After Eli Read Free Page A

no man. That’d be more’n a man could stomach, wakin’ up every mornin’ to some woman starin’ a hole through him.” He laughed again.
    A chill ran through Michael. He could feel the glare of a woman’s face.
    “But, hell, it wouldn’t be that I’d be scared of,” Lester added. “It’d be that damned ol’ shotgun. I’d be careful, I was you. You got to go by when you light out in the mornin’, if you goin’ on down to Hiawassee.” He snickered gleefully. “Don’t you go strayin’ none when you pass that house off the road, say five or six miles on down. You’ll see it. Sets up on a little hill in a bunch of oaks. First farm down the road is Floyd Crider’s; next one is the Pettits’. Ol’ Floyd ain’t gonna do nothin’ more’n wave his hand. I ain’t givin’ you no promise on them women.” He snickered again.
    Michael’s inner eye framed the image of three women, and his mind repeated their names—Rachel, Sarah, Dora. He said, “It’s a good thing there’s some fear in them, I’m thinkin’. Women livin’ alone could be in the Devil’s danger if they’re not careful what’s about them.”
    “And them women could be what the Devil’s danger is,” Lester replied, snorting into the mouth of the jar. He shook his head lazily and stretched his shoulders against the hard brace of the chair. The whiskey had entered his mind and muscles and the night was becoming heavy. He rubbed his hands over his eyes and yawned. “Anyhow,” he added, “it’s somethin’ how much you put me in mind of Eli, what I recall of him.”
    “Well, I take that as a compliment, all but the part about him bein’ a rogue, that is,” Michael replied. “That part I’ll leave to the next traveler down the road.”
    Lester laughed suddenly. He hiccupped and his eyes floated sleepily to Michael.
    “Yes?” Michael said.
    “I was just thinkin’ how you was lucky to come walkin’ up here instead of up to the Pettits’ place,” Lester mumbled. “Dora might’ve blowed you to kingdom come before you got the chance to say hello.”
    Michael pulled himself from the floor of the porch, smiling at the thought.
    “Now that’s the truth,” he agreed. “That’s the truth. Maybe my luck’s changin’, and it’s luck I’ve been livin’ by all these long years, Lester Caufield. Pure luck.”
    * * *
    He did not have a watch, but Michael knew by the ticking of his patience that it was after midnight. He had planned carefully. It was time.
    He rolled quietly from the cushion of straw and folded his bedding neatly and tied it beneath the top flap of his knapsack. He then pushed the straw back into the stack—a habit of erasing where he had been.
    He stepped silently across the barn and slipped out of the door into the barnyard. There was only a rim of a moon, like a silver scratch. It was cold and dark, the kind of darkness he needed.
    Luck, he thought. Yes, blessed luck, as he had said to Lester. There was no dog to worry about. Nothing for warning. That was first. And it was Friday. Being Friday would give him time. The rest would be simple. He had studied the door carefully; it would be no trouble. And there would be time to follow the stream and lose himself in the mountains before Monday morning and the truck of men.
    He placed his knapsack and walking stick at the foot of the steps leading to the porch. He took the steps slowly, pushing his weight on the supports. Then he was across the porch and at the door. He reached for the knife scabbarded to his belt. He slipped the blade between the doorjamb and lock and pried gently. The door broke open without a sound.
    He was inside, moving in a crouch, skimming the room with his fingers. The bedroom was before him, its door open. He could hear the heavy breathing of whiskey sleep rising from Lester. He wondered if Lester had taken his wife.
    Michael smiled. A pleasing Irish melody rose in the back of his throat and the words flowed into his seeing like sheet