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<v Speaker 1>The Killer by Harold Ward. The killer halted at the

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<v Speaker 1>window of the tar paper covered shack, and nose pressed

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<v Speaker 1>against the glass, sought to penetrate the gloomy interior. Satisfied

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<v Speaker 1>that the place was unoccupied, he fought his way against

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<v Speaker 1>the force of the storm to the spot where his

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<v Speaker 1>eyes had marked the outline of a door. The thermometer

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<v Speaker 1>showed a temperature of twenty below. The storm was increasing

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<v Speaker 1>in violence every minute, and the killer was half frozen.

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<v Speaker 1>Yet he stood with hands on the knob, making no

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<v Speaker 1>effort to enter until his stiffened fingers had sought out

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<v Speaker 1>the gun, which nestled snugly in his outside pocket. With

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<v Speaker 1>his teeth, he drew the mitten from his right hand, and,

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<v Speaker 1>with an effort that caused him to groan aloud with pain,

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<v Speaker 1>crooked his benumbed forefinger around the trigger. Cautiously turning the knob,

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<v Speaker 1>he threw open the door and stumbled across the threshold

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<v Speaker 1>in a tumultuous gale of wind and whirl of snow.

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<v Speaker 1>For an instant he stood there, listening every faculty alert. Then,

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<v Speaker 1>satisfied that he was alone, he put his back against

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<v Speaker 1>the panel and closed the door against the violence. Of

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<v Speaker 1>the storm. The room was cold and tomblike. Yet to

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<v Speaker 1>the killer, driven from place to place like a mad dog,

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<v Speaker 1>it had offered a haven for the night. He was tired, dead,

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<v Speaker 1>weary from traveling for what seemed centuries, threw snow waist

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<v Speaker 1>deep in the face of the worst blizzard of the season.

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<v Speaker 1>Every muscle, every nerve ached with exhaustion. For the last

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<v Speaker 1>mile he had fought against the ever increasing desire to

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<v Speaker 1>succumb to the feeling of drowsiness which crept over him.

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<v Speaker 1>He was lost. Only his powerful will kept him on

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<v Speaker 1>his feet, thus far sliding the gun back into his pocket,

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<v Speaker 1>he whipped his hands against his chest and stamped his

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<v Speaker 1>feet until circulation was partly restored. Then, shaking the accumulation

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<v Speaker 1>of snow shoulders, he unbuttoned his overcoat and fumbled in

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<v Speaker 1>his vest pocket until he found a match. Striking it

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<v Speaker 1>against the door, he held it aloft to view his surroundings.

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<v Speaker 1>It flickered weakly, nearly went out, then burned brightly by

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<v Speaker 1>its yellow glow. He distinguished a nearby table on which

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<v Speaker 1>stood a kerosene lamp. It took but an instant to

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<v Speaker 1>apply the stump of the match to the wick he

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<v Speaker 1>was in what appeared to be a combined kitchen and

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<v Speaker 1>living room. The light danced and threw grotesque shadows on

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<v Speaker 1>the walls covered with cheap pictures cut out from newspapers,

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<v Speaker 1>shelving filled with dishes, covered with papers with the edges

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<v Speaker 1>scalloped and crimped. Behind the cook stove in the corner,

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<v Speaker 1>a slab of bacon hanging over a can of flour.

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<v Speaker 1>A box beside the stove filled with great chunks of wood,

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<v Speaker 1>all told of the comfort that were his for the taking.

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<v Speaker 1>A pair of slippers run down at the heel, and

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<v Speaker 1>an apron thrown across the back of a chair showed

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<v Speaker 1>that a woman's presence had graced the room not long

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<v Speaker 1>before the killer's eyes fell upon the opening leading to

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<v Speaker 1>another room. Cautiously, he drew his gun and tiptoed toward

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<v Speaker 1>the faded curtain which served as a door. A board

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<v Speaker 1>creaked beneath his weight. He stopped short, every nerve tingling

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<v Speaker 1>From behind the curtain. Came a groan, then a woman's voice,

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<v Speaker 1>plaintively pain racked. Is that you William? The killer made

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<v Speaker 1>no answer, with body hunched forward, poised on the balls

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<v Speaker 1>of his feet, his glittering black eyes never left the

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<v Speaker 1>curtained opening. His gun was well in front of him,

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<v Speaker 1>his thumb on the hammer. Why don't you answer me, wigium,

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<v Speaker 1>came the voice again. Please hurry, you have been gone

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<v Speaker 1>so long, and I'm so sick. The killer twisted his

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<v Speaker 1>body to one side of the opening, where he would

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<v Speaker 1>be partly out of range. It's not William, he answered gruffly.

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<v Speaker 1>I'm a stranger lost in the storm. Are you alone?

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<v Speaker 1>The woman gave a startled cry. Yes, oh God, yes,

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<v Speaker 1>she answered, and I'm sick, awful sick. Please help me.

