“Woodrat’s all I got, so it’s all you’re having.” The codger held out several flattened vermin by their tails for Foghorn to see. “Traps ain’t producing like they ought to. Your witch probably behind that, too.”
There wasn’t much to the place. A wood stove sat in one corner with an old pot heating on its top. The one window next to the only door looked to have taken a gunshot at some point, and the drapes made from a tattered blanket confirmed the fact with a matching hole of its own. A small table sat near the stove. Foghorn figured its matching chair was what he was sitting on.
The only remarkable thing about the interior was the hundreds, maybe thousands, of newspaper clippings covering almost every available inch of the log wall interior. Foghorn marveled at the effort and fanaticism it took to do it.
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“Not eating rat,” Foghorn said as he wrinkled what was left of his nose.
“Starve then. I don’t give a Ron Collins if you eat or not.”
“What are you aiming to do with me between now and me starving?”
The codger worked his pocket knife expertly around the hind legs of one of the woodrats then made another quick slit between the two. He set the knife on the table to free his hand and pulled the woodrat's hide off it from tail to head. He held it up for Foghorn to see.
“Not sure exactly," the codger answered, giving Foghorn a wry smile and a wink. "Figure you’d be easier to skin than this fella, but I’m thinking you’d have some utility as bait.”
[pinging @DugoutDesperado since I've included some Valencia lore... haha]
