#41: Fishers of Men

We shot them at dawn. They had been fishing in the river, strong hands drawing bass with quick tugs of the rods. We watched them from the bushes; drew dry guns; caught hungry breath. When they were done they sat and smoked, feet dangling in water under the willows. The first shots took them, bullets through brow throat shoulder arm elbow. We rolled the bodies over, inspected clumsy wounds, took cigarettes matches shoes. When we had stolen what we could, we left. But only after I pushed the bodies into the water, keeping the bait happy.