He had only to lift his heel to crush that ruddy, good-looking, complacent face.He hurried past him, up the creaking stairs.His wife lay still on one side of the bed, apparently asleep, her face half-hidden in her loosened, fluffy hair.It was well; for in the vague shyness and restraint that was beginning to take possession of him he felt he could not have spoken to her, or, if he had, it would have been only to voice the horrible, unformulated things that seemed to choke him.He crept softly to the opposite side of the bed, and began to undress.As he pulled off his boots and stockings, his eye fell upon his bare, malformed feet.This caused him to look at his maimed hand, to rise, drag himself across the floor to the mirror, and gaze upon his lacerated ear.She, this prettily formed woman lying there, must have seen it often; she must have known all these years that he was not like other men,--not like the deputy, with his tight riding-boots, his soft hand, and the diamond that sparkled vulgarly on his fat little finger.Acold sweat broke over him.He drew on his stockings again, lifted the outer counterpane, and, half undressed, crept under it, wrapping its corner around his maimed hand, as if to hide it from the light.Yet he felt that he saw things dimly; there was a moisture on his cheeks and eyelids he could not account for; it must be the whiskey "coming out."His wife lay very still; she scarcely seemed to breathe.What if she should never breathe again, but die as the old Sue he knew, the lanky girl he had married, unchanged and uncontaminated? It would be better than this.Yet at the same moment the picture was before him of her pretty simulation of the barkeeper, of her white bared arms and laughing eyes, all so new, so fresh to him! He tried to listen to the slow ticking of the clock, the occasional stirring of air through the house, and the movement, like a deep sigh, which was the regular, inarticulate speech of the lonely plain beyond, and quite distinct from the evening breeze.He had heard it often, but, like so many things he had learned that day, he never seemed to have caught its meaning before.Then, perhaps, it was his supine position, perhaps some cumulative effect of the whiskey he had taken, but all this presently became confused and whirling.
Out of its gyrations he tried to grasp something, to hear voices that called him to "wake," and in the midst of it he fell into a profound sleep.
The clock ticked, the wind sighed, the woman at his side lay motionless for many minutes.
Then the deputy on the kitchen floor rolled over with an appalling snort, struggled, stretched himself, and awoke.A healthy animal, he had shaken off the fumes of liquor with a dry tongue and a thirst for water and fresh air.He raised his knees and rubbed his eyes.The water bucket was missing from the corner.Well, he knew where the spring was, and a turn out of the close and stifling kitchen would do him good.He yawned, put on his boots softly, opened the back door, and stepped out.Everything was dark, but above and around him, to the very level of his feet, all apparently pricked with bright stars.The bulk of the barn rose dimly before him on the right, to the left was the spring.He reached it, drank, dipped his head and hands in it, and arose refreshed.The dry, wholesome breath that blew over this flat disk around him, rimmed with stars, did the rest.He began to saunter slowly back, the only reminiscence of his evening's potations being the figure he recalled of his pretty hostess, with bare arms and lifted glasses, imitating the barkeeper.A complacent smile straightened his yellow mustache.How she kept glancing at him and watching him, the little witch! Ha! no wonder! What could she find in the surly, slinking, stupid brute yonder? (The gentleman here alluded to was his host.) But the deputy had not been without a certain provincial success with the fair.He was true to most men, and fearless to all.One may not be too hard upon him at this moment of his life.
For as he was passing the house he stopped suddenly.Above the dry, dusty, herbal odors of the plain, above the scent of the new-mown hay within the barn, there was distinctly another fragrance,--the smell of a pipe.But where? Was it his host who had risen to take the outer air? Then it suddenly flashed upon him that Beasley did NOT smoke, nor the constable either.The smell seemed to come from the barn.Had he followed out the train of ideas thus awakened, all might have been well; but at this moment his attention was arrested by a far more exciting incident to him,--the draped and hooded figure of Mrs.Beasley was just emerging from the house.He halted instantly in the shadow, and held his breath as she glided quickly across the intervening space and disappeared in the half-opened door of the barn.Did she know he was there? Akeen thrill passed over him; his mouth broadened into a breathless smile.It was his last! for, as he glided forward to the door, the starry heavens broke into a thousand brilliant fragments around him, the earth gave way beneath his feet, and he fell forward with half his skull shot away.
Where he fell there he lay without an outcry, with only one movement,--the curved and grasping fingers of the fighter's hand towards his guarded hip.Where he fell there he lay dead, his face downwards, his good right arm still curved around across his back.
Nothing of him moved but his blood,--broadening slowly round him in vivid color, and then sluggishly thickening and darkening until it stopped too, and sank into the earth, a dull brown stain.For an instant the stillness of death followed the echoless report, then there was a quick and feverish rustling within the barn, the hurried opening of a window in the loft, scurrying footsteps, another interval of silence, and then out of the farther darkness the sounds of horse-hoofs in the muffled dust of the road.But not a sound or movement in the sleeping house beyond.
