His panama hat is soiled, and beneath it, between hat and skull against the heat, the edge and corners of a soiled handkerchief protrude.
He has been to town to do his semiweekly marketing, where, gaunt, misshapen, with his gray stubble and his dark spectacleblurred eyes and his blackrimmed hands and the rank manodor of his sedentary and unwashed flesh, he entered the one odorous and cluttered store which he patronised and paid with cash for what he bought.
“Well, they found that nigger’s trail at last,” the proprietor said.
“Negro?” Hightower said.
He became utterly still, in the act of putting into his pocket the change from his purchases.
“That bah—fellow; the murderer.
I said all the time that he wasn’t right.
Wasn’t a white man.
That there was something funny about him.
But you can’t tell folks nothing until—”
“Found him?” Hightower said.
“You durn right they did.
Why, the fool never even had sense enough to get out of the county.
Here the sheriff has been telephoning all over the country for him, and the black son—uh was right here under his durn nose all the time.”
“And they have …” He leaned forward against the counter, above his laden basket.
He could feel the counter edge against his stomach.
It felt solid, stable enough; it was more like the earth itself were rocking faintly, preparing to move.
Then it seemed to move, like something released slowly and without haste, in an augmenting swoop, and cleverly, since the eye was tricked into believing that the dingy shelves ranked with flyspecked tins, and the merchant himself behind the counter, had not moved; outraging, tricking sense.
And he thinking,
‘I wont!
I wont!
I have bought immunity.
I have paid.
I have paid.’
“They ain’t caught him yet,” the proprietor said. “But they will.
The sheriff taken the dogs out to the church before daylight this morning.
They ain’t six hours behind him.
To think that the durn fool never had no better sense ... show he is a nigger, even if nothing else. …” Then the proprietor was saying, “Was that all today?”
“What?” Hightower said. “What?”
“Was that all you wanted?”
“Yes.
Yes.
That was ...” He began to fumble in his pocket, the proprietor watching him.
His hand came forth, still fumbling.
It blundered upon the counter, shedding coins.
The proprietor stopped two or three of them as they were about to roll off the counter.
“What’s this for?” the proprietor said.
“For the ...” Hightower’s hand fumbled at the laden basket. “For—”
“You already paid.” The proprietor was watching him, curious. “That’s your change here, that I just gave you.
For the dollar bill.”
“Oh,” Hightower said. “Yes.
I ... I just—” The merchant was gathering up the coins.
He handed them back.
When the customer’s hand touched his it felt like ice.
“It’s this hot weather,” the proprietor said. “It does wear a man out.
Do you want to set down a spell before you start home?” But Hightower apparently did not hear him.
He was moving now, toward the door, while the merchant watched him.
He passed through the door and into the street, the basket on his arm, walking stiffly and carefully, like a man on ice.
It was hot; heat quivered up from the asphalt, giving to the familiar buildings about the square a nimbus quality, a quality of living and palpitant chiaroscuro.
Someone spoke to him in passing; he did not even know it.