Dewey Mayhew looked down on the sheriff. "Had yourself a good toot, did ya?" he said.
Lauters grimaced. "What the hell do you want?"
"To talk. Nothin' wrong with old friends talkin' is there?"
The sheriff tried to sit up but his head was pounding. An oil lamp was going in the corner. Darkness was pressed up against the little window. God, how long had he been out? Hours? Last thing he remembered was some run in with that Longtree fellow.
"What do you want to talk about?" Lauters grumbled.
Mayhew looked very solemn, scared almost. "About the murders."
"Ain't nothing new to say."
"There's been seven killings, Sheriff. Seven killings."
Lauters rubbed his eyes. "I'm aware of that."
"Those men-"
"I know."
"There's only three of us left," Mayhew said desperately.
"Keep your voice down."
Mayhew was trembling. "That thing won't stop till we're all dead."
"That's enough, Dewey."
"Tonight it'll come for me or you or-"
"Enough," the sheriff said with an edge to his voice. "You just keep quiet about things. If you don't, I'll kill you myself."