trampled on them. He had got to live, he told himself, and the others had got to look after themselves.
Farther down the fields he ran into Ma Chester. She was working on the land, a long hoe turning up the brown soil. She paused, pushing back a grey strand of hair that hung over her eyes.
Dillon said, “Roxy’s skipped.”
She stood, leaning her weight against the shaft of the hoe. “What’s he skipped for?” she asked. Her face showed her impatience to get on with her work.
Dillon shrugged. “I guess he was tired of bein’ in this dump,” he said indifferently.
“You ain’t goin’?” she asked.
“I ain’t goin’ yet,” he returned. “But I’ll go all right.”
Ma Chester wagged her head. “Joe ain’t come,” she said. “It ain’t like Joe to say one thing an’ do another.”
Dillon made to move on. “Maybe he’s busy,” he said. That decided him, he’d go soon. He told himself he might even go that night. He went on, leaving her with her work. He didn’t look back.
It was decided for him not to go that night. On a telegraph pole, several miles from the farm, he saw a notice. It carried his photograph. He stood there, his mouth going dry, reading the notice. They offered five thousand dollars for him dead or alive.
A faint feeling of panic crept into him as he read. Here in the wilderness of hills was a picture, calling attention to himself. Anyone he met might recognize him. Anyone who suspected him could bring the Federal agents in their airplanes or their cars to seize him. He turned hastily and almost ran back to the farm.
He spent the rest of the day in his room, sitting by the window, watching. His nerves got so bad that the slightest noise made him stiffen.
He began to brood about Roxy. He couldn’t bring himself to think that Roxy was dead. It would have seemed quite natural if Roxy had opened the door and come in. There was no one to grumble at, and he suddenly realized that there was no one to play cards with. That was serious. He had the long hours of the night before him with nothing to do, and sleep far off.
Well, Roxy had asked for it, he thought savagely. That guy had certainly narrow ideas. This brought his mind back to Chrissie again. He leant against the wall and thought about her. What went through his mind made him restless. He got to his feet and paced the room. He was nervous of going out in case he ran into her, and she raised a squawk. Maybe the old woman would get mad. He couldn’t afford at the moment to have trouble with her.
He remained shut in his room until after sundown. Then, guessing that Chrissie had gone to bed, he went outside.
Ma Chester was dishing up the evening meal. She shot him a hard look.
“What’s up with Chrissie?” she asked.
Dillon turned a blank face in her direction. “What’s up with her?”
The old woman shrugged. “She’s got a mood on, I guess,” she said a little wearily. “Ain’t said a word since she came back.”
Dillon breathed gently with relief. “Maybe she’s upset that Roxy’s gone away,” he suggested, sitting down at the table.
The old man hobbled from the stove and sat down too. Ma Chester shook her head. She brought over a dish of food from the oven and put it down in front of Dillon.
“I ain’t told her about Roxy,” she said. “She might get excited.”
Dillon helped himself and shoved the dish over to the old man. “She’s gotta know some time,” he said.
“Ain’t Joe come yet?” the old man piped suddenly, not stopping his eating.
Dillon glanced up quickly. He didn’t say anything.
“I reckon Joe’s sick,” Ma Chester said uneasily.
Dillon ate in silence. He felt they would be glad to see him go to his room. After the meal was finished he got up and went outside. He sat on the stoop. The evening was very warm, and fluffy white clouds still drifted in the darkening sky.
He sat there brooding. The thought of his room without Roxy was unbearable. Every now and then Chrissie loomed up in his thoughts, and he hastily shifted, trying to push her image away.
He heard the old man going to bed. The old man had fixed habits. He took himself to the outhouse and then hobbled slowly back. He grunted at Dillon as he passed.
Dillon got to his feet and went back into the shack.
Ma Chester was washing up. He didn’t say anything to her, but shut himself in his room.
The dim flickering light of the candle made the shadows oppressive. He stood looking round the room, his nerves starting a little at every moving shadow. His eye fell on a bottle of Scotch that Roxy kept by him. He went over and took the bottle in his hand.
Dillon didn’t use any hard drink. He had disciplined himself years ago. Now he didn’t hesitate. He splashed the whisky into a tumbler and tossed the fiery stuff down his throat. He stood there coughing and spluttering, trying to get his breath.
The whisky did things to him. He felt a sudden rush of courage, and his jumping nerves relaxed. He filled the glass again and sat down by the open window. Outside, he could hear Ma Chester locking up. He could hear her plodding about the other room, then, listening carefully, he heard her blow out the lamp. The sound of her stumbling movements across the dark room came clearly to him. Then a door shut.
He got up and took his candle from the mantelshelf and put it on the table. Then, for something to do, he checked his money. He put the pile of notes in front of him and counted them carefully. He made them into two separate rolls and put them in his pocket. Then he reached forward and blew the candle out. The moonlight made the room dim, and he went back to the window again and sat down.
His hand closed round the tumbler and he took a long pull at the Scotch. He held the liquor in his mouth for a second before swallowing it. His head began to feel a little light.
Chrissie came out of the dark shadows and peered at him. Chrissie called to him from the shadowy path outside. Chrissie sat at his elbow stroking his sleeve. Chrissie was everywhere in the room.
Still he sat there, letting the hours crawl past, the small glowing ember of horror of what he wanted to do slowly dying in his mind.
Then he got up. He leant down and took off his shoes. The hot darkness of the room lay heavily on him. He took a slow step forward and then another. His progress was silent. Opening the door, he stepped into the outer room. A faint gleam came from the stove, and the coal hissed a little. He moved on, trying each board carefully with his stockinged foot before putting his full weight on it.
His hands touched the rough wood of Chrissie’s door. He turned the handle and went in.
He could see nothing. It was as if he were blind. He closed the door gently behind him, his fingers easing the door so that it shut without a sound. Then he put out his hand and moved forward again, groping for the foot of the bed. The whisky fumes were tight round his brain, and he felt his legs lurch as he came forward. It seemed to him that he must have moved right across the room, and it startled him when his hand touched the cold rail of the bed.
He waited there listening. Faintly he could hear Chrissie breathing. Very faintly, as if she were a long way away from him.
He moved on, pressing his leg against the side of the bed to guide him. His hand touched the rail of the head of the bed. He crouched a little, his hands moving down, feeling very gently for Chrissie’s throat. Hands that were ready to nip any cry that she might make.
His hands touched something. Something cold came to his touch. Something he didn’t like. He drew his hands away. A little shiver ran through him because the thing he had touched was like nothing he knew. It scared him.
Angry with himself, he put his hand out again. His fingers encountered a face. He knew he was touching a face. He could feel the nose, and the eyebrows were rough to his touch. But the face was cold and leathery, not the warm soft face he expected.
With a catch in his breath, he snatched his hand away, and with trembling fingers he fumbled for a match. The sweat ran down his, face. He struck the match, which flared up with a little hiss.
He saw the outline of a body lying under the soiled sheet and, bending forward, he looked into the dead face of Roxy.
