Текст книги "Dead in the West"

Автор книги: Joe R. Lansdale

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No.

"Ugly stuff. Gets to his brain. Gets so he can't stand light and is thirsty all the time. Gets to where he'll bite like a dog. Has crazy strength—like ten men."

"You mean Nate was bitten by a man with rabies?"

"I didn't say that.... But it doesn't look like a dog bite. Though, to tell the truth, it doesn't look all that much like a man's bite either. I'm just thinking out loud is all."

"If it ain't animal and it ain't human, what's that leave?"

Doc grinned. "Plants with teeth."

"Well, I think the dog did it" Mertz said.

"And as Caleb said—who mashed the dog and tossed it in the trash after Nate was dead?

A man that knows what he's doing, or one that's mad strong, could have killed Nate after he killed the dog. He could have grabbed Nate's head just right, twisted it, and bit him.

Especially if he was mad with rabies."

"That's what you think?"

"Just thinking out loud. I'll make out the death certificate. Call it broken neck, loss of blood. Means of death unknown."

Doc put on his hat and went out.

VIII

David did as the Reverend told him. He took some short sticks and placed them across the stage trail and back near the woods. He stuck them into the dirt about two inches and let three inches of stick show above ground.

From where the Reverend stood, across the trail with his back to the trees on that side, it was a fair distance for a pistol—especially shooting at such small and shady targets.

David finished with his task, went over to join the Reverend who held the revolver at his side. He stood by the Reverend and looked across the way. It took him a moment to locate the sticks.

"Can you even see them?" David said.

"I'm not that old yet, son."

"You got enough bullets?"

The Reverend looked at David. "More than we'll need." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two small boxes of ammunition. "Enough for a small-size army– but we won't shoot that much."

"Are you men going to shoot or talk those sticks to death?" It was Abby. She had folded up the picnic remains and put them in the wagon.

"Good point," the Reverend said, and smiled at her. My heavens, he thought, I have not been this happy in years.

The Reverend pulled his eyes away from Abby with difficulty. She looked wonderful standing there watching, her hands behind her back, her eyes bright.

"Okay, son ," the Reverend said. "This is a .36 Navy revolver. 1861 model. It has been converted from cap and ball to modern ammunition."

"Why not just buy yourself another one? Pa says a .45 is the thing to have."

"This one has done well by me. I like the feel of it. A gun is more than its caliber. In fact, a gun is the man who holds it."

The Reverend cocked the revolver slowly, lifted it, and fired.

One of the sticks went away.

He did this five more times and five sticks went away.

"Good shooting," David said, "but it's pretty slow."

"I'm teaching you to shoot, not fast draw."

"But I want to learn that too."

"Go and put up some more sticks."

David did as he was told. While he worked, Abby and the Reverend looked at one another but said nothing. It was getting so nothing needed to be said, and even the silence was comfortable.

David came back and stood by the Reverend. "My turn?"

"Almost." The Reverend loaded the revolver and put it in the sash at his waist.

And then he drew. David almost saw it. There was a blur of the Reverend's hand, then the gun was gripped, pointing, being cocked, and the first round barked, and the first stick went away, and the gun was cocked again, and fired and again and again until the air was full of acrid smoke. All the sticks were shot off at ground level.

"God almighty!" David said.

"Watch your language, son. The Lord is not nearly so enthused over good shooting as we are."

"Goddamn, you must be as good as Wild Bill Hickok."

"Most likely better" the Reverend said seriously.

"Can I shoot now? I want to try."

"No fast draw yet, just shooting."

David nodded as the Reverend reloaded. "Why no holster? I'd think you'd need one for a fast draw," David asked.

"Too many dime novels, son. Hickok for instance wore a sash. With the sight filed off"

the Reverend held up the revolver to show that it had been filed off smoothly, "you don't have to worry about snags. And holsters have a tendency to grab a revolver. A sash or even your belt is preferable—go put up some sticks."

David raced across the way to put up new targets. This time he took a big handful of sticks and placed them in a row. He counted them. Eleven.

He rushed back to the Reverend's side.

The Reverend handed him the gun. "When you get ready, take a death grip on it and point it like a finger. Don't try to aim. Just imagine you're lifting a finger and pointing it at one of the sticks. Your aim is naturally better when you do that. Soft squeeze on the trigger."

David lifted the revolver, cocked it, and fired. He didn't even come close. His round hit the edge of the stage trail.

