Having no accuser, he
had been discharged. He went back
to his work, and if he opened his lips
I never knew. Every day I saw him
at work, and he never failed to give
me a surly look. Every dusk I saw
him in his door-way, waiting, and I
could guess for what. It was easy to
believe that the stern purpose in his
face would make its way through
space and draw her to him again.
And she did come back one day. I
had just limped down the mountain
with a sprained ankle. A crowd of
women was gathered at the edge of
the woods, looking with all their eyes
to the shanty on the river-bank. The
girl stood in the door-way. The
mountaineer was coming back from work
with his face down.
``He hain't seed her yit,'' said one.
``He's goin' to kill her shore. I tol'
her he would. She said she reckoned
he would, but she didn't keer.''
For a moment I was paralyzed by
the tragedy at hand. She was in the
door looking at him when he raised
his head. For one moment he stood
still, staring, and then he started
towards her with a quickened step. I
started too, then, every step a torture,
and as I limped ahead she made a
gesture of terror and backed into the
room before him.
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