the landing； into the bedroom。 Fumbling under the bed； pulling out a dusty leg…o'…mutton leather gun case； his trembling fingers scarcely capable of undoing the straps。 Metal clinked as he fitted barrels and stock together； slapped the wooden fore…end into place to hold them together； grabbed some orange…cased 12…bore cartridges out of a carton on top of the wardrobe； spilling the rest on to the carpet。
Back down the stairs； loading the gun as he went； almost slipping on the polished wooden blocks of the hall floor。 Outside； seeing Cynthia still sitting in the car； hands pressed to her pallid face in fear and anguish； mouthing something at him。 Shut up； you stupid bitch。
The diamondback was still very much alive。 It was throwing itself from side to side； manoeuvring a course towards the front door； propelling its awesome body in spite of its terrible injuries； malevolently rattling its hate for the man who had done this to it。 Only one thing was uppermost in its pain…crazed mind…to kill！
Peter Eversham was trembling as he lifted the shotgun to his shoulder； a big…game hunter suddenly faced with a charging wounded water buffalo； its life or his； there would only be one survivor。 He had his life in his hands。
Ten yards； maybe less。 He tried to draw a bead on the head but it darted from one side to the other； dodged away from the shaking twin barrels as though it knew。 Oh Christ； so different from driven grouse that couldn't fight back。
Five yards。 He swung his sights on to the body； the lower damaged part that dragged behind the rest； took a trigger pressure。 A deafening blast； and somewhere in the background he heard his wife screaming； saw the snake jerk and roll； seem to twist back on itself as though it was trying to view the damage。
At that range the concentrated shot charge was still strung together； had cut through skin and tissue； almost severed the lower body。 A slimy pulp streaked the tarmac。 And in that split second Peter Eversham finally got his bead on the head。
The left barrel； leaden death obliterating the rattlesnake's head； throwing it back into the morass behind； its nerves twitching。 And then it was still。
It was dead。
Eversham lowered the smoking gun； opened the breech and the spent cartridge cases were ejected； bounced on the drive。 He stood there； experienced a euphoria that was only just beginning to make its heady impact on him。 A pose he was reluctant to relinquish； the hunter looking down on his trophy； awaiting the arrival of his bearers。
The garage shutters slid upwards and Keith Doyle emerged； white…faced。 Eversham thought the gardener might spew up just to plete the picture。 Cynthia still had her face covered； look at it； you two； look at it。 It's dead and I killed it。 Me； Peter Eversham。 They've been hunting the bastards for two days but they didn't do any good until I returned。
'Well done； Mr Eversham。' A cry of relief； the young red…haired man having to hold on to the car； swaying unsteadily on his feet。 'It trapped me in the garage。 We better get the police。'
'I think this is them now。' Peter Eversham heard the bee…boraf an approaching siren； anticipated the white Escort turning into the drive。 He shifted his pose slightly； cradling the gun beneath his arm； sporting style。 Take a good look； you guys； I just did what you've failed to do。 Send the press； let's get the record straight； nobody's stealing my thunder。
'I got him；' he told PC Aylott as the constable climbed out of the car。 'It's a rattler； a western diamondback。' I know because I once saw a TV programme about them。
'He's dead； all right。' Aylott approached the shot…blasted mulch with some trepidation。
'He is。' Peter Eversham still stood there holding his gun。 Jesus Christ； where were the bloody newshounds？ They were quick enough off〃 the mark when some randy vicar or other ran off with the verger's wife； used rolls of film and gave it front page spread； but when somebody shoots a dangerous reptile in an English village they don't want to know。
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 peop