THE HIGH SHERIFF OF SEVIER County came out through the courthouse doors and stood on the portico surveying the gray lawn below with the benches and the Sevier County pocketknife society that convened there to whittle and mutter and spit. He rolled a cigarette and replaced the package of tobacco in the breast pocket of his tailored shirt and lit the cigarette and descended the stairs, a proprietary squint to his eyes as he studied the morning aspect of this small upland county seat.

A man opened the door and called down to him and the sheriff turned.

Mr Gibson’s huntin you, the man said.

You don’t know where I’m at.

Okay.

And where the hell is Cotton?

He’s went to get the car.

He better get his ass on up here.

Yonder he comes now, Sheriff.

The sheriff turned and went on out to the street.

Mornin Sheriff.

Mornin.

Mornin Sheriff.

Hey. How you.

He flipped the cigarette into the street and stepped into the car and pulled the door to. Mornin Sheriff, said the driver.

Let’s go get the little fucker, said the sheriff.

Me and Bill Parsons was goin to go birdhuntin this mornin but I don’t reckon we will now.

Bill Parsons eh?

He’s got a couple of good dogs.

O yeah. He always has the best dogs. I remember a dog he had one time named Suzie he said was a hellatious bird dog. He let her out of the trunk and I looked at her and I said: I don’t believe Suzie’s feelin too good. He looked at her and felt her nose and all. Said she looked all right to him. I told him, said: I just don’t believe she’s real well today. We set out and hunted all afternoon and killed one bird. Started walk-in back to the car and he says to me, Bill says: You know, it’s funny you noticin old Suzie was not feelin good today. The way you spotted it. I said: Well, Suzie was sick today. He said yes, she was. I said: Suzie was sick yesterday. Suzie has always been sick. Suzie will always be sick. Suzie is a sick dog.