"You're trying too hard to aim. You've got to become one with the gun. It's got to be like part of you, a metal finger."

"Can I put it in my belt and draw it?"

"Only if you want to lose your manhood." David considered. "You mean I might shoot off my pecker?"

"Precisely."

Abby laughed.

"Sorry, ma'm" David said. "I forgot you were there."

"Quite all right "Abby said.

David pointed the revolver across the trail, cocked, and fired. He did this until the cylinder was empty. None of his shots scored, but each came closer.

He handed the empty revolver to the Reverend. "Damn," he said.

"It takes time and patience," the Reverend said. "After you cock it time after time, get used to the weight, you develop muscles in your forearm, then the gun is like an extension of your forearm." The Reverend raised the revolver and pointed, "and the bullet seems more to come out of you than the gun."

The Reverend reloaded, put the revolver in his sash. Though he was giving David sound advice, he realized too that he was showing off a bit for Abby.

He jerked the revolver free with his left hand this time, cocked, and fired six times in succession. Six sticks disappeared.

"Wow! You are better than Wild Bill Hickok."

"I told you that," the Reverend said.

The Reverend reloaded, put the gun in his sash. This time he drew with his right hand, fired, tossed the gun to his left, fired, and tossed it back and forth that way until six more sticks were down.

Twelve shots altogether: one series of six left-handed, one series alternating, and he had not missed a shot.

Abby applauded.

"Thank you, ma'm," the Reverend said. Then to David, "Go see how close I shaved them to the ground."

David ran across the trail to look.

All twelve sticks were cut even with the ground.

Twelve?

He had set up eleven. He remembered distinctly.

Well, no matter, the Reverend had found a stick. But as David bent to examine the one he had not set up, he noticed it was different from the others.

He scraped around it, and when he saw what it really was, he called, "Reverend. Come quick!"

IX

The Reverend put his revolver away and strolled briskly across the shadowy forest trail.

Abby followed.

When he reached David, he squatted down to examine the stick.

It was not a stick.

It was a filthy, human finger shot off at the first knuckle.

The Reverend scraped around it. A moment later he revealed a human hand.

He kept digging.

Soon he revealed an ugly, dirty face wearing an eye patch – though the patch had slipped and the empty eye socket was filled with dirt and forest mold. A worm twisted in the mess.

"Bill Nolan!" David said. "The missing stage driver."

The Reverend dug the rest of the body free.

…

When he had the entire corpse revealed, he said, "Go back to the wagon and get the blanket, David."

David went.

Abby bent down beside the Reverend. The smell of the dead man was strong. "Seems to be our day for dead bodies. What happened to him?"

"I don't know. But someone wanted the body hidden."

David returned with the blanket. The Reverend put it down beside Nolan, then he and David picked him up and put him on it. They folded the blanket over so that the body was covered.

"All right, David," the Reverend said, "let's get him into the back of the wagon."

They carried him over, placed him on top of the tent poles, then with David in the back with the corpse, the Reverend and Abby on the seat, they started back toward Mud Creek.

One of the corpse's hands had slipped out from under the blanket, and direct sunlight struck it. It smoked faintly.

The hand moved slowly back under the blanket.

None of the living saw it.

X

They took Nolan to the undertaker and the doctor was called over.

"Fancy seeing you again," Doc said to the Reverend.

The Reverend nodded.

"You need me back there, Dad?" Abby asked.

"I'll handle it. Keep David and the Reverend company"

The doctor left the others in the front room. He and Mertz went back to look at the body.

It lay on a table next to the banker who was naked, cleaned, and stuffed in a tub of ice.

Doc looked at the tub, then back to Mertz.

"Keeps 'em fresh. He isn't going to be buried until tomorrow late. Having a hard time getting mourners. Going to have to pay for some."

"I reckon he can afford it," Doc said.

Doc examined Nolan. He had a crushed hand and what looked like a bite on his neck. He frowned.

"That's just like Nate had—isn't it?"

"More or less," Doc said.

Doc went over the body, stripping it of its clothes as he went. When he was finished, he went to the washbasin and washed his hands, dried them.

"Well," Mertz said. "What's the cause of death?"

"Loss of blood."

"From that wound? It's bad, but not that bad,"

"Nonetheless," Doc said, put on his coat, and went out.

Mertz looked at Nolan and patted him affectionately. "Doc's getting old," he said.

