Hour after hour Nance stood beside the wall of the shed-room and with
the patience of a cat waited for the sobs to cease and the girl to be
quiet.
Mary had risen from the bed once and paced the floor in the dark for
more than an hour, like a frightened, wild animal, trapped and caged for
the first time in life. With growing wonder, Nance counted the beat
of her foot-fall, five steps one way and five back--round after round,
round after round, in ceaseless repetition.
“Goddlemighty, is she gone clean crazy!” she exclaimed.
The footsteps stopped at last and the low sobs came once more from the
bed. The old woman crouched down on a stone beside the log wall and drew
the shawl about her shoulders.
A rooster crowed for midnight. Still the restless thing inside was
stirring. Nance rose uneasily. Her lantern was still burning in her
storehouse under the cliff. The wick might eat so low it would explode.
She had heard that such things happened to lamps. It was foolish to have
left it burning, anyhow.
She glided noiselessly from the house into the woods, entered her hidden
door exactly as she had done before, extinguished the lantern, placed it
on a shelving rock and put a dozen matches beside it.
In ten minutes she had returned to the house and crouched once more
against the wall of the shed.
The low, pleading voice was praying. She pressed her ear to the crack
and heard distinctly. She must be patient. Her plan was sure to succeed
if she were only patient. No woman could sob and pray and walk all
night. She must fall down unconscious from sheer exhaustion before day.
The old woman slipped into the kitchen, took up the quilt which she had
spread on the floor for her bed, wrapped it about her thin shoulders and
returned to her watch.
Again and again she rose, believing her patience had won, and placed
her ear to the crack only to hear a sound within which told her only too
plainly that the girl was yet awake. Sometimes it was a sigh, sometimes
she cleared her throat, sometimes she tossed restlessly. One spoken
sentence she heard again and again:
“Oh, dear God, have mercy on my lost soul!”
“What can be the matter with the fool critter!” Nance muttered. “Is she
moanin' for sin? To be shore, they don't have no revival meetings this
time o' year!”
She had known sinners to mourn through a whole summer sometimes, but
never in all her experience in religious revivals had a mourner carried
it over into winter. The dancing had always eased the tension and
brought a relapse to sinful thoughts.
The hours dragged until the roosters began to crow for day. It would
soon be light.
She must act now. There was no time to lose. She pressed her ear to the
crack once more and held it five minutes.
Not a sound came from within. The broken spirit had yielded to the
stupor of exhaustion at last.
With swift, cat's tread Nance circled the cabin and entered the kitchen.
The quilt she carefully spread on the floor leading to the entrance to
the living-room, crossed it softly and stood in the doorway with her
long hands on the calico hangings.
For five minutes she remained immovable and listened to the deep,
regular breathing of the sleeping man. Her wits were keen, her eyes
wide. She could see the dim outlines of the furniture by the starlight
through the window. Small objects in the room were, of course,
invisible. To light a candle was not to be thought of. It might wake the
sleeper.
She knew how to make the light without a noise or its rays reaching
his face. He had startled her with the electric torch because of its
novelty. She was no longer afraid. She would know how to press the
button. He had left the thing lying on the table beside the black bag.
He might have hidden the gold. He would not remember in his drunken
stupor to move the electric torch.
She glided ghost-like into the room. Her bare feet were velvet. She knew
every board in the floor. There was one near the table that creaked. She
counted her steps and cleared the spot without a sound.
Her thin fingers found the edge of the table and slipped with uncanny
touch along its surface until her hand closed on the rounded form of the
torch.
Without moving in her tracks she turned the light on the table and in
every nook and corner of the room beyond. She slowly swung her body on a
pivot, flashing the light into each shadow and over every inch of floor,
turning always in a circle toward the couch.
Satisfied that the object she sought was nowhere in the circle she had
covered, she moved a step from the table and winked the light beneath
it. She squatted on the floor and flashed it carefully over every inch
of its boards from one corner of the room to the other and under the
couch.
