1.
AT LAST a spider came to the silent brush screening me and began trying to spin a web. She hung from a gossamer thread, trying to swing to a twig and anchor the skein. Each time she was uncessful. Then I added a gust of my breath to the thin mountain breeze. It gave the spider the necessary impetus, but it was the wrong thing to do. It was an artificial factor forced into the natural order of things. My movement was something out of the Unknown; and now the spider hung clumped into a tight ball at the end of her thread. She would never spin a web in this place.
I turned my attention from the spider. The Winchester was heavy across my knees. The late shadows were picking up a chill. Above me the damp, cool, wooded mountain strained toward the sky. A hundred yards below ran the narrow ledge of road. Beyond that, the mountain dropped dizzily toward a valley half hidden by the blue mists of twilight.
Far down in the valley a feeble finger of smoke wavered toward the sky as a hill woman started corn pone and collards for supper. A faint gray cloud formed across the yawning distance, moving across the face of the mountain beyond the valley. The dust smudge, I knew, was stirred up by a moving car. This time it had to be Clarence Oldhamâs car and not a muddy pickup truck or rattling Ford. I didnât think I could stand the waiting much longer.
As the keening sound of the carâs motor insinuated itself into the mountain stillness, I brought the Winchester from its resting place on my knees. Through rifts in the brush I commanded a good view of the road, but looking into the brush from the road a person would have a hard time seeing enough of me for recognition.
I knew Vicky would be sitting beside Oldham as he drove, and I wondered if at this very moment she was laughing at something he was saying.
The car came around a curve with a speed and deftness sufficient to make me admire Oldhamâs driving in this terrain, lowlander that he was.
The car was a black sedan, and I squeezed the trigger of the Winchester and laid a bright furrow across the left front fender of the car. Oldham jammed on the brakes when the gun crashed, and the car slithered to a stop in a cloud of dust.
I had clean creek gravel in my pocket. I popped it in my mouth and yelled, âGet out, both of you!â
Oldham hesitated, saying something to Vicky. Then he got out of the car alone. âWhat is this, a mountain stick-up?â
There was just enough of a sneer in his voice to have got him killed if it had been a hooger pulling a heist. I had to admire his nerve, although I wasnât too surprised by it. From the time heâd first showed up in Big Hominy, Iâd pegged him for a cool, arrogant fish.
I didnât want to talk much, and I wished Oldham werenât so cool. The mouthful of pebbles was only a partial disguise for my voice.
âI told both of you to get out,â I yelled.
Vicky slipped out of the car.
âThatâs better,â I shouted. âNow you come up here, Mrs. Hustin.â
âListen,â Oldham said, âif itâs money you wantââ âIt isnât. So save your breath. I donât want to hurt anybody. I want to give Mrs. Hustin a message from her husband.â
She and Oldham traded a glance; then she moved away from the car, slipping once as she started up the steep embankment from the road. The sun was at her back and she seemed to be etched in red fire, with the mountain breeze skipping through the burnished copper of her hair. She was taller and more slender than most hill women, and for my money more beautiful than any woman anywhere.
She walked to the thicket and said, âWade!â
âNot so loud.â
A flash of anger touched her eyes. âAre you drunk, Wade?â âNo.â
âThen what kind of prankââ
âItâs no prank. Something has happened to Rock Hustin and I donât want you going back to town right now.â
She looked at me a moment, and when her voice came it was very quiet. âAre you trying to tell me that Rock is sick or hurt, Wade? Iâm through with him. Iâve been through with him for a long time. What could I do to help him?â
âNot him. Yourself.â
âYou neednât be afraid for me. Thereâs nothing he can do to hurt me.â
âI wish that were true. How I wish it!â
From the road, Oldham yelled, âWhat is it, Vicky? Iâm coming up there.â
âYou take one step,â I called, âand Iâll break your knees with rifle slugs.â
Vicky gave me a look that meant she was sore at me. âWade, Iâm going back to the car. Mr. Oldham isnât used to this kind of thing.â
âYou wonât ever believe me or trust me, will you, Vicky? Okay, here it is. Rock was murdered last night at Deaf Joynerâs fish camp. His body was found late this morning.â
It took a second for her mind to absorb it. Then she went pale and a shiver coursed over her body. She closed her eyes. âRock is dead,â she said in a shaky voice, âand I donât feel any tears, Wade. Isnât that rotten of me?â
âBut youâre crying.â
âOnly for myself. Only because Iâve grown so callous I donât feel sad over a manâs death. Wade, I donât want to be a mean or cruel person. I want to feel tender and gentle and clean inside, where it matters.â
I knew what she was trying to express. She was begging life not to beat her down any more, not to warp or twist her. Looking at the blind plea in her face, I felt as if I wanted to strike and break something. A man, a law, anything.
She rubbed her palm across her cheek. âThanks for telling me, Wade. Iâll go now.â
I looked away from her, staring at Oldham down there in the road. âYou canât go,â I said. âTheyâre looking for you. They think you killed Rock.â
I heard the intake of her breath. I knew she was looking at me with the knowledge in her heart that I wasnât kidding about this, that I had made sure before I came here.
âWade, whatâll I do?â
âGo back down there and send Oldham on alone. Tell him Iâm a cousin. Tell him youâve got to meet Rock. Tell him the truth, anything, but get rid of him so I can take you to a place where youâll be safe until I have a chance to do something.â
âNo, I think Iâd better go back, Wade, and face it. I can straighten it out. I didnât kill Rock.â
âThey think you did. Sheriff Hyder has a case against you. Youâve been tried and convicted over every backyard fence in Big Hominy. What do you want to do, provide them with a Roman holiday? Now get down there and get rid of Oldham.â
I heard her take one slow step; another. I glanced at her, and she was moving toward the road like a mechanical doll with no feeling in it.
She reached the cutbank. Oldham helped her down, taking both her hands in his, and throwing a mean-mad glance in my direction. He pulled her close to him and they talked for a minute.
There was little doubt in my mind as to Clarence Oldhamâs serious and honorable intentions toward Vicky. He had money and class. He was in the mountains for a vacation. He was not the kind of man youâd associate with the usual hill girl. But Vicky was different. He sensed it; he saw the qualities in her that I did, and he treated her like a gentleman. Big Hominy didnât like that, having its own opinion of how she should be treated.
Oldhamâs argument with her failed. He got in his car and drove off.
I crawled out of the brambles as she came up the slope; she moved as if she were tired, and her face was lined with frustration.
I spat out the pebbles. âWhat did Oldham have to say?â âHe tried to talk me out of it.â âWhat did you tell him?â
âThat Rock was dead. The truth, Wade, except I didnât identify you.â
She looked at her high-heeled shoes, and then up the mountainside. She sat down, took the shoes off, and peeled her nylons from her legs. âMaybe I should have listened to him, Wade. He said it was crazy for me even to think Iâd get blamed for Rockâs death. Clarence said he would hire a good lawyer. Iâd get nowhere running away, he said. I hurt him, Wade, and heâs been nice to me.â
âHe doesnât know Big Hominy, though.â
âNo, he doesnât. Well, what do we do now?â
âIâll take you across the mountain to the old Stillman place. The cabin is still sound enough for you to be comfortable there this time of year.â
We climbed up through the timber, following a dim trail that most eyes would have missed. But we were both hill bred, and the trail was as pl...