…

Mertz picked up Nolan's clothes from the floor and went through them for valuables. He'd done fairly well by Nate, getting a ring and a silver dollar. And he got a wallet. Empty.

But a nice wallet. He figured Caleb had profited the contents of Nate's wallet before his body was brought in.

Win some, lose some.

He set about his business.

XI

Doc came out and said, "I know this isn't supposed to be something you say after you look at a corpse, but I'm hungry. Let's go over to the house for something to eat. You coming too, David?"

"No sir, I got to skedaddle. Pa will want me over at the livery the rest of the day. I'll put the poles in the shop, Reverend."

"That okay with your pa?" the Reverend asked. "Yeah, long as you pay him for keeping them overnight," "Figures," the Reverend said. "Very well." David darted for the door, stopped, turned. "Reverend. Can I see you a minute?"

David and the Reverend went outside.

"I just wanted to say," David mumbled, "I had a real good time today." "So did I." "I think you could do a lot worse than Miss Abby. You ought to keep her."

"She's not a fish, David."

"You know what I mean."

"I'll consider it. It'll be up to her."

"Thanks for the shooting lesson."

"You're welcome—and aren't you glad we didn't use Abby for shooting practice?"

David smiled. "Yeah. But maybe she'd have been big enough for me to hit. I'm no good on sticks.

"Practice, that's the key."

They shook hands.

David climbed on the wagon, clucked to the team, and started for the blacksmith shop.

XII

Doc and Abby had a house connected to the back of the office. It was simple, but nice.

Abby fixed beans, tortillas, and coffee, and after they ate, they retired to Doc's study. It was stuffed full of books and the smell of cigar smoke. The study connected directly to Doc's office.

They took chairs near Doc's desk, and he spoke. "I'm not sure I want to tell this, but I've thought on it all day, consulted books, and I intend to consult others. And, Reverend, as a man of God, a man who deals with immortal souls, I think you're definitely the one to hear this. I guess I could have Calhoun over too, but he's an idiot. So, I'll just keep it between the three of us. My daughter already thinks I'm crazy, but she has to live with me. And you, Reverend—there is something about you. You're a man of God, but you're also a realist." Doc nodded at the gun. "What I need right now is someone who is not only knowledgeable of man's soul, but of everyday realities. Reverend, do you believe the dead can walk?"

"What?" Abby said.

Doc didn't answer. He just looked at the Reverend. The Reverend was taken totally by surprise, but finally, "On an everyday basis, no."

"I'm serious," Doc said.

"I thought you might be.... All right. I suppose the dead can walk. Under certain circumstances. Lazarus walked and he had been dead for some time. Dead and entombed."

"I'm talking about the living dead, not returning from the dead."

"Dad?" Abby said, "Are you off your rocker?"

"Maybe."

"'You mean nosferatu?" the Reverend said. "Ghouls? Zombies?"

"Then you know what I'm talking about?"

"Not exactly, but I've read a book or two on folklore."

"Okay. I'll cut through the horseshit. The man who fell apart in the street. He was dead before he fell."

Silence hung in the air like an anvil.

"Dad " Abby said, "that isn't possible "

"I've been telling myself that all afternoon. But I examined the body—pieces of it—under a microscope, performed various tests on it. That was dead, decaying flesh. The sun was speeding up the decay, but I tell you, that man was dead. An examination of the internal organs proved it."

"Dead. And the sunlight was speeding up the decay. Doc, I have to admit, I find that hard to buy."

"Reverend, I am not a quack and I am not crazy. The man was dead, and before he fell.

The sun was working on his body, dissolving it like ice cream. There is no such disease known to man,"

"Maybe there is now," Abby said.

"If you want to call being one of the living dead a disease, and I suppose you could. Both of you, hear me out. Reverend, you know I'm on to something. I can see it in your eyes.

There is something going on in this town and it runs through it like a cold winter wind.

Deny it."

"I can't," the Reverend said. "There is something about this place, and I know, somehow, I'm part of it. I was driven here by the Lord, for what I do not know. But, the living dead—ghouls? Vampires?"

"Let me tell you something about Mud Creek, Reverend. It's got a curse on it, and I fear everything and everyone in this town is going to die like a bug-stung tomato.

"Reverend, the moment I saw you, I knew you were part of this thing—I don't know how I knew, but I just knew. It was like you were the last ingredient in a stew, the chili pepper.

