A Redder Harvest

Rainey screwed himself around in his chair to see us better, or to let us see him better.

I was sitting next to him, a little to the rear. Above the porch rail his profile stood out sharp against the twilight gray of the lake, though there was nothing sharp about the profile itself. It had been smoothly rounded by thirty-five or more years of comfortable living.

"I wouldn't have a dog that was cat-shy," he wound up. "What good is a dog, or a man, that's afraid of things?"