Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

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Mathematically a triangle is a useful form. Domestically it is abhorrent and can be eliminated by the squeezing of a trigger.

Death walked with the three through the scattered but thick patches of scrub oak and manzanita; the sun would soon set in the hills that surrounded San Jose Valley, ending a particularly hot summer day.

The feast-or-famine vegetation was typical of the California coast ranges. The clothes of the two men and one woman were typical hunting outfits. The dominant thoughts were atypical: one would die.

They seemed two of a kind, Frank Morriss and Jim Thomason. Two — but only one Pat. She’d married Frank.

At the mouth of a small valley, Frank halted. Nervously, he gulped from a canteen. “We’ll find some up there.” He lifted his chin in gesture at the head of the dry stream.

Pat and Jim followed his line of sight, up the steep hill. Dense brush thirstily sought what little moisture remained close to the ground surface.

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