This town is turning rotten, and it has to do with an Indian and his woman."

"Dad," Abby said, "forget it"

"No. I can't forget it. Just listen. Let me tell you what I think, and then, when I'm finished, if the two of you want to call me crazy, walk out of here and hide from me, I’ll understand. And Reverend, if you believe me and want to get on your horse and ride out of here and never look back, I'll understand that too. So before you pass judgment on my sanity, hear my story. In fact, I hope you'll tell me I'm full of manure and make me believe it—maybe that's what I'm hoping for most of all."

Doc opened a desk drawer, took out a bottle of whisky and three small glasses. Abby and the Reverend declined.

Doc nodded, poured himself one.

"This will help me tell it," he said, and Doc told his story.

THE DOCTOR'S STORY

About a month ago this wagon rolled into town. It was brightly painted. Red and yellow with blue and green snakes twisting together on the side. At the top of the wagon painted in black were the words MEDICINE WAGON. An Indian was driving the wagon. He might have been mixed with negro. It was hard to tell. I'd never seen the likes of him before. He had shoulders broader than any man I've ever known, and he was darn near seven feet tall.

He had a woman with him. A colored. A high yeller, to be exact. And she was a comely thing. Still, they were an Indian and a colored, and that got a lot of folks in these parts off on a bad foot with them immediately. If they had not been such a curiosity, and things hadn't been so dead around town, they might have got run out the first day they showed up.

The Negress read palms and that sort of thing. The Indian made potions. Not like a snake oil man, but like a medicine man. You know, someone that wanted your money but was trying to give you something for it too. They also sold some harmless things. Love potions and charms. The usual rubbish. But mostly they sold medicine, and it went fast, and I'll tell you why. It wasn't for the reason you'd think. It wasn't alcohol-laced with a bit of sugar and vinegar. It was medicine that worked.

It sort of got my goat, and I'm not ashamed to say it. I'm a trained doctor. Just a country sawbones, mind you, but no slouch either. But there were things this Indian could do, I couldn't even come near doing.

Old Mrs. Jameson had the misery for years. Her hands would knot up like old plowlines.

The knuckles would swell, inflame. It would get so bad sometimes the skin would crack.

I'd tried all the conventional treatments, and the best I could manage was a bit of relief from her pain. Something to get her through a bout until another came. And it got so the bouts were closer and closer together. The poor woman could hardly open her hands.

They looked like broken bird talons.

But when the Indian came to town, and word got around that his medicine worked—

everything from taking warts off the face to the curing of the croup—she went over there and bought some salve from him. Up until that point I'd been surprised at some of his cures, but I hadn't seen anything that struck me as miraculous. Then old Mrs. Jameson rubbed that salve on her poor old hands and the pain went away. And she came by to show me how she was doing. As much to gloat and show me up for a quack as anything else, I guess. But there was no denying. Not only were her hands better, they were starting to cure themselves of the damage already done. In a week's time of rubbing on that stuff the Indian gave her, she had hands like a twenty-year-old. Not only cured of their misery, but soft and pliant and attractive. If you'd had Abby put her hands down beside Mrs.

Jameson's, the old lady's would have looked better.

Well, to shorten the story some, that Indian and his Negress came to be looked upon as saints, and the town's attitudes toward coloreds softened considerable. Except maybe for Caleb who hates anything non-white with a passion. But then again, he wasn't sick and didn't suffer any ailment. The man has the constitution of a jackass and the brain to match.

So, that couple was looking lighter skinned every day to folks hereabouts, and they parked their wagon out on the edge of town.

Since there was always someone with something wrong with them, they were doing a land-office business, and things had dried up here considerable. I took a few splinters out of fingers and things of that nature, but anything of importance was taken to the Indian. It got my goat. You live in a town this size, deliver babies, see the old go out, and take care of people's ills all your life, you sometimes develop a self-importance about yourself that you don't deserve.

I went out there to talk to them, and to thank them for all they'd done in town, but the Indian saw right through me. He knew I was there primarily because I was curious, and maybe because I was hoping to latch onto some of his healing secrets. And I'll admit that I was.

