The Searchers Read Online Free PDF Page A

out, he saw a light come
     on in the kitchen as a lamp was lighted inside. Even at the distance he could see that the light came through a broken door,
     hanging skew-jawed on a single hinge.
    Martin slowed to a walk, and went toward the house unwillingly. Little flames still wandered across the embers of the
     hay stacks and the barn, sending up sparks which hung idly on the quiet air; and the house itself showed against the night
     in a dull red glow. On the back gallery lay a dead pony, tail to the broken door. Probably it had been backed against the
     door to break the bar. By the steps Amos’ horse was down, knees folded under. The heavy head was nodded lower and lower, the
     muzzle dipping the dust; it would never get up.
    Martin stepped over the legs of the dead Comanche pony and went into the kitchen, walking as though he had never learned
     to walk, but had to pull each separate string. Near the door a body lay covered by a sheet. Martin drew back the limp muslin,
     and was looking into Martha’s face. Her lips were parted a little, and her open eyes, looking straight up, appeared perfectly
     clear, as if she were alive. Her light hair was shaken loose, the lamplight picking out the silver in it. Martha had such
     a lot of hair that it was hardly noticeable at first, that she had been scalped.
    Most of the batten shutters had been smashed in. Hunter Edwards lay in a heap near the splintered hall door, his empty hands
     still clawed as if grasping the duck gun that was gone. Ben had fallen in a tangled knot by the far window, his gangly
     legs sprawled. He looked immature and undersized as he lay there, like a skinny small boy.
    Martin found the body of Henry Edwards draped on its back across the broad sill of a bedroom window. The Comanche knives
     had done eery work upon this body. Like Martha, Henry and both boys had been scalped. Martin gently straightened the bodies
     of Henry, and Hunter, and Ben, then found sheets to put over them, as Amos had done for Martha. Martin’s hands were shaking,
     but he was dry-eyed as Amos came back into the house.
    When Martin had got a good look at his foster uncle, he was afraid of him. Amos’ face was wooden, but such a dreadful light
     shone from behind the eyes that Martin thought Amos had gone mad. Amos carried something slim and limp in his arms, clutched
     against his chest. As Amos passed the lamp, Martin saw that the thing Amos carried had a hand, and that it was Martha’s hand.
     He had not drawn down the sheet that covered Martha far enough to see that the body lacked an arm. The Comanches did things
     like that. Probably they had tossed the arm from one to another, capering and whooping, until they lost it in the dark.
    “No sign of Lucy. Or Deborah,” Amos said. “So far as I could find in the lack of light.” The words were low and came unevenly,
     but they did not sound insane.
    Martin said, “We used to practice sending Debbie up the hill to Grandma’s grave—”
    “I been up. They sent her there. I found her bit of buffalo robe. But Debbie’s not up there. Not now.”
    “You suppose Lucy—” Martin let the question trail off, but they had worked so much together that Amos was able to answer.
    “Can’t tell yet if Lucy went up with Debbie to the grave. Not till daylight comes on.”
    Amos had got out another sheet and was tearing it into strips. Martin knew Amos was making bandages to fix up their people
     as decently as he could. His hands moved methodically, going through the motions of doing the next thing he ought to do, little
     as it mattered. But at the same time Amos was thinking about something else. “I want you to walk to the Mathisons’. Get them
     to hook their buckboard, and bring their women on…. Martha should have clothes put on.”
    Probably Amos would have stripped and bathed the body of his brother’s wife, and dressed it properly, if there had been no
     one else to do it. But not if a walk of fifteen miles would get it