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<v Speaker 1>Are you armed, asked the killer. Without waiting for an answer,

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<v Speaker 1>he picked up the lamp and stuffed the gun back

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<v Speaker 1>into his pocket, but with fingers still locked around the butt,

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<v Speaker 1>he pushed aside the curtain and entered. The woman, who

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<v Speaker 1>lay between the coverlets was young, just now. Her face

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<v Speaker 1>was drawn with pain and pinched with cold. A startled

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<v Speaker 1>look appeared in her eyes as the grim visage of

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<v Speaker 1>the killer appeared within range of her vision, and she

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<v Speaker 1>shrank back closer to the wall. The killer stepped closer

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<v Speaker 1>to the bed and eyed her questioningly. Humph he grunted fire,

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<v Speaker 1>hot water hands, Where are they? He lighted a lamp

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<v Speaker 1>which stood on the side near the bed. The woman's

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<v Speaker 1>eyes followed every move, filled with wonder and fear. Are

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<v Speaker 1>you a a doctor, she asked weakly. The killer smiled riley.

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<v Speaker 1>Then he shrugged his shoulders, as if to shake off

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<v Speaker 1>some memory. Used to be years ago. He answered gruffly, Yes,

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<v Speaker 1>I've not forgotten all I know. Got nothing to work with, though,

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<v Speaker 1>But how the devil do you come to be here

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<v Speaker 1>alone in this condition? My husband William Stevenson, he sheriff,

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<v Speaker 1>She explained, between twinges of pain. He went away yesterday

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<v Speaker 1>after a bad man, a man named Henshaw. They call

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<v Speaker 1>him the Killer. Right after he went the storm broke

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<v Speaker 1>and then this She halted lamely for an instant, Then,

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<v Speaker 1>as if seeking to defend her absent husband, she continued,

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<v Speaker 1>He the Killer has an awful record. Murdered a man

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<v Speaker 1>in this whole blood a week ago in Eerie, killed

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<v Speaker 1>another several months ago. When William heard that he had

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<v Speaker 1>been seen in Milledgeville, that's thirty miles away over the mountains,

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<v Speaker 1>he felt that he had to go. He hated to

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<v Speaker 1>leave me, but he didn't think that this would happen.

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<v Speaker 1>And the killer turned his back so that she might

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<v Speaker 1>not see the look of amazement on his face. Bad

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<v Speaker 1>snowslide down the canyon, he answered, happened right after I

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<v Speaker 1>came through. That's what's holding him. And now, madam missus Stevenson,

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<v Speaker 1>quit fretting and let me get to work. He picked

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<v Speaker 1>up the lamp and bore it back into the kitchen,

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<v Speaker 1>setting it on the table. He scratched his head with

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<v Speaker 1>a puzzled expression on his face. Now ain't this a

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<v Speaker 1>hell of a fix, he murmured to himself. Bill Stevenson's wife,

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<v Speaker 1>the wife of Sheriff Bill, and he sworn to get

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<v Speaker 1>me dead or alive. Slowly, his eyes filled with a

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<v Speaker 1>far away look, he buttoned his overcoat and drew down

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<v Speaker 1>the flaps of his cap. Outside, the storm still raged.

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<v Speaker 1>The wind was growing higher. It howled and whistled around

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<v Speaker 1>the corners, rattling the windows and shaking the doors. The

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<v Speaker 1>snow would cover his tracks in five minutes. Of course,

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<v Speaker 1>the woman would die, she and the kid. But what difference.

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<v Speaker 1>She was the wife of his worst enemy, and the

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<v Speaker 1>kid would be his brat. I furthermore swear that damn

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<v Speaker 1>those memories of other days, wraith, like they insisted on

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<v Speaker 1>appearing before him. For some reason, he could not get

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<v Speaker 1>them out of his mind. And damn that old, fooled

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<v Speaker 1>hippocrateus and his nonsensical oath. What business was it of his?

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<v Speaker 1>He had long ago given up medicine. Let the woman

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<v Speaker 1>die if she wanted to. But the baby cursed the baby?

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<v Speaker 1>Of course, it was the sheriff's flesh and blood, but

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<v Speaker 1>it was innocent. Why did the thoughts of the baby

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<v Speaker 1>come to torture him, to keep him from making his escape? Slowly,

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<v Speaker 1>as if reluctant to go, he crept to the door

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<v Speaker 1>and laid his hands upon the knob. Oh, doctor, please,

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<v Speaker 1>please hurry, It was the woman's voice, sobbing, pain filled.

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<v Speaker 1>The killer hesitated a second longer, then he turned, and,

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<v Speaker 1>hurling mittens and overcoat into a corner, he commenced heaping

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<v Speaker 1>kindlings into the stove. The End of the Killer by

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<v Speaker 1>Harold Ward