The ranch looked as bleak and deserted as it had the last time I'd driven into the yard, with Pat Bellman.  The pickup with the flat tire stood exactly where it had been, and there was no other vehicle around.  I stopped the camper rig in the same place as before, and the station wagon pulled alongside, driven by the surly gent whose name I still did not know, who'd the turned out to be a chunky, dark individual with flat Indian features and coarse black hair.

The man called Stottman, who shared the truck seat with me, opened the door on his side and backed out cautiously, keeping me covered.

"All right, slide out this way," he said.  "Careful, now."

He wasn't so pretty, either, with a round white face, mean little eyes, and an unattractive pug nose that had a kind of a lump at the end.  But I wasn't concerned with his unprepossessing appearance at the moment, but with the gun he held: a .25 caliber automatic so small that it practically disappeared in his pudgy hand.  The .25 isn't much of a gun - it has less power than a kid's .22 - but people have been killed by it, and I preferred not to join their company.  I got out carefully and turned toward the rear of the camper.

"Where are you going?" Stottman demanded.

"I just thought I'd let the pup out.  He's been cooped up in there quite a while."

"Never mind that.  Leave him where he is."

I grinned.  "Very few people have been torn to bloody shreds by savage retriever puppies, if that's what you're afraid of," I said, seizing the opportunity to polish my image as Grant Nystrom, dog expert.  "Well, you might get yourself bitten by a Chesapeake if you really work at it, but a Lab's more likely to lick you to death in a burst of affection."

"Never mind the pup." Stottman's voice was flat and unamused.  "We've seen your pup.  Now show us this man you claim to have shot."

"Right up on that point to the left," I said, waving my hand in that direction.  "Like I just told you, the girl sent me off across that open hillside to look for a nonexistent dog - well, bitch, if you want to be technical.  I spotted the rifleman lying in wait for me up there, and sneaked around behind him with my trusty .357...."

"Show us."

There was a certain amount of suspense as we worked our way up the hill through the brush.  I could think of several good reasons why Pat Bellman might want to remove the body of her accomplice, but apparently they weren't as good as they seemed.  Or maybe I've seen too many movies with disappearing corpses.  Anyway, when we got there the fuzzy-faced young marksman lay exactly where I'd left him on top of his fancy weapon.

"There he is," I said.  "You've got my gun.  I haven't had a chance to reload; there's an empty shell in the cylinder.  Smell it and you'll know it was fired within the last few hours.  Take a look at the bullet hole and you'll see that the calibers match."

"Keep him covered, Pete."

Stottman put his little gun away, and bent down to examine the wound.  He straightened up, rubbing his hands together.  "One bullet hole looks pretty much like another, Mr. Nystrom.  But say you did shoot this man, what does it prove?"

"Well, you can see it was a trap.  They were trying to put me out of the way so they could ring in that substitute you saw at the clinic with his dog - although who could mistake a shaggy, ill-bred, badly trained mongrel like that for a real Labrador, I can't imagine."

"We're not all experienced dog men, Mr. Nystrom."  Stottman studied my face for a moment, showing no expression.  Then he glanced down and kicked the body hard, so that it rolled over on its back.  I made a quick sound of protest.  Stottman said blandly: "What's the matter?  The punk's been dead for hours; he's not feeling."