She rose softly, glided behind the head of the sleeping man and stood
back some six feet, lest the flash of the torch might disturb him.
She threw its rays behind the couch and slowly raised them until they
covered the dirty pillow on which Jim was sleeping. There beneath the
pillow lay the bag with its precious treasure. He was sleeping on it.
She had feared this, but felt sure that the whiskey he had drunk would
hold him in its stupor until late next morning.
She crouched low and fixed the light's ray slowly on the bag that her
hand might not err the slightest in its touch. She laid her bony fingers
on it with a slow, imperceptible movement, held them there a moment and
moved the bag the slightest bit to test the sleeper's wakefulness. To
her surprise he stirred instantly.
“What'ell!” he growled sleepily.
She stood motionless until he was breathing again with deep, even, heavy
throb. Gliding back to the table, she flashed the light again on the
bag and studied its position. His big neck rested squarely across it. To
move it without waking him was a physical impossibility.
Here was a dilemma she had not fully faced. She had not believed it
possible for him to place the bag where she could not get it. Her
only purpose up to this moment had been to take it and store it safely
beneath the soft earth in the inner recess of the cave. He would miss
it in the morning, of course. She would express her amazement. The bar
would be down from the front door. Someone had robbed him. The money
could never be found.
She had made up her mind to take it the moment he had convinced her that
his philosophy of life was true. His eloquence had transformed her
from an ignorant old woman, content with her poverty and dirt, into a
dangerous and daring criminal.
There was no such thing as failure to be thought of now for a moment.
The spade in the inner room of her store-house could be put to larger
use if necessary. With the strength of the madness now on her she could
carry his body on her back through the woods. The world would be none
the wiser. He had quarreled with his wife, and left her in a rage that
night. That was all she knew. The sheriff of neither county could
afford to bother his head long over an insolvable mystery. Besides, both
sheriffs were her friends.
Her decision was instantaneous when once she saw that it was safe.
She smiled over the grim irony of the thing--his words kept humming in
her ears, his voice, low and persuasive:
“Suppose now the man that got that money had to kill a fool to take
it--what of it? You don't get big money any other way!”
On the shelf beside the door was a butcher knife which she also used for
carving. She had sharpened its point that night to carve her Christmas
turkey next day.
She raised the torch and flashed its rays on the shelf to guide her
hand, crept to the wall, took down the knife and laid the electric torch
in its place.
Steadying her body against the wall, her arms outspread, she edged
her way behind the couch and bent over the sleeping man until by his
breathing she had located his heart.
She raised her tall figure and brought the knife down with a crash into
his breast. With a sudden wrench she drew it from the wound and crouched
among the shadows watching him with wide-dilated eyes.
The stricken sleeper gasped for breath, his writhing body fairly
leaped into the air, bounded on the couch and stood erect. He staggered
backward and lurched toward her. The crouching figure bent low, gripping
the knife and waiting for her chance to strike the last blow.
Strangling with blood, Jim opened his eyes and saw the old woman
creeping nearer through the gray light of the dawn.
He threw his hands above his head and tried to shout his warning. She
was on him, her trembling hand feeling for his throat, before he could
speak.
Struggling, in his weakened condition, to tear her fingers away, he
gasped:
“Here! Here! Great God! Do you know what you're doing?”
“I just want yer money,” she whispered. “That's all, and I'm a-goin' ter
have it!”
Her fingers closed and the knife sank into his neck.
She sprang back and watched him lurch and fall across the couch. His
body writhed a moment in agony and was still.
Holding the knife in her hand, she tore open the bag and thrust her
itching fingers into the gold, gripping it fiercely.
“Nobody's goin' to ask ye how ye got it--they just want to know HAVE ye
got it--yeah! Yeah----”
The last word died on her lips. The door of the shed-room suddenly
opened and Mary stood before her.