Into the Twilight, Endlessly Grousing by Patrick F. McManus

seemed stunned anyway. He was still staring at the place where the antelope had once stood.
    â€œI guess that’s it,” he said.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “It’s time to quit.” I didn’t mention that the antelope had looked much too tough for steaks and chops.
    That evening, as we neared the pickup spot for Marcella and Bennett, the headlights illuminated Marcella walking down the road. Alone. She turned and began hopping up and down and waving her arms. There was no sign of Bennett.
    â€œGood grief!” Jack said. “I was afraid of this.”
    â€œLooks bad,” I said. “She isn’t pouting.”
    We pulled up alongside her. “I shot him!” she cried.
    Jack rested his forehead on the steering wheel. “Dead?”
    â€œYes, dead! Hit him right in the neck!”
    I tried to comfort Jack. “At least he didn’t suffer.”
    â€œBennett’s dragging him up to the road right now,” Marcella added. “Boy, is he ever ticked! He missed and I didn’t!”
    â€œAh, an antelope!” Jack said.
    As we drove back to camp, Marcella related every last tiny detail of how Bennett had missed and she hadn’t. Bennett took our ribbing better than I expected, although I can’t say I care much for pouting in a man.
    When we got to the ranch house, Ben was just walking back toward the empty Suburban after helping Jane and Will into the house. He stopped and stared glumly at us. We stared back, equally glum. Suddenly, Ben’s face erupted into a huge grin, and he wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead and flung it on the ground. With a dramatic flourish he jerked open the rear doors of the Suburban, and there was Will’s antelope! It didn’t look like a trophy by any means, but it was by far the most wonderful pronghorn I’d ever laid eyes on. Even Jack said he’d never come across a better one, and he’d seen one heck of a lot of antelope.
    Through the living room window, we watched the old couple toasting each other, no doubt with some of Will’s fifty-year-old Scotch.
    â€œSee,” Jack said. “You don’t ever want to quit till it’s over.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “I guess the trick is knowing when it’s over.”
    Leaning into the wind, I limped off in the direction of Will’s fifty-year-old Scotch.

Crime Wave
    The world is going to the criminals, no doubt about it. I know, because right here in our little town of Blight, Idaho, we’ve recently had a crime wave. It’s scary. Some folks even started removing their keys from the ignition when they park their cars. I’ve also heard about a couple of elderly ladies who took to locking their doors at night. It’s bad.
    I first learned about the crime wave from Delmar Foot. Delmar was obviously pleased to be the one to break the news to me. We don’t have much news here in Blight, so the opportunity to pass it on is something to be relished. Makes you feel kind of like Dan Rather on the
CBS Evening News
.
    â€œYou heard about old Henry Sly, Pat?” Delmar asked.
    â€œNothing good,” I said. “What’s he done now?”
    â€œYou ain’t heard, then?”
    â€œNo, I ain’t.”
    â€œIt’s about Sly’s chain saw. A deputy sheriff come out and investigated.”
    After presenting this teaser so I’d stay tuned for the news, Delmar took the Blight version of a commercial break. He dug out his can of chew and stood there thoughtfully studying the lid, as if he couldn’t remember the combination. I expected him to say, “I’ll be back with the chain saw story, right after this.”
    â€œSkip the teaser, Delmar,” I told him. “What about the chain saw?”
    â€œIt got stole.”
    â€œIt got stole?”
    â€œYep. Right out of old Sly’s garage. Somebody walked in and snatched it, pretty as you please.”
    I was shocked, much to