But the way that Indian looked at me and smiled made me feel lower than a plump snake's belly, and foolish. And the woman—well, I'm a bit embarrassed to admit this with Abby in the room, but I was attracted to her. Not only was she pretty, but she was unique too. Tallish, with sleek skin like creamed coffee, and her hair was plaited in Indian-like braids. And she had the bluest eyes I've ever seen. They drew you to her. She had a fine figure—pardon me, Abby– and even at my age I felt a stirring I didn't think I was capable of anymore.

It disturbed me. Guess I felt guilty about your mother, Abby. I went away from there and didn't go back. I didn't want that Indian looking down his nose at me, knowing what I was really up to. And I didn't want to have to look at that sleek Negress and know she wasn't ever going to be mine.

I had dreams about her at night, and the kind of dreams you would expect. I loved her so hard—please excuse this talk, Abby, but I have to get the entire story out—I'd finally keel over with a heart attack in her embrace. Then I'd wake up sweating, feeling guilty toward my dead wife—God bless her soul.

I say all this to give you some idea of how impressive the two of them were.

So they'd been here a week, or a little better, and it started to rain. One of those late season drenchers that just wouldn't go away. At first it was welcomed. Crops needed it, and it cooled things off some at night. But pretty soon it was nothing but misery. The streets turned to mud, and the rain just kept coming, and people began to pick up on summer sicknesses, and of course they went to the Indian for help—which he sold them—and then the Webb girl got ill.

I remember when I first heard of it. I wasn't in the office much then. Abby sort of hung around here in case anyone wanted a splinter out, or some such thing, but I had started going over to the saloon to toss a few drinks. Got so I spent a lot of my time there. More than I ever had before. I tell you, I had gone from feeling like a little god with a black satchel to feeling like an incompetent old man who couldn't even match heathen medicine. It may seem crazy to you, but more than once I took that shotgun off the wall over there and put it under my chin and thought about finding the trigger with my toe.

When a man gets so he's useless, especially at my age when there doesn't seem to be no turning around or finding another avenue, he begins to think he might just be better off without the worry.

But I guess common sense prevailed, and of course thinking about Abby. And maybe most of all, I figured that there would come a time when they'd just take up and move on, and people would have to come back to me, and gradually I could regain my exalted status as a little demigod.

I was drinking at the bar when David Webb came in, and he looked terrible. He was splashed with mud from all the rain, and his face was haggard. He looked ready to drop.

Being a family doctor dies hard, and I slid up beside him and said he didn't look so good.

He said it was because he'd been up nights with Glenda and that she was bad sick and getting sicker.

Course I asked him why he hadn't brought her by, and his face went kind of odd, and he reminded me of a dog that has been kicked and was slinking under a porch.

"Well, Doc," he said. "I just figured the Indian could do better by her," then he spotted someone at a table he wanted to talk to bad and that left me alone, and I got good and drunk.

That night—I reckon it was on past midnight—I heard a banging at the door, and I got up and went to answer, and there stood David and his wife, and he's holding the little Glenda in his arms, and she's as limp as a dish towel. I've seen enough dead people to know at a glance that that little girl was fresh died, but I brought them in, and I did what I could for her—which was nothing. Thing I remember most about that night was hearing Webb cry.

Seems he had taken the little girl to the Indian with a lung problem– pneumonia, I figure—and the Indian sold them some stuff, and they gave it to her and took her home, and she promptly died. That's when they brought her to me. I reckon she'd been dead a couple of hours. About the length of time it took the Webbs to get to town from where they lived.

But to make it all shorter, Webb went crazy. He went over to the saloon, and there were enough drunks and near-drunks there that he got them roused. Caleb got behind it in an instant, and pretty soon he was talking it up big, saying about the treachery of the colored races and such, and a mob started forming. Everything they'd done that was good was forgot in an instant. It didn't matter that they'd darn near worked miracles, this dead white girl was what the crowd needed to turn evil.

To make matters worse, the Indian chose that night to move on, so that didn't look good for them. Looked as if they'd deliberately poisoned the little girl then hightailed it. Least it looked that way to a maddened crowd.

They caught up with the pair, pulled them out of the wagon—after the Indian broke Cane Lavel's neck and smashed Buck Wilson's jaw. I heard it took a dozen men to bring him down, and then they had clubs, pistol butts, and the like to do it with. They beat the woman and burned the wagon.

That's where Matt came in. He got word of the crowd and what was going on, and he rode out after them, fired off his gun, and got their attention. Talked sense to them for the moment and took the couple back to the jail and safety.

