Speaker 1: The Killer by Harold Ward. The killer halted at the
window of the tar paper covered shack, and nose pressed
against the glass, sought to penetrate the gloomy interior. Satisfied
that the place was unoccupied, he fought his way against
the force of the storm to the spot where his
eyes had marked the outline of a door. The thermometer
showed a temperature of twenty below. The storm was increasing
in violence every minute, and the killer was half frozen.
Yet he stood with hands on the knob, making no
effort to enter until his stiffened fingers had sought out
the gun, which nestled snugly in his outside pocket. With
his teeth, he drew the mitten from his right hand, and,
with an effort that caused him to groan aloud with pain,
crooked his benumbed forefinger around the trigger. Cautiously turning the knob,
he threw open the door and stumbled across the threshold
in a tumultuous gale of wind and whirl of snow.
For an instant he stood there, listening every faculty alert. Then,
satisfied that he was alone, he put his back against
the panel and closed the door against the violence. Of
the storm. The room was cold and tomblike. Yet to
the killer, driven from place to place like a mad dog,
it had offered a haven for the night. He was tired, dead,
weary from traveling for what seemed centuries, threw snow waist
deep in the face of the worst blizzard of the season.
Every muscle, every nerve ached with exhaustion. For the last
mile he had fought against the ever increasing desire to
succumb to the feeling of drowsiness which crept over him.
He was lost. Only his powerful will kept him on
his feet, thus far sliding the gun back into his pocket,
he whipped his hands against his chest and stamped his
feet until circulation was partly restored. Then, shaking the accumulation
of snow shoulders, he unbuttoned his overcoat and fumbled in
his vest pocket until he found a match. Striking it
against the door, he held it aloft to view his surroundings.
It flickered weakly, nearly went out, then burned brightly by
its yellow glow. He distinguished a nearby table on which
stood a kerosene lamp. It took but an instant to
apply the stump of the match to the wick he
was in what appeared to be a combined kitchen and
living room. The light danced and threw grotesque shadows on
the walls covered with cheap pictures cut out from newspapers,
shelving filled with dishes, covered with papers with the edges
scalloped and crimped. Behind the cook stove in the corner,
a slab of bacon hanging over a can of flour.
A box beside the stove filled with great chunks of wood,
all told of the comfort that were his for the taking.
A pair of slippers run down at the heel, and
an apron thrown across the back of a chair showed
that a woman's presence had graced the room not long
before the killer's eyes fell upon the opening leading to
another room. Cautiously, he drew his gun and tiptoed toward
the faded curtain which served as a door. A board
creaked beneath his weight. He stopped short, every nerve tingling
From behind the curtain. Came a groan, then a woman's voice,
plaintively pain racked. Is that you William? The killer made
no answer, with body hunched forward, poised on the balls
of his feet, his glittering black eyes never left the
curtained opening. His gun was well in front of him,
his thumb on the hammer. Why don't you answer me, wigium,
came the voice again. Please hurry, you have been gone
so long, and I'm so sick. The killer twisted his
body to one side of the opening, where he would
be partly out of range. It's not William, he answered gruffly.
I'm a stranger lost in the storm. Are you alone?
The woman gave a startled cry. Yes, oh God, yes,
she answered, and I'm sick, awful sick. Please help me.
Are you armed, asked the killer. Without waiting for an answer,
he picked up the lamp and stuffed the gun back
into his pocket, but with fingers still locked around the butt,
he pushed aside the curtain and entered. The woman, who
lay between the coverlets was young, just now. Her face
was drawn with pain and pinched with cold. A startled
look appeared in her eyes as the grim visage of
the killer appeared within range of her vision, and she
shrank back closer to the wall. The killer stepped closer
to the bed and eyed her questioningly. Humph he grunted fire,
hot water hands, Where are they? He lighted a lamp
which stood on the side near the bed. The woman's
eyes followed every move, filled with wonder and fear. Are
you a a doctor, she asked weakly. The killer smiled riley.
Then he shrugged his shoulders, as if to shake off
some memory. Used to be years ago. He answered gruffly, Yes,
I've not forgotten all I know. Got nothing to work with, though,
But how the devil do you come to be here
alone in this condition? My husband William Stevenson, he sheriff,
She explained, between twinges of pain. He went away yesterday
after a bad man, a man named Henshaw. They call
him the Killer. Right after he went the storm broke
and then this She halted lamely for an instant, Then,
as if seeking to defend her absent husband, she continued,
He the Killer has an awful record. Murdered a man
in this whole blood a week ago in Eerie, killed
another several months ago. When William heard that he had
been seen in Milledgeville, that's thirty miles away over the mountains,
he felt that he had to go. He hated to
leave me, but he didn't think that this would happen.
And the killer turned his back so that she might
not see the look of amazement on his face. Bad
snowslide down the canyon, he answered, happened right after I
came through. That's what's holding him. And now, madam missus Stevenson,
quit fretting and let me get to work. He picked
up the lamp and bore it back into the kitchen,
setting it on the table. He scratched his head with
a puzzled expression on his face. Now ain't this a
hell of a fix, he murmured to himself. Bill Stevenson's wife,
the wife of Sheriff Bill, and he sworn to get
me dead or alive. Slowly, his eyes filled with a
far away look, he buttoned his overcoat and drew down
the flaps of his cap. Outside, the storm still raged.
The wind was growing higher. It howled and whistled around
the corners, rattling the windows and shaking the doors. The
snow would cover his tracks in five minutes. Of course,
the woman would die, she and the kid. But what difference.
She was the wife of his worst enemy, and the
kid would be his brat. I furthermore swear that damn
those memories of other days, wraith, like they insisted on
appearing before him. For some reason, he could not get
them out of his mind. And damn that old, fooled
hippocrateus and his nonsensical oath. What business was it of his?
He had long ago given up medicine. Let the woman
die if she wanted to. But the baby cursed the baby?
Of course, it was the sheriff's flesh and blood, but
it was innocent. Why did the thoughts of the baby
come to torture him, to keep him from making his escape? Slowly,
as if reluctant to go, he crept to the door
and laid his hands upon the knob. Oh, doctor, please,
please hurry, It was the woman's voice, sobbing, pain filled.
The killer hesitated a second longer, then he turned, and,
hurling mittens and overcoat into a corner, he commenced heaping
kindlings into the stove. The End of the Killer by
Harold Ward