Somewhere in the swamp a bird sang.
Before he reached the house Popeye left the road and followed a wooded slope.
When he emerged he saw Goodwin standing behind a tree in the orchard, looking toward the barn.
Popeye stopped at the edge of the wood and looked at Goodwin’s back.
He put another cigarette into his mouth and thrust his fingers into his vest. He went on across the orchard, walking gingerly.
Goodwin heard him and looked over his shoulder.
Popeye took a match from his vest, flicked it into flame and lit the cigarette.
Goodwin looked toward the barn again and Popeye stood at his shoulder, looking toward the barn.
“Who’s down there?” he said.
Goodwin said nothing.
Popeye jetted smoke from his nostrils.
“I’m clearing out,” he said.
Goodwin said nothing, watching the barn.
“I said, I’m getting out of here,” Popeye said.
Without turning his head Goodwin cursed him.
Popeye smoked quietly, the cigarette wreathing across his still, soft, black gaze.
Then he turned and went toward the house.
The old man sat in the sun.
Popeye did not enter the house.
Instead he went on across the lawn and into the cedars until he was hidden from the house.
Then he turned and crossed the garden and the weed-choked lot and entered the barn from the rear.
Tommy squatted on his heels beside the crib door, looking toward the house.
Popeye looked at him a while, smoking.
Then he snapped the cigarette away and entered a stall quietly.
Above the manger was a wooden rack for hay, just under an opening in the loft floor.
Popeye climbed into the rack and drew himself silently into the loft, his tight coat strained into thin ridges across his narrow shoulders and back.
13
Tommy was standing in the hallway of the barn when Temple at last got the door of the crib open.
When she recognised him she was half spun, leaping back, then she whirled and ran toward him and sprang down, clutching his arm.
Then she saw Goodwin standing in the back door of the house and she whirled and leaped back into the crib and turned and leaned her head around the door, her voice making a thin eeeeeeeeeeeeee sound like bubbles in a bottle.
She leaned there, scrabbling her hands on the door, trying to pull it to, hearing Tommy’s voice.
“.……Lee says hit wont hurt you none.
All you got to do is lay down.……” It was a dry sort of sound, not in her consciousness at all, nor his pale eyes beneath the shaggy thatch.
She leaned in the door, wailing, trying to shut it.
Then she felt his hand clumsily on her thigh. “.…… says hit wont hurt you none.
All you got to do is.……”
She looked at him, his diffident, hard hand on her hip.
“Yes,” she said, “all right.
Dont you let him in here.”
“You mean fer me not to let none of them in hyer?”
“All right.
I’m not scared of rats.
You stay there and dont let him in.”
“All right.
I’ll fix hit so caint nobody git to you.
I’ll be right hyer.”
“All right.
Shut the door.
Dont let him in here.”
“All right.”