The Best of Edward Abbey Read Free Page A

eyes and turned her head and saw, under the door to the kitchen, a splinter of yellow light. She was startled, then afraid, caught for a moment in the paralysis of the unknown and unexpected. She wanted to get out of bed but was afraid to make any noise; she caught at her breath, swallowed hard and finally forced herself to speak. She called out:
    “Who is it?”—a scarcely articulate croak.
    Which brought no answer; the sounds of activity in the kitchen continued: she heard something hard and heavy strike the wooden floor. “Who’s there?” she said, louder and clearer.
    A moment of silence, then the voice of Jack Burns: “It’s me, Jerry. It’s Jack. You awake?”
    She slid out of bed, gave her hair one quick brush with her hand and went to the door and opened it. There was Jack, grinning wanly at her, blinking in the light; he had his saddlebags on one shoulder, his rifle in his right hand. She stared at him and rubbed her eyes. “Where’ve you been?” she said. “Were you in jail?”
    “I was. In and out. How about—”
    “Where’s Paul? Is he all right? Has anything happened?”
    “Everything’s fine. Paul’s right where he wants to be. How about makin some coffee? I gotta start off in a few minutes.”
    “What happened to your face?” she said. “You look awful.”
    “It’s nothin much—just a little trouble.”
    “But good God, Jack …” She hesitated, floundering among her fears and impressions, still not fully awake. “What happened, tell me. Did you break out of jail?”
    “You’re shiverin,” he said; “why don’t you put somethin warm on?” She stared at him. “Go ahead—I’ll start a fire in the stove and tell you everything that happened. Hurry up; I can’t stay long.”
    She heard his words, became aware then of the chill in the air, of the taut roughness of her skin. She went back in the bedroom and shuffled into her slippers and put a heavy jacket on over her pajamas. When she re-entered the kitchen she found Jack stuffing paper and kindling-wood into the firebox of the stove. “Matches on the shelf,” she said, and in a continuation of that reflex act she went to the cupboard and measured four table-spoonfuls of fresh coffee into the coffeepot. Burns lit the paper under the kindling, set several chunks of juniper on top of that and replaced the stove lid; the fire began to crackle and roar. Jerry dipped about four cupfuls of water out of the bucket, then set the pot on the stove; she closed the damper and the fire settled down to a muted, steady rumble. All of this required no more than a few minutes; they worked quickly and without speaking, conscious of the cold and the approaching dawn.
    When she had finished Jerry said: “What are you going to do?” She stood close to the stove, catching the first radiations of heat from the old iron. “You did break out, didn’t you?”
    “Sure,” he said, “what else could I do?” He had one foot on a chair, buckling his spurs to his boots.
    “Are the police after you now?”
    “I hope not. They’ll be scramblin around pretty soon, though. There’s a good chance they’ll be lookin for me right here, too.” He stood up and stretched his arms and yawned mightily. “God,it sure is good to be outa that cage!” He relaxed and smiled awkwardly at Jerry—the condition of his face made normal smiling difficult. “How’s that coffee comin along?”
    “What?” she said. Then: “It’ll take a few more minutes.”
    He picked the saddlebags up from the floor. “I’ll go out and saddle up.” He opened the back door and looked out into the darkness. “Won’t be long,” he said; “there’s a light blue streak above the mountains now.” He could see, through the miles of starlit space, a faint sheen of snow on the crest of the range. Jerry, looking out the doorway over his shoulder, saw the white gleam and shivered again. “Wouldn’t wanta be up there now with only my spurs on,” Burns said. He grinned at her,