She scraped the last dried-out spoonfuls of rice from the pot, swallowing
without tasting. Then she freed the oxen. She hated to risk them wandering off,
but hated more the image of them dying a slow agonizing death, tied to a tree, if
she didn’t come back. When the horizon began to weep a thin line of pink she
gathered her weapons and water and set off. For the first time she noticed the whooshing sound Mourning’s old gray trousers made as they flapped around her
legs. They’ll hear me coming a mile away, she fretted.
When she arrived at the clearing she stationed herself behind the same tree
she had the day before, both hands on the shotgun, watching the silent cabin.
Lazy, nearly horizontal, rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, and the air was still cool. Everything looked the same. No one stirring, no smoke coming from the chimney, pathetic-looking brown and white hens scrabbling about the
dusty yard. Olivia squatted on her heels, took a long drink of water, and waited.
Why was there no smoke? Iola always bragged about her Sunday dinner bread –
how she set her bake kettle just exactly so on the edge of the hearth, so that by
the time they got home from church they had a perfect loaf, still warm, but not
one bit burnt. What if they weren’t coming home for dinner?
Suddenly the front door opened, just a tiny bit, and Olivia pulled back behind
the tree. No one came out. Then a strong wind rose up and the door swung into
the cabin with a loud bang. No one pushed it shut. No one was home.
Olivia watched for another ten minutes but knew Iola could not be inside. She
would never have left the door standing open like that, for dust and leaves to blow in. But neither would Iola have left home without pulling the door shut tight and putting the latch on. So where was she? Perhaps they’d left for church
early and then robbers or Indians had been in the place. What if the robbers were
still there? No, Olivia had been watching for too long.
Before she dared step out in the open, Olivia circled around through the
woods behind the barn. From there no one in either the cabin or barn could see
her. She set down the skin of water, bent low, clutched her weapons, and scurried
to the back wall of the barn. If Filmore was anywhere, it would be inside the barn. And if she was going to encounter them separately, Filmore had better be
the first to go. She edged her way around the far side of the barn, still hearing nothing.
Go on, get inside and out of sight fast, she said to herself. No one’s in therenow, but they could come up the trail any minute.
Still bending low, she took the last steps to the door and looked around warily,
thinking she heard a swarm of bees. Then she put her hand out and pushed,
cringing at the horribly familiar sound of that door rattling on its rail. After another moment’s hesitation, she took a deep breath and stepped inside.
It smelled like a skunk having a breakfast of rotten eggs and the buzzing grew
louder. The light was dim, but straight ahead Olivia could see Filmore sprawled
near the back wall. A cloud of horseflies swarmed around him, evil glints of green reflecting off their wings. Her first thought was that he must have gotten
drunk and been sick on himself or soiled his drawers. She raised the shotgun and
took hesitant steps forward, until she was close enough to see that half of his face was missing and the top of his head was a bloody stump. The hay he lay upon was a mass of congealed blood. Had it been an accident? Had something
fallen on him? Could a single blow do that much damage, or had someone in a
rage beaten him repeatedly?
A rough-edged piece of lumber lay a few feet from him, its surface dark with
what she assumed was blood. She kicked at it, thinking it must be one of the boards Iola and Filmore had tied her to. She turned toward where the bed had stood. It had been disassembled into pieces of lumber that lay in a pile. He must
have been taking it apart when whoever killed him came in.