“I have no doubt what killed him. But I’m not averse to testing the cup, either.’’ Doc narrowed his eyes at me. “As I’ve already told Mace.’’

I narrowed my eyes right back. “Then why’d you give the cup to Wynonna?’’

He shook his head. “I didn’t. It’s still sitting in my car, as far as I know.’’

“Lawton’s daughter Belle said you did,’’ I said.

“Well, she’s wrong. Belle is a high-strung girl. She doesn’t always think clearly. She has problems keeping things straight, among other difficulties. I may have said Wynonna wanted the cup. I didn’t say I handed it over.’’

The Oak Ridge Boys launched into “Closer to Thee.” The mule-driver cranked the volume of his sing-along even higher. Doc put a discreet finger into the ear closest to the CD player.

“So you wouldn’t mind giving the cup to me for analysis?’’ Carlos asked.

“Not at all, officer.’’ Doc turned his palms up in a friendly gesture, but his voice had an edge. “I’ve worked with enough policemen over the years to know you’re a suspicious breed.’’

“Actually, it’s Detective, not officer,’’ Carlos said. “And having suspicions comes with the territory.’’

“Hmm, yes. I would imagine it does,’’ Doc said. “I’ll make sure you get that cup, once we reach camp.’’

___

“Mace, you need to pull that corner tighter,’’ Maddie instructed. “The tent looks all lopsided on this side.’’

Despite the morning’s delay, we made camp near Zolfo Springs by late afternoon. Maddie’s four-man monstrosity belonged at the Smithsonian as an example of early man’s recreational practices. Canvas, it weighed about two hundred pounds, reeked of mildew, and was missing a quarter of its stakes. I was doing the best I could under the circumstances.

“Maddie, instead of standing there criticizing, why don’t you go see if you can find a dead sabal frond? I can break it into long stakes for this sandy ground.’’

“You want me to go into the woods?’’ she looked like I’d asked her to cross a scorching desert on her hands and knees.

“Yes. The woods, Maddie. I know you and Kenny’s idea of camping is when the Cracker Barrel restaurant’s more than a block from your hotel, but you’ve got to help out.’’ I raised my head from untangling one of the ropes for the antique tent. “Look over there at Marty. She’s got all the tack off the horses and she’s already giving them their feed.’’

“Oh, all right then.’’ Grumbling, Maddie started for the trees. “I don’t see what’s so important about a few little pieces of wood, though.’’

Without Maddie there to criticize, I quickly got the sleeping bags from her trunk to air out. I don’t think they’d been used since Maddie’s college-student daughter was in Girl Scouts. But at least they were intact, and they’d keep my sisters and me warm.

The sun was still warm, but it was sinking. The air already carried a hint of chill. In the distance, Marty was finishing up with the horses, which meant she’d begin to feel the cold as soon as she sat down to rest. I whine like a baby when the temperature plunges, but Marty’s prone to respiratory problems and strep throat. All of us worry when she gets a chill.

I called out, “Marty, why don’t you put on that jacket I left under the front seat of my Jeep?’’

She waved at me. “Thanks, Mace. I’m just about done.’’

I draped the last sleeping bag over Maddie’s trunk. As I did, I noticed something dark and sinewy coiled in the back seat. I couldn’t believe it! They’d brought my old cow whip, the one I loaned my niece for her film class documentary on Florida Crackers.

I pulled out the whip, running my thumb over my initials burned onto the wooden handle. MEB. Mason Elizabeth Bauer. I gave it a couple of practice cracks. Yep, just as loud as ever.

“Hey, Marty,’’ I yelled over the sound.

She didn’t answer.

I walked toward my Jeep, snapping the whip the whole way. It’s amazing how the muscles remember; like riding a bicycle, I guess. “Hey,’’ I shouted. “Why didn’t y’all tell me you brought this?’’

Still no answer.

My Jeep’s door was open and Marty stood rooted, staring at my jacket unfurled on the ground. Her face was ashen and shiny with sweat. She mouthed my name over and over, like a whispered prayer.

“MaceMaceMaceMace.’’

And then I heard another sound. Low and menacing, it was unmistakable to a girl who grew up in the Florida wilds, clambering over piles of dead wood and turning up rocks.

Ssssttt, Ssssttt, Ssssttt . . .

I closed the space between Marty and me by instinct. I don’t even think I was aware of the cow whip in my hand. Yet, my elbow was cocked and ready as I ran to her side.

The tail on the diamondback stood up straight, rattles vibrating. The snake’s tongue darted to and fro. Its cat-eyes gleamed. Marty stood motionless, in striking distance.

I prayed that all those hours of practice I’d put in by my daddy’s side wouldn’t fail me. My arm tingled with the memory of knocking tin cans off fence posts and clipping oranges off their branches. I didn’t want to think about the many times I’d missed my targets.

I heard Carlos shout, as if from far away: “Don’t move, Marty.’’ From the corner of my eye, I saw him edge into the campsite and stoop to get a rock. It wasn’t big or heavy enough to crush the snake’s head quickly. It would only aggravate him enough to make him strike.

“I’ve got it,’’ I yelled, surprised when my voice sounded calm.

I snapped my arm at the elbow and let the whip fly from about eight feet out.

Crack!

Marty flinched. Her eyes squeezed shut. The whip hit a few inches behind the snake’s venom glands. The force all but severed its head. For a few seconds, the body writhed across my jacket, dying. I finished it off with another whip crack. Marty probably wouldn’t want to borrow that particular piece of clothing again.

“It’s okay, Sister. You can look now,’’ I said.

Carlos rushed forward to catch her before she hit the ground. I snapped the whip a third time, just to be sure no strike was left in the snake. Marty hung on Carlos’ neck, her face buried in his chest. He patted her on the back.

“You’re all right, Marty. Your sister killed it.’’

When he raised his gaze to mine, I wondered whether admiration or anger was making his eyes so dark. Carlos wasn’t short on Latin machismo; I was unsure how he’d take a woman riding to the rescue.

“Go ahead and look, Marty,’’ he urged her. “Mace was amazing.’’

So it was admiration. Surprise, surprise.

Just then, Mama, Maddie and Sal walked into the campsite. Maddie carried two dead sabal fronds, bushy side down, like a broom in each hand.

“Yoo-hoo!’’ Mama called. “Who’s ready for dinner?’’

At a glance, she took in Carlos supporting Marty, her tears soaking his shirt. She rushed to Marty’s side. Maddie dropped the brown fronds and ran after her.

“What happened, Marty? What’s wrong?’’ As she stroked Marty’s hair, Mama looked over at me, recoiling my whip. Then she spotted the snake on the ground. Her eyes widened. A hand flew to cover her mouth.

“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch,’’ Maddie said.

“Don’t touch it,’’ I warned them. “It’s dead, but a rattlesnake has heat-sensing pits behind the eyes. Put a warm hand near it, and the head may still bite as a reflex.’’

Carlos swallowed uneasily and took a step back.