A pack of mongrels was standing sentinel. They weren’t barking, but she could hear their bloodthirsty growls as they stood alert and eager for the signal that would send them charging her.

She heaved herself out of her auto and moved to stand in the beam of her headlight where she could be seen. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she hollered, “Call off your mutts and your militia and invite me in.”

Nothing happened. She stayed as she was, knowing that the head of the clan was taking his sweet time just to piss her off. “I ain’t leavin’ till we talk, Hiram.”

From around the corner of the house, a Johnson materialized out of the darkness. She couldn’t make out any distinct features except for the shotgun he held aimed at her.

“You’re trespassing,” he said. “Be on your way.”

“Or what? You’ll pull the trigger?”

“You make a sizable target. I couldn’t miss with both eyes closed.”

“If you shoot me, you’d just be provin’ what everybody knows, and that’s that all Johnsons are stupider than they are ugly, and that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

“What do you want?”

“Like I said, to talk to the ol’ man. Unless he’s dead.”

“He ain’t.”

“Figured that was too much to hope for. Tell him to show hisself or he’ll never know what I know about Wally’s killin’.”

Seconds ticked past. Then, no doubt acting on a cue from inside the house, the young man lowered the shotgun. The dogs backed down, whimpering in disappointment over being denied a mauling. The screen door squeaked open and a young woman came out onto the porch. “He says come on in.”

Lamps flickered to life inside as Gert made her way toward the house. She paid the dogs no mind as she stomped past them and up the steps. The young woman lit a cigarette, eyeing Gert sourly as she shook out the match. “He’s waitin’.”

Gert pulled open the screen door and went inside.

It was a large, rectangular room. The collective glow from the recently lit lamps didn’t reach the ceiling. Loitering around the perimeter of the room were a passel of Johnsons of both sexes spanning at least three generations, from a bald-headed baby straddling his mother’s hip to a withered, toothless old woman, who Gert recognized as the reigning matriarch.

Gert muttered with scorn, “To think I’m related to this bunch.”

“We ain’t so proud to claim you, neither.”

This from the man holding the place of honor in the corner of the room where he sprawled in an overstuffed chair. He held a coffee can propped on one knee. Looking at Gert, he raised it to his mouth and spat a string of tobacco juice into it.

Hiram Johnson had inherited his position as head of the clan from his father, and for the last four decades had ruled the family with an iron fist. His face was as crinkled as a dry creek bed in August. He had a dingy gray beard that covered his chest to the third button of his flannel shirt. A jar of moonshine and a flyswatter sat on the windowsill within easy reach of him. His bare right foot, missing toes and striated white with petrifaction, was propped on a footstool. A large, leather-bound Bible lay open in his lap.

“But I don’t hail from the inbred branch of the family,” Gert said.

Eying her with malevolence, Hiram spat into the can again and wiped stained spittle from his beard with the back of his hand. “Gettin’ raided is bad for business, cousin.”

“Couldn’t tell it by the crowd we got tonight,” Gert said. “The place was hoppin’ when I left.”

“You had some product stashed?”

“Enough for tonight, but the raid made a dent. I come to buy.”

“Tup.” Hiram raised his index finger to one of his offspring whose chair was propped against the wall, front legs raised. He was stropping a hunting knife. At the signal from the old man, the chair legs hit the floor. The man addressed as Tup came to his feet and slid the knife into a scabbard at his waist.

“Load her up,” Hiram said to him.

He was on his way to the door when Gert said, “Ten gallons less than what we usually take.”

Tup looked to Hiram for direction. Gert kept her expression blank. Never taking his eyes off her, Hiram said, “You heard her.” Tup pushed open the screen door and went out, calling to someone unseen to come help him.

“How come you’re cuttin’ back?” Hiram asked.

Gert took a slow look around the room, as though taking inventory of the assembled relatives. They all appeared indolent and uninterested, but she knew better. They all had the trademark big ears, but not necessarily in the physical sense.

Hiram, grasping that she wanted to talk to him privately, flipped his hand at the room at large. “Git.”

His offspring began to scatter, some going outside, others disappearing into other rooms. A teenaged girl helped the old woman out of her chair and supported her as she hobbled out.

Watching her leave, Gert said, “I thought she’d’ve died by now. You, too. And why don’t you spare us all that stink and cut that damn foot off?”

Ignoring that, Hiram repeated his question about her order.

Gert seated herself in one of the vacated chairs. “While your boys have been keeping the roads hot between your stills and the oil patches, small-timers have been taking up the slack locally. You’re losing ground, Hiram. You’re being undercut.”

“Nobody would dare.”

“Fine. Don’t believe me. But Lefty struck a deal today. I’s sittin’ right there when they shook on it. More hooch for a lot cheaper than you charge us.”

“Rotgut.”

“Nope. Good stuff.”

“Labeled liquor?”

Gert shook her head. “’Shine.”

“Whose?”

“I’ll get to that. Let’s talk about Wally.”

He slapped his palm onto the open Bible in his lap. “God as my witness—”

“Which he ain’t.”

“—we’re gonna get the sumbitch what killed Wally.”

Gert crossed her arms over her massive chest. “You made any headway in that direction?”

“We’ll get him.”

“That means you got no idea who done it.”

Temper sparked, Hiram leaned forward, nearly tipping over his spit can. “If you know something, you’d better tell me, or being my second cousin thrice removed won’t mean shit. Kinship won’t save your fat ass from being flayed.”