He felt so calm. He felt his lips writhe back in a snarl. The wind
tingled on his teeth. "I know now," he said. "I know about the minutes I
lost. I know why they're after me. You'd better get away."
"But why the--the guns?"
"I murdered my wife. She served me greasy eggs. God--she was an
animal--just a dumb beast!"
Conway called, his rifle crooked in easy promising grace. "All right,
Doc. Come on along without any trouble. Though I'd just as soon you made
a break. I'd like to shoot you dead, Doctor."
"And what have I done, exactly," said Doctor Spechaug.
"He's hog-wild," yelled Mike Lash. "Cuttin' her all up that way! Let's
string 'em up!" Conway yelled something about a "fair trial," though not
with much enthusiasm.
Edith screamed as they charged toward them. A wild, inhuman cry.
Doctor Spechaug's eyes flashed up the narrow street.
"Let's go!" he said to Edith Bailey. "They'll see running they've never
seen before. They can't touch us."
They ran. They heard the sharp crack of rifles. They saw the dust
spurting up. Doctor Spechaug heard himself howling as he became aware of
peculiar stings in his body. Queer, painless, deeply penetrating
sensations that made themselves felt all over his body--as though he was
awakening from a long paralysis.
Then the mad yelling faded rapidly behind them. They were running,
streaking out of the town with inhuman speed. They struck out in long
easy strides across the meadow toward the dense woods that brooded
beyond the college.
Her voice gasped exultingly. "They couldn't hurt us! They couldn't! They
tried!"
He nodded, straining eagerly toward he knew not what, nosing into the
fresh wind. How swiftly and gracefully they could run. Soon they lost
themselves in the thick dark forest. Shadows hid them.
* * * * *
Days later the moon was full. It edged over the low hill flanking Glen
Oaks on the east. June bugs buzzed ponderously like armor-plated dragons
toward the lights glowing faintly from the town. Frogs croaked from the
swampy meadows and the creek.
They came up slowly to stand silhouetted against the glowing moon,
nosing hungrily into the steady, aromatic breeze blowing from the Conway
farm below.
They glided effortlessly down, then across the sharp-bladed marsh grass,
leaping high with each bound. As they came disdainfully close to the
silent farm house, a column of pale light from a coal oil lamp came
through the living room window and haloed a neglected flower bed. Sorrow
and fear clung to the house.
The shivering shadow of a gaunt woman was etched against the half drawn
shade. The two standing outside the window called. The woman's shadow
trembled.
Then a long rigid finger of steel projected itself beneath the partially
raised window. The rifle cracked almost against the faces of the two. He
screamed hideously as his companion dropped without a sound, twitching,
twitching--he screamed again and began dragging himself away toward the
sheltering forest. Intently and desperately the rifle cracked again.
He gave up then.
He sprawled out flatly on the cool, damp, moon-bathed path. His hot
tongue lapped feverishly at the wet grass. He felt the persistent impact
of the rifle's breath against him, and now there was a wave of pain. The
full moon was fading into black mental clouds as he feebly attempted to
lift his bleeding head.
He thought with agonized irony:
"Provincial fools. Stupid, superstitious idiots ... and that damned Mrs.
Conway--the most stupid of all. _Only she would have thought to load her
dead husband's rifle with silver bullets!_ Damned peasants----"
Total darkness blotted out futile revery.
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Fantasy Book_ Vol. 1 Number 1 (1947).
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and
typographical errors have been corrected without note, whilst
variant spellings remain as printed.