The Night of the Hunter Read Online Free Page A
Author: Davis Grubb
falls back, mopping his bleeding nose and whimpering. Ben fell asleep and saw it clear as day: the little room and the rope. His Cousin Wilfred and old Uncle Jimmy John Harper got passes to a hanging back in 1930 and Wilfred got sick and had to be taken to a drugstore to be revived and cleaned up and Uncle Jimmy John wouldn’t even talk about it when he got back home and every time one of Ben’s kids would come to him with a rope and ask him to take the knots out of it he would shoo that youngster out the kitchen door. Ben could see himself plain as day: in the little room and a man was putting that rope over his head and he saw then that the man was Preacher and Preacher laughed when they sprang the trap and Ben was falling, falling, falling. He sprang up in the bunk, striking his head against the wall. What did I say, Preacher?
What, Ben?
Now he was scrambling up into Preacher’s bunk and his fingers were around Preacher’s throat like a ring of baling wire. I said something in my sleep just now! What did I say, Preacher?
Nothin’! My God, nothin’, Ben!
You’re lyin’, Preacher! Goddamn you, you’re lyin’!
He tightened his fingers—pressing his thumbs into the gristle of the man’s windpipe until Preacher’s breath came rattling and gasping. Then he took the hands away for a moment.
I said something! What did I say, Preacher? What! What!
Ben lifted him by the shoulders and flung him against the wall and banged his head against the stone to the rhythm of his words. Now the other convicts were yelling and banging for silence along the row.
What! What! What! What!
Preacher gasped and choked.
You—you was—you was quotin’ the Book, Ben.
I which?
You was quotin’ the Scripture! You said—you said, And a little child shall lead them.
Ben let go then and got back down in his bunk again and rolled up one of his socks and stuffed it into his mouth before he went back to sleep, and next morning when he woke to the siren’s vast, echoing contralto the sock was still in his mouth, foul-tasting and thick on his dry tongue, but he knew, at least, that he had not talked. He spat it out and grinned across the cell at Preacher, dressed and shaved long before the morning siren blew. His nose was swollen and his eyes were puffed and black from the blow Ben had given him. Ben laughed out loud. Nothing would ever stop Preacher. Already the glitter was back of those hunting eyes; already the question was forming again behind those thin, mad lips. A feller almost had to hand it to Preacher.
Ben?
What, Preacher?
I’ll be leaving this place in another month. You’ll be dead then, Ben. Dead and gone to make your peace with God! Now if you was to tell me, boy, it might go easier. Why, Ben, with that ten thousand dollars I could build a tabernacle that would make that Wheeling Island place look like a chickenhouse! I’d even name it after you, boy! The Ben Harper Tabernacle! How’s that sound? It’d be the glory of them all, Ben! The finest gospel tabernacle on the whole Ohio River!
Keep talkin’, Preacher.
The Lord might feel kindly turned toward you, Ben! The Lord might say: What’s a little murder—
Would you have free candy for the kids, Preacher?
Well, yes, I would.
Would you give out free eats to all the poor folks that was hungry, Preacher?
Don’t jest, Ben.
I ain’t jestin’, Preacher. Would you?
Yes, Ben. If you say so, boy. It’d be your tabernacle. All them poor souls out there wanderin’ around hungry in this terr’ble depression—all them folks driven to stealin’ and whorin’! Just think, Ben! They’d come there and bless your name!
Ben Harper bends and searches under the bunk for his other sock.
Keep talkin’, Preacher, he chuckles. Keep talkin’!
—
And the other one had his dreams, too. He would lie there in the dark and when he wasn’t thinking about new ways to make Ben talk he would think about the women. He could never be exactly sure how many there had been.
What, Ben?
Now he was scrambling up into Preacher’s bunk and his fingers were around Preacher’s throat like a ring of baling wire. I said something in my sleep just now! What did I say, Preacher?
Nothin’! My God, nothin’, Ben!
You’re lyin’, Preacher! Goddamn you, you’re lyin’!
He tightened his fingers—pressing his thumbs into the gristle of the man’s windpipe until Preacher’s breath came rattling and gasping. Then he took the hands away for a moment.
I said something! What did I say, Preacher? What! What!
Ben lifted him by the shoulders and flung him against the wall and banged his head against the stone to the rhythm of his words. Now the other convicts were yelling and banging for silence along the row.
What! What! What! What!
Preacher gasped and choked.
You—you was—you was quotin’ the Book, Ben.
I which?
You was quotin’ the Scripture! You said—you said, And a little child shall lead them.
Ben let go then and got back down in his bunk again and rolled up one of his socks and stuffed it into his mouth before he went back to sleep, and next morning when he woke to the siren’s vast, echoing contralto the sock was still in his mouth, foul-tasting and thick on his dry tongue, but he knew, at least, that he had not talked. He spat it out and grinned across the cell at Preacher, dressed and shaved long before the morning siren blew. His nose was swollen and his eyes were puffed and black from the blow Ben had given him. Ben laughed out loud. Nothing would ever stop Preacher. Already the glitter was back of those hunting eyes; already the question was forming again behind those thin, mad lips. A feller almost had to hand it to Preacher.
Ben?
What, Preacher?
I’ll be leaving this place in another month. You’ll be dead then, Ben. Dead and gone to make your peace with God! Now if you was to tell me, boy, it might go easier. Why, Ben, with that ten thousand dollars I could build a tabernacle that would make that Wheeling Island place look like a chickenhouse! I’d even name it after you, boy! The Ben Harper Tabernacle! How’s that sound? It’d be the glory of them all, Ben! The finest gospel tabernacle on the whole Ohio River!
Keep talkin’, Preacher.
The Lord might feel kindly turned toward you, Ben! The Lord might say: What’s a little murder—
Would you have free candy for the kids, Preacher?
Well, yes, I would.
Would you give out free eats to all the poor folks that was hungry, Preacher?
Don’t jest, Ben.
I ain’t jestin’, Preacher. Would you?
Yes, Ben. If you say so, boy. It’d be your tabernacle. All them poor souls out there wanderin’ around hungry in this terr’ble depression—all them folks driven to stealin’ and whorin’! Just think, Ben! They’d come there and bless your name!
Ben Harper bends and searches under the bunk for his other sock.
Keep talkin’, Preacher, he chuckles. Keep talkin’!
—
And the other one had his dreams, too. He would lie there in the dark and when he wasn’t thinking about new ways to make Ben talk he would think about the women. He could never be exactly sure how many there had been.