But Caleb wasn't a quitter, and Webb didn't care about the law—he wanted an eye for an eye—and so the crowd got worked up again, and they went to the jail and asked for the Indian and the Negress.

Matt tried to stand up to them, but he weakened. Caleb seems to hold sway over him for some reason or another, and the bottom line is—he gave in—and they took the Indian and his woman away. Put them in a wagon and drove them out to the edge of town.

Keep in mind what I'm telling you is what I've gleaned from the stories of others, and it especially gets dim on this area because I think most folks are ashamed of themselves and would just as soon forget it, even though they can't. I like to think too: had I known exactly what was going on, I'd have gotten that old shotgun off the wall and gone out there and tried to stop what was happening. Least I like to think that.

Caleb and some others, they took the woman off in the bushes and raped her, cut her breasts and ears off, mutilated her body, making her scream so the Indian– who was bound hand and foot in the wagon—could hear it. It wasn't all the townsfolk was for that, mind you, but all that were there put up with it, and no one raised a finger to stop Caleb and the others. They were caught up in the storm of the mob.

The woman finally died, and then it was the Indian's turn. They tossed what was left of the Negress in the back of the wagon with him, and Hirern Wayland—who was my main source on this story—said the Indian never even batted an eye. Just looked down at her body then out at the crowd, cold as ice.

They took him out of the wagon, out to a big oak, put him on a horse and put a rope around his neck. He just stared at them.

"We did nothing to you," the Indian told them.

Webb ranted and raved about his daughter and how she was poisoned, and the Indian said, "She's not dead. My woman is dead, but your daughter is not dead."

Webb—knowing his daughter was dead—went crazy, cussed the Indian up one side and down the other, and that's when the Indian put a curse on Mud Creek and all those who lived in it. When he started talking, Hirem said everybody and everything went quiet, except the crickets, and they were building in intensity, like some kind of chorus behind his words. And the Indian said he had the powers, and that he was through with the pale side of them and invited the dark side to his aid. Said the town would suffer.

Words to that effect.

Then he started chanting. Hirem said he didn't recognize any of the words, and he knew quite a few Indian languages and some French-Cajun talk, and it wasn't any of those. He thought maybe it was African or something. He said he remembered a few words, and he told them to me, wondering if I knew what they meant, because he said those words haunted his mind. He said that soon as they were mentioned the wind picked up and the rain came harder and thunder barked.

The words weren't Indian. I don't know their source, but I recognized the words. I have them in some of the books I have here. THE NECRONOMICON, MYSTERIES OF THE

WORM, and NAMELESS CULTS. Basically, the words refer to something that at times has been called a Wendigo, a vampire, ghoul, or nosferatu. Sometimes a mixture of all these things. According to my books, these words allow a sorcerer to invite a demon into his body for purposes of revenge. The demon lives for one thing. Revenge. And it gives the dead body it has animated powers beyond those of normal man, while on the other hand, it dooms the individual's soul to hell.

Then the spell broke, Hirem said, and Webb jumped forward, slapped the horse's flank, and it ran, and the Indian dangled. He hardly even kicked at all, but in a heartbeat he was dead. The crickets went completely quiet, and the storm stopped. Then a moment later the storm picked up again. Wind broke tree limbs and tossed them, blew leaves, and the rain came down like buckshot. Lightning cracked out of the sky, hit the body of the Indian, and everything went white.

When their eyes came free of light-blindness, the Indian was gone. The lightning had blown him to hell. There was just the rope smoking, the noose swinging in the wind—

and a huge spider—or something that looked like a spider, and it scuttled up the rope into the tree and was gone.

That's when Hirem knew there was more going on here than just a crazed Indian. That spider looked just like a growth on the Indian's chest. Hirem noticed it when he helped toss the Indian in the wagon, and the man's shirt tore, revealing it. At first, Hirem thought a great spider was nested on the red man's chest, but then he saw it was an upraised birthmark: a giant, hairy mole in the shape of a large spider. Or as Hirem put it,"...

something that reminded you of a spider."

…

When it was all over, Hirem came by and talked to me. He was crazy with guilt. He'd been half drunk and got caught up in the mob. Later on, others told me much the same thing. No excuse mind you, but part of one.

Hirem told me that they had dumped the Negress' body out at the edge of the stage road, and it was on his conscience. Nothing could be done for her and the man now, but he wanted to see that she got a decent burial.