The Scarecrow It was the surprisingly loud and unexpected explosion that accompanied the shattering of my rear windshield that gave me the first indications that I might not be entirely welcome back in these hills. The glass fragments of the safety glass window erupted into the interior of the vehicle in a hail of crystal menace. It was the surprise of the attack, more than actual fear, that had startled me. I had just barely noticed, in the rear view mirror, the ugly twin barrels of an old shotgun peering from the side window of the battered pick up behind me when the explosion occurred.
