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