Her captor advanced upon her. He reached out
and satisfied himself by touch that something was not there which he
dreaded. In hypnotic fear she suffered that touch. It reassured him.
"Your hair now," he demanded; "it don't stand up, does it? No, o'
course it don't. You ain't _him_; you're a woman. But if your hair
comes up, I'll kill you--understand? If your hair comes up, _I'll
kill you_!"
She understood. She understood only too well. She was not only housed
with a murderer; she was housed with a maniac. She sensed, also, why
he had come to this mountain shack so boldly. In his dementia he knew
no better. And she was alone with him, unarmed now.
"I'll keep it down," she whispered, watching his face out of
fear-distended eyes.
The wind blew one of the rotten blankets inward. Thereby she knew
that the window-aperture on the south wall contained no sash. He
must have removed it to provide means of escape in case he were
attacked from the east door. He must have climbed out that window
when she came around the shack; that is how he had felled her from
behind.
He stepped backward now until he felt the edge of the bench touch
his calves. Then he sank down, one arm stretched along the table's
rim, the hand clutching the revolver.
Pages:
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309