The Eye of the Hunter Read Online Free PDF Page B

got them. The weapon very much resembled his father’s carbine—the one that had disappeared in the raid, or been burned and melted down totally. He eased it halfway from the scabbard and confirmed that it was the same model, then looked for the fortunate owner.
    There he was— she was!—sitting by a grave, reading a book as big as a Bible. He conjectured: Would it be polite to ask a lady in a cemetery where she had come by a weapon? (And, if he got past this hurdle, would she like to trade for a newer gun that held more cartridges?)
    Nothing ventured, he decided.
    A rusty hinge gave an iron squall as he opened the gate. The mourner, a young woman, sat on a folding stool on the central aisle; she did not look up, but as he started toward her he came to a shocked halt. Though he saw her face in profile, he was certain it was the woman in the wedding picture! She had the same arch way of holding her head; even the braid brought forward across one shoulder was that of the woman in the photograph. She wore a white shirtwaist with a high collar and a full tan skirt; a little straw hat lay on the ground beside her.
    Holding his breath, he studied his cards.
    As of the time Manion got her wire, Frances Parrish’s husband was missing.
    Had he been found—and buried—in the few days since?
    No, for the grave had settled completely
    He decided there was one person could give him all the information he needed. The Widow Parrish.
    As yet she had not seen him. She was writing furiously on one of those officers’ field desks. He saw her suddenly thrust her fingers into her hair, stare at her paper, seeming distracted—then, with a shake of her head, dip her pen and scribble on. What a fine, theatrical gesture, perfect for so vital-looking a woman as the doctor’s daughter. He sensed, however, that she would not appreciate being interrupted at her work.
    So: He would stroll past, carrying his blue-and-red nosegay, and steal a glance at the marker. If not Rip’s grave, then whose? He would walk on, then, and find Hum Parrish’s grave. When she appeared to be finished with whatever she was writing, he could introduce himself.

Chapter Five
    In the late afternoon, Frances Parrish sat on a camp stool beside her father’s grave, his old field desk on her lap, meticulously setting down the story of her husband’s death.
    Or was he dead? She had never seen his body, but there had been such a welter of blood on the ground that she presumed he had been shot and his body dragged away. Yet she had never seen him after that night. And just as she was beginning to hope that people would decide that Rip had wandered on, a trifler like him, and forget about him, a letter appeared at the post office that shocked her out of her wits.
    The lawyer in Kansas City warned Rip that unless he heard from him promptly, the trust checks would cease.
    And then yesterday a telegram was waiting for her when she arrived in town, informing her that a gunman named Henry Logan would arrive shortly to make inquiries. Now her anxiety exploded into panic.
    A gunman! Why , in heaven’s name? Did he think she was some wild gun-toting woman who had killed her husband and would kill again? But whatever the man called himself, his first move would certainly be to alert the county sheriff to the situation at Spider Ranch. She imagined herself sitting across a desk from George Bannock, that colossal, poky man with the bitter little eyes like rivet heads, and the grisly whisper of a voice. And he, too, had his own reason for hating her father, for Dr. Wingard had cut the deadly growth off his larynx and turned him into the croaking giant they called Whispering George.
    Why haven’t you (something, something, something), Miz Frances? he would begin.
    I’m sorry, Sheriff—I didn’t catch all of that.
    Blame your father for that, ma’am. They used to call me Big George Bannock. Now it’s Whispering George.