That night a youth, a countryboy, and his father came in to see the sheriff.
The boy told of having been on the way home in a car late Friday night, and of a man who stopped him a mile or two beyond the scene of the murder, with a pistol.
The boy believed that he was about to be robbed and even killed, and he told how he was about to trick the man into permitting him to drive right up into his own front yard, where he intended to stop the car and spring out and shout for help, but that the man suspected something and forced him to stop the car and let him out.
The father wanted to know how much of the thousand dollars would become theirs.
“You catch him and we’ll see,” the sheriff said.
So they waked the dogs and put them into another car and the youth showed them where the man had got out, and they cast the dogs, who charged immediately into the woods and with their apparent infallibility for metal in any form, found the old pistol with its two loaded chambers almost at once.
“It’s one of them old Civil War, cap-and-ball pistols,” the deputy said. “One of the caps has been snapped, but it never went off.
What do you reckon he was doing with that?”
“Turn them dogs loose,” the sheriff said. “Maybe them leashes worry them.”
They did so.
The dogs were free now; thirty minutes later they were lost.
Not the men lost the dogs; the dogs lost the men.
They were just across a small creek and a ridge, and the men could hear them plainly.
They were not baying now, with pride and assurance and perhaps pleasure.
The sound which they now made was a longdrawn and hopeless wailing, while steadily the men shouted at them.
But apparently the animals could not hear either.
Both voices were distinguishable, yet the belllike and abject wailing seemed to come from a single throat, as though the two beasts crouched flank to flank.
After a while the men found them so, crouched in a ditch.
By that time their voices sounded almost like the voices of children.
The men squatted there until it was light enough to find their way back to the cars.
Then it was Monday morning.
The temperature began to rise Monday.
On Tuesday, the night, the darkness after the hot day, is close, still, oppressive; as soon as Byron enters the house he feels the corners of his nostrils whiten and tauten with the thick smell of the stale, mankept house.
And when Hightower approaches, the smell of plump unwashed flesh and unfresh clothing—that odor of unfastidious sedentation, of static overflesh not often enough bathed—is well nigh overpowering.
Entering, Byron thinks as he has thought before:
‘That is his right.
It may not be my way, but it is his way and his right.’
And he remembers how once he had seemed to find the answer, as though by inspiration, divination:
‘It is the odor of goodness.
Of course it would smell bad to us that are bad and sinful.’
They sit again opposite one another in the study, the desk, the lighted lamp, between.
Byron sits again on the hard chair, his face lowered, still.
His voice is sober, stubborn: the voice of a man saying something which will be not only unpleasing, but will not be believed.
“I am going to find another place for her.
A place where it will be more private.
Where she can ...”
Hightower watches his lowered face.
“Why must she move?
When she is comfortable there, with a woman at hand if she should need one?”
Byron does not answer.
He sits motionless, downlooking; his face is stubborn, still; looking at it, Hightower thinks,
‘It is because so much happens.
Too much happens.
That’s it.
Man performs, engenders, so much more than he can or should have to bear.
That’s how he finds that he can bear anything.
That’s it. That’s what is so terrible.
That he can bear anything, anything.’
He watches Byron.
“Is Mrs. Beard the only reason why she is going to move?”