He balefully eyed the pair of fat black flies sitting on the slat next to him. Filthy things. Light wasn't even a real sheriff, and here he was locking doors and letting shit-eating horse flies crawl around like it was nothing.
Whip-fast, he smacked his hand down across the rough wood. That got 'em. He grimaced and scraped the muck off onto the sole of his boot, then spat in his palm and scrubbed it across his pants leg. Good enough.
Jesus Christ, could Light possibly be any fucking slower? He'd wait fifteen more minutes, that was it, and then he was going out to check out the weird shit in the mine himself.