The Night of the Hunter Read Online Free PDF Page B

declare, this Goddamned depression has turned up the undersides of some mighty respectable folks, Bart! Yes, Yes.
    I was talking to Arch Woodruff here a while back. He’s captain over in that new block where they first had Harper. Arch says his cellmate was a short-termer from down in Wood County—feller folks call Preacher. Arch says that Goddamned preacher liked to talked poor Harper’s ear off—hounded him night and day to get him to spill it—what he done with all that money!—kept hollering after him even when he was up in Death Row.
    He paused and thought about it a while. Bart moved on through the rain in silence.
    I be dogged if I wouldn’t take a sniff after that money myself if I had me a lead to go on! Well anyways this short-termer—this preacher feller—he’s gettin’ out next month. I reckon he’ll go huntin’ after it with the rest of the hounds.
    How about his missus? muttered the hangman. Don’t she know nothin’?
    Nary nothin’! cried the man in the army coat. He wouldn’t tell a livin’, mortal soul!
    Can’t say as I blame him.
    Why?
    Well just look where it put him tonight—all that money!
    They parted at the corner and the hangman walked wearily up the wooden steps under the naked winter sycamores toward the cottage with the light in the parlor window. His wife looked up from her darning when he came in and rising, moved toward the kitchen.
    I hope your supper ain’t dried up, Bart, she said. I’ll go heat up the coffee.
    Bart was hungry as a wolf. It always shamed his soul: the vast and gnawing hunger that consumed him the nights after hangings. He hung his wet coat and cap on the antler in the hallway and tiptoed up the stairs to the bathroom to wash up. He could not remember whether he had washed his hands that night after work. At any rate, they seemed cleaner as the bitter, lemony smell of the glycerine soap touched his nostrils and he dried them briskly on the coarse towel. Through the open doorway to the bedroom he could see the sleeping forms of the two children on the big brass bed by the window. He was very quiet as he tiptoed into their room and stared down at the yellow curls of the two little girls asleep on the long bolster. It had stopped raining now and a cold winter’s moon had moved into the night’s arena. The pale light shone on the sleeping faces of the children. Gently, Bart the hangman adjusted the bright quilt which covered them, pulling it down an inch or two so that the edge of the quilt would not cover their mouths, so that the crisp white sheets would not touch their throats.
    Now eat! cried his wife when he sat at the table and tugged his napkin from the thick silver ring which bore his name. It’s been waitin’ since ten o’clock.
    Bart sat for a moment staring at the napkin before he tucked it into his stiff collar and seized the fork.
    Mother. Sometimes I think it might be better for us all if I was to quit my job as guard and get my old job back at the mine!
    The gray-haired woman sat back suddenly in the straight chair and laid two fingers alongside her pale lips. It was a dread thought.
    Yes mom, he said, with his mouth full of the boiled cabbage. I sometimes wish I was back under the hill at Benwood.
    And leave me a widow after another blast like the one in ’24? Not on your life, old mister!
    He ate in silence, chewing his food slowly and heavily, his face clouded over with speculation.
    I don’t wish to be no widow! cried his wife again. With them two growin’ kids to raise!
    No woman does, he said.
    After a moment he rose and went to the pump and bent, searching for something.
    Where’s the laundry soap, Mother? I forgot to wash up.
    —
    Three weeks after Ben Harper’s hanging Walt Spoon gave Willa a job waiting on tables and counter at his little ice-cream parlor at Cresap’s Landing. The job paid five dollars a week plus meals. The Spoons needed no help. It was a kindness. The first morning Willa left for work she fed the children