“Sit down. Well, how’s the man who got his last night? Dead?”
“No.”
“County detectives were here bright and early. After the lady’s husband. I guess we lose our license over this.”
“What does Schwitter say?”
“Oh, him!” Bill’s tone was full of disgust. “He hopes we do. He hates the place. Only man I ever knew that hated money. That’s what this house is—money.”
“Bill, did you see the man who fired that shot last night?”
A sort of haze came over Bill’s face, as if he had dropped a curtain before his eyes. But his reply came promptly:
“Surest thing in the world. Close to him as you are to me. Dark man, about thirty, small mustache—”
“Bill, you’re lying, and I know it. Where is he?”
The barkeeper kept his head, but his color changed.
“I don’t know anything about him.” He thrust his mop into the pail. K. rose.
“Does Schwitter know?”
“He doesn’t know nothing. He’s been out at the barn all night.”
The farmhand had filled his box and disappeared around the corner of the house. K. put his hand on Bill’s shirt- sleeved arm.
“We’ve got to get him away from here, Bill.”
“Get who away?”
“You know. The county men may come back to search the premises.”
“How do I know you aren’t one of them?”
“I guess you know I’m not. He’s a friend of mine. As a matter of fact, I followed him here; but I was too late. Did he take the revolver away with him?”
“I took it from him. It’s under the bar.”
“Get it for me.”
In sheer relief, K.‘s spirits rose. After all, it was a good world: Tillie with her baby in her arms; Wilson conscious and rallying; Joe safe, and, without the revolver, secure from his own remorse. Other things there were, too—the feel of Sidney’s inert body in his arms, the way she had turned to him in trouble. It was not what he wanted, this last, but it was worth while. The reaping-machine was in sight now; it had stopped on the hillside. The men were drinking out of a bucket that flashed in the sun.
There was one thing wrong. What had come over Wilson, to do so reckless a thing? K., who was a one-woman man, could not explain it.
From inside the bar Bill took a careful survey of Le Moyne. He noted his tall figure and shabby suit, the slight stoop, the hair graying over his ears. Barkeepers know men: that’s a part of the job. After his survey he went behind the bar and got the revolver from under an overturned pail.
K. thrust it into his pocket.
“Now,” he said quietly, “where is he?”
“In my room—top of the house.”
K. followed Bill up the stairs. He remembered the day when he had sat waiting in the parlor, and had heard Tillie’s slow step coming down. And last night he himself had carried down Wilson’s unconscious figure. Surely the wages of sin were wretchedness and misery. None of it paid. No one got away with it.
The room under the eaves was stifling. An unmade bed stood in a corner. From nails in the rafters hung Bill’s holiday wardrobe. A tin cup and a cracked pitcher of spring water stood on the windowsill.
Joe was sitting in the corner farthest from the window. When the door swung open, he looked up. He showed no interest on seeing K., who had to stoop to enter the low room.
“Hello, Joe.”
“I thought you were the police.”
“Not much. Open that window, Bill. This place is stifling.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, indeed.”
“I wish I’d killed him!”
“Oh, no, you don’t. You’re damned glad you didn’t, and so am I.”
“What will they do with me?”
“Nothing until they find you. I came to talk about that. They’d better not find you.”
“Huh!”
“It’s easier than it sounds.”
K. sat down on the bed.
