The Night of the Hunter Read Free Page A

blade of the spring knife that Preacher keeps hidden in the soiled blanket of his bed. But Preacher would never use that knife on Ben. Preacher wants something from Ben. Preacher wants to know about that money and you can’t use a knife to get at something like that especially with a husky fellow like Ben. Now Preacher comes back and stands by Ben’s bunk.
    Set your soul right, Ben Harper! That money’s bloodied with Satan’s own curse now. And the only way it can get cleared of it is to let it do His works in the hands of good, honest poor folks.
    Like you, Preacher?
    I am a man of Salvation!
    You,
Preacher?
    I serve the Lord in my humble way, Ben.
    Then, says Ben Harper softly, how come they got you locked up in Moundsville penitentiary, Preacher?
    There are those that serves Satan’s purposes against the Lord’s servants, Ben Harper.
    And how come you got that stick knife hid in your bed blankets, Preacher?
    I serve God and I come not with peace but with a sword! God blinded mine enemies when they brought me to this evil place and I smuggled it in right under the noses of them damned guards. That sword has served me through many an evil time, Ben Harper.
    I’ll bet it has, Preacher, grins Ben and presently Preacher goes up into his bunk and lies there a while longer muttering and praying to himself and scheming up new ways to get Ben to tell him where he hid that ten thousand dollars in green hundreds. It’s a game between them. And in a way it is Ben Harper’s salvation—this little game. In three days they are coming to take Ben up to the death house and a body has to keep busy with little games like this to keep from losing his mind at the last. A little game—a little war of wills. Ben Harper and Preacher around the clock—day after day. And Ben Harper knows that it is a game that he will win. Because Preacher can talk the breath out of his body and Ben will never tell a mortal, living soul. But Preacher keeps on; stubborn, unremitting. In the quaking silence of the prison night: Listen, Ben! Where you’re goin’ it won’t serve you none. Tell me, boy! Buy your way to Paradise now! You hear, boy? Mebbe the Lord will think twice and let you in the good place if you was to tell me, boy. Tell me! Have a heart!
    Go to sleep, Preacher.
    Salvation! Why, it’s always a last-minute business, boy. There’s a day of judgment for us all, Ben Harper, and no man knows the hour. Now’s your chance. Mister Smiley and Corey South is both dead, boy! Can’t nothin’ change that! But if you was to let that money serve the Lord’s purposes He might feel kindly turned toward you. Ben, are you listenin’ to me, boy?
    Shut up, Preacher! Ben whispers, choking back a giggle at the game, the furious little game that keeps him from thinking about the rope upstairs and his own shoes swinging six feet above the floor of the drop room.
    Listen, Ben! See this hand I’m holdin’ up? See them letters tattooed on it? Love, Ben, love! That’s what they spell! This hand—this right hand of mine—this hand is Love. But wait, Ben! Look! There’s enough moonlight from the window to see. Look, boy! This left hand! Hate, Ben, hate! Now here’s the moral, boy. These two hands are the soul of mortal man! Hate and Love, Ben—warring one against the other from the womb to the grave—
    Ben listens to the familiar sermon; shudders with a kind of curious delight as Preacher writhes the fingers of his two tattooed hands together and twists them horribly, cracking the knuckles as the fingers grapple one hand with the other.
    Warring, boy! Warring together! Left hand and right hand! Hate and Love! Good and Evil! But wait. Hot dog! Old Devil’s a-losin’, Ben! He’s a slippin’ boy!
    And now Preacher brings both hands down with a climactic crash on the wooden bench by the bunks. Then he is silent, crouched in the darkness, smiling at the glory of God in his evil fingers and waiting to see if his little drama has done anything to the boy