The Outlander Read Online Free PDF Page A

GROCER EMERGED from his unlighted store with sleeves
     rolled up and began cranking the bent metal pole that unfurled his awning. As usual,
     with the first few cranks, several bats dropped from it and swooped away across the
     scorched street to a nearby stand of trees.
    â€œGoddamn little bastards,” he said. And then he noticed the
     two men standing to his left. They stood together with rifles across their backs,
     looking down at a small girl. The grocer couldn’t see the men’s faces
     exactly, but the little slow girl stood there with her silly smile, fascinated by the
     men’s red hair. Her tongue stuck out.
    â€œHelp you, gentlemen?” The grocer adopted his usual business
     tone.
    First one man turned, then the other.
    Unlike the idiot child, the grocer could not muster a smile. In fact, he
     took a stagger-step back, for these men had the keen, predatory look of hyenas, and they
     were enormous.
    â€œWe’re looking for a woman,” said one.
    â€œOur sister-in-law,” said the other in exactly the same
     voice.

THREE
    JEFFREY HELD THE door open. The old lady and the widow
     stepped from the rocking coach and climbed some wide stone steps into a darkened hall
     where two maids stood by with sour faces and hands crossed apron-wise. Full of
     “Madam” and “Right away,” they hurried about, collecting the old
     woman’s shawl and bringing her house shoes. One maid was small and mousy and never
     met anyone’s eye. This was Emily. The other was tall and wide-shouldered and had
     the bearing of a man. She was Zenta. Emily went off down the hall, shuffling her feet.
     The hall windows had been darkened by heavy curtains. The widow stood in the cool gloom
     and they listened to Mrs. Cawthra-Elliot discuss her case while the widow’s eyes
     adjusted and objects rose up out of nothingness. A ticking clock upon the hall table. A
     chair with petit point backing that featured a unicorn kneeling in a garden. A Persian
     runner carpet at her feet. A convex mirror above the hall table in which the old lady
     and her maids appeared in remote tableau, small and hunched together as if
     conspiring.
    â€œWhat’s her name?” Zenta was saying.
    â€œGoodness, I don’t know,” said the old woman. She turned
     to the widow. “What is your name?”
    The widow was about to say “Mary Boulton” but realized in time
     that she must not use her real name. “Mrs. Tower,” she said.
    The old lady’s intelligent eyes scoured her again, just as in
     church, and again wintry suspicion crept into them. “Are you lying to
     us?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œShe’s lying,” announced Zenta.
    â€œWhat is your first name, then?”
    The widow’s head was pounding. There was no answer; nothing came to
     her.
    â€œI told you!” said Zenta, triumphant.
    The widow went to the chair by the stairs and sat on its edge. She put her
     head down. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m hungry, and I feel
     a bit faint.” This statement caused a great excitement in the women. Together they
     hurried down the hall crying, “Emily!”
    The widow could hear the old woman’s peeved voice from the kitchen,
     then Zenta’s rough reply. A small pot bonged. A cupboard door slammed shut. The
     widow saw the front door, still open, where the day burned upon the stone landing. On
     the stoop was a rough grass mat crusted with dried mud. She sat upright again and her
     eyes darted toward the sounds coming from the kitchen. She did not know where she was,
     or how far from the road she might be. She stood up, light-headed, swaying beside the
     hall table. On its surface lay a pair of gloves, a shoehorn, some envelopes. An
     enamelled Chinese bowl held keys and coins. On her way to the door the widow clawed up a
     handful of coins. She pulled out a little velvet pouch she kept hung about her neck on a