At the edge of the bridge Coleman stopped, listening, as the echo of a gunshot wafted across the humid air.  He drew back, stepping down from the railroad tracks into the bushes, where he fought to slow his breathing.  His heart hammered in his chest as he cautiously regarded his connection to the far bank, barely one hundred yards away.  So near, and yet, so far.  Coleman couldn't remember who said that, but it might have been a prisoner, he thought, running from a road gang, looking at the bridge to freedom.  

Coleman stared across the fast-moving Pearl River at Louisiana.  By now phones would be ringing over in Bogalusa and every deputy they could scare up would be fanning out toward the river, cutting him off.  Sooner or later they'd check the bridge, if they hadn't already.    

Might be some good ol' boy was hunkered down in the brush right now, trigger finger itching for Coleman or one of the others to cross the bridge.  Once you run from the road they don't have to warn you; don't have to give you a chance to reconsider.  Coleman heard it said that Hennessey had his hands in the air, standing stock still, when they shot him.  The Cap’n said no, said that Hennessey was running away, but any boy who's ever shot a squirrel knows what an exit wound looks like.    

What he wouldn't give for a smoke.  And some water.  And maybe a -

Gravel crunched nearby, a stray piece pinging off the rail.  Ever so gently, Coleman eased back into the brush, wishing he could change colors, like that chameleon they had back in grade school.  He heard the man's ragged breathing before he saw him, but he knew the Cap’n would come quiet.  Had to be someone else.  Kolchik staggered into view, looking like he might drop, his denim shirt darkened with sweat.  He, too, paused at the edge of the bridge.     

Coleman thought to let him cross and find out one way or another about the bridge.  If Kolchik took a bullet, that would surely settle the matter.  Wouldn't be any loss, either.  Except they might just wing him, leave him howling out there on the bridge, and when the shot brought them running from both sides, here he'd be, in the middle.    

"Chick!" Coleman hissed.     

Kolchik spun around, eyes wide.  "Who's that?" he demanded.    

"Shut up, you moron," Coleman whispered fiercely.      

Kolchik lowered his voice and took a knee.  "Hey, Coleman."    

"They close after you?"     

"Nah, man, I lost 'em.  They might have got City Boy, though; I heard them shooting.  You hear it?"    

"Yeah, I heard it.  City Boy, huh?  Damn."    

"Well, maybe not, though.  I didn’t see it for myself and all.  Just heard it, like you.  Hey, Coleman, why you all hunkered down?  You laid up or something?"     

"What do you got, diarrhea of the mouth?  I'm watching the bridge, moron.  I ain't sure I'm going to cross it."    

Kolchik craned his neck and dropped back down.  "Hell, it ain't so high."    

"Man, you're dumber than all my wives!"  Coleman spat in the dust.  "I ain't worried about how high it is, I'm worried that that they're watching it."    

"Oh, yeah," Kolchik brightened.  "Like from a deer stand, you mean."    

"That's what I said, moron."    

"But they couldn't get here ahead of us, could they?  Besides, McGinley told me ain't nobody knows about it, that everyone's forgotten but him.  Drew me a map for two dollars."    

"Well, McGinley's back there with your two dollars laughing at you.  Cap’n and his crew are all local boys, and if McGinley knows about this bridge then it's a sure bet they do."    

"Then what are we going to do?"    

Coleman flinched at the collective term.  He wasn't about to hook up with the likes of Kolchik.  No matter, though; ditching him would be a piece of cake.  Then he’d get on to Bogalusa, because he remembered he knew a girl there.  She’d lend him her car, or he’d take it, and after that, just smooth sailing.   

"Maybe there's another bridge," Kolchik said, breaking into his reverie.    

“What?” Coleman snapped angrily.  

“Maybe we can find another bridge,” Kolchik repeated. 

"Forget it.  There ain’t but one, up at Highway 26, and you can bet by now the State Patrol is camped there bigger than the Boy Scouts."    

"I can swim," Kolchik said.  "If we could get down the bank we could swim it, I reckon.  Maybe there's a lower place further down."    

"Chick, ain't nobody going to swim the Pearl in flood time and there ain't no time for exploring anyway.   The dogs out of Poplarville probably already sniffing our beds."    

"Oh, man, the dogs.  I forgot about the dogs."    

"Yeah, you would.  'Cause you just running, don't even know where to.  Ain't even got a plan, you're such a moron."    

Kolchik's neck reddened.  "Stop saying that.  You got such a great plan, why ain't you crossed over yet."    

"Like I told you, moron.  I ain't about to get shot."    

"Well, me neither!  But I ain't a moron, and there ain't nobody watching the damn bridge!  You're chicken, is what, sitting here like a rabbit gone to ground and them dogs out of Poplarville are going to sniff you right out.  And when they do," Kolchik said, rising, "you keep your mouth shut and buy me some time, because I'm going across!"    

The idea came to Coleman at that instant, as soon as Kolchik spoke the words.  He snatched up a rock the size of a baseball and sprang up to slam it against Kolchik's temple.  The big prisoner dropped to all fours with a grunt. Coleman struck him again, laying him out, and then again, and again, until he missed and mashed his fingers against the ground.   

Air wheezed in and out of his lungs.  God, but he wanted a smoke.  Soon.  That dame in Bogalusa would give him smokes and plenty more.  Coleman caught his breath.    

Coleman clambered up the bank and mounted one of the rails like a balance beam.  Gingerly, with a concentrated effort that brought sweat to his forehead, he wavered along it, heel to toe, inch by inch.  Several yards onto the bridge, after he figured to have left a big enough gap for the dogs to lose his scent, he stepped down and began to trot easily across the ties, looking down between them at the brown water.  "Can’t wait to see that dame in Bogalusa," he murmured.  "And she better have some smokes." 

     The bullet ripped into Coleman's chest, drilling through his sternum and exploding out his back.  The flat crack of the rifle was the last thing he heard as his body pitched forward across the rails.   

"You get him, Roland?" came a call from the far bank.  

"You ever know me to miss?"  The deputy lowered his rifle and worked the bolt.  "Come on, man, we got to go get him.  Good thing I didn't wait for your sorry ass!"

"No fooling."  The second deputy puffed his way through the brush to his partner.  "If we'd waited another minute heading out here, we'd have missed him!"    

"Not for long," Roland said, strolling toward the bridge.  "We'd have got him sooner or later.  These guys are all morons."