“Either you drop your gun belt and weapon now, or you’re dead.”The man hesitated only for a moment, and then slowly and carefully he unbuckled his gun belt and he let it drop to the ground at his feet.“Smart,” I declared sarcastically, “now let’s see if you can stay smart. Get down on your knees and get your hands in the air. If you don’t; bang, you’re dead!”The man did as he was told. The moment he did, the two young hunters with me came forward. While one covered the two local men with the skipper, the other bound the skipper’s hands behind his back. Then he quickly searched the man. He found a knife in a sheath hidden by the tail of his coat, but that was the only other weapon that the man was carrying. As he searched the man, I kept an eye on everyone.The two local men twigged my interest. They were bigger than some of the men I’d seen here about, and to the north. Their size made them stand out, as did their attire. They were both dressed in combat pants and boots, and they were. Our precocious Jean was newly located in LPA, an artiste without portfolio as it were, yet to establish himself but with, in his own mind, a great untapped talent in both the arts of paints and clays. In short, he was a Michaelangelo without proof. It warmed him to have such a vision of himself but the evidence to bolster was lacking. Sadly, as an artist, he was a talent in pretense only…awaiting that dream of a productive display to an admiring patron…a wealthy one preferred, of course. In his mind it was a simple question of supply and demand. Unfortunately, into his little studio by the undulating sea there was scant supply, and a dearth of demand except the merchant’s demands of bills to pay. On top of all that, Jean’s cheap studio was at the water’s edge and habitually damp…he coveted dryness for his canvas, for his clays to set and his physical soreness that troubled his artist’s mind when he worked. He once lamented, to himself, that such issues never betroubled.
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