Her color got better. At first she glowed with a feverish beauty that recalled the consumptive women of romantic literature, but that beauty soon lost its fragile quality and became a glow of unapologetic vigor. Her fever and pain persisted and she had dreams that made her thrash and clutch the sheets and moan. But when she awakened, her vibrancy put off my worry.
“What were you dreaming, love?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“Why not?”
She sobbed once, both laughing and crying.
“Because I was killing you in it, silly.”
IT WAS FROM Anna Muncie that I learned about Ursie.
Five days after the attack she died of the same rolling fevers that punished Eudora. Dr. McElroy had gone to visit her and the doctors there told him that she was gone and that they had never seen anything like it. Not just the persistent fevers, they said, but the wound itself. They had never seen a hand try to grow back from a stump before. They showed him the little fingers, like an infant’s fingers with their tiny nails, sprouting from her wrist. An X-ray revealed fine hand-bones knitting at the end of the radius. She pushed her IV needles out, too. The punctures kept closing up.
The director of the hospital was a religious man and, after she was dead, he saw that she was cremated along with her records.
SHERIFF BLAKE DID leave town.
Buster Simms told me about it.
One-armed Mike had called on Sheriff Blake the second Monday after the attack and found his house standing open. He called his name and knocked for a long time but he so hated to enter anybody’s house without permission that he left and got an ice cream at Harvey’s.
He went back afterwards.
It had been more than half an hour and the door was still open.
Mike had a bad feeling. He stood on the porch and said “Estel?” another three or four times before setting a shaky foot over the threshold.
Everything was so still in the house. Leaves had blown in. Not many, but enough to crackle under his step. When he went into the kitchen he saw Estel’s pistol and holster and badge sitting on the table, as well as a note:
MIGHT BE BACK
BUT GET A NEW SHERIFF
THE LORD HAS TURNED HIS FACE FROM US
AND I AM NO GOOD
Mike stood there a long time just staring at the note. He thought about where the sheriff might have gone. He checked the whole house starting with the bedrooms, and he squinted as he entered each one because he was afraid the sheriff might have hung himself. He had not. At least not here.
The house was a mess. Estel had been eating his meals in the bedroom for the last few days and the dirty plates were stacked in one corner. Flies buzzed around these. Dirty clothes lay about nonsensically. He had stepped out of several pairs of pants and just left them. The mirror had been struck and cracks webbed out from its center.
Mike went downstairs and sat on the porch.
The sheriff had been his best friend, and now he was gone.
He had to tell someone.
But whom?
In the end, he told everybody he could find.
WHEN OLD MAN Gordeau saw the note Estel had left, he knew the town was in no shape to elect a new sheriff, so he decided on Buster as the best man to take over as acting sheriff, a temporary post. As mayor of Whitbrow, Gordeau had financial and civic duties, and had final say on big issues. It was always the sheriff, however, who took matters in hand. The mayor might be the source of the town’s wisdom, but the sheriff had to be its strength. Its daddy. The one who held the belt.
“Buster,” Gordeau had said when he went to recruit the big man, “you’re as big as a damn bear and cain’t nobody from here to Atlanta lick you.”
“A man’s size ain’t gonna matter against them things.”
“You’re missin the point. If people think whatever’s out there has to get through your thick hide first, they’re gonna feel better about stayin, and maybe fightin. Long as you do somethin.”
“Like what?”
“Well, seems to me that now we got dogs again, we ought a go back in them woods and hunt.”
Buster told me about these events in the course of his visit with me the next day, as he scoured Whitbrow for men with enough spit in them to go into the woods again. It was a thin harvest.
When he came to my door, he had his hat in his hands so the wind toyed with his thick halo of hair.
“Mr. Nichols, I know I got no right to ask favors of you after I went with those that left you and Lester in the woods. But I am askin a favor. A big one.”
“About what happened across the river, I want you to know…”
Buster stopped me by waving his hand.
“You’re a good man and you’re gonna say somethin generous about it, but I done what I done. And nothin you say’s gonna change the fact that I run out on you, and that don’t sit well with me.”
I nodded.
“We are goin back out there, but this time we got dogs. And we will find them.”
I felt my heart beat faster.
“Do you know what’s out there?” I said.
“Do you?”
“Have you got time to talk?”
“I’ll make time.”
I told him.
I told him everything. The boy in the woods. What Saul Gordeau had seen (most of that, anyway). What happened at the Nobles’. How the silver in my gun had wounded one and chased off another. I told him how I killed a monster on my stair at night and in the morning pried up a man.
I knew I was breaking covenant with Martin, but after the attack on my wife I was ready to betray any number of taxidermists to strike out at them. The man-wolves. Ursie with the tablecloth on what was left of her arm. If Martin felt squeamish about harming his “lepers” across the river, I did not.
When I was through, Buster nodded, sorting through it all in the no-man’s-land between belief and disbelief.
“I’ll come with you into the woods on one condition,” I said.
“I’m listenin.”
“Someone’s got to go to the mill town, and I mean tomorrow, and get bullets made for every gun we take with us.”
“Silver?”
“Silver.”
“Ain’t no way we can take that much time fore we go out there. Besides which, won’t nobody else believe this.”
“You do.”
He nodded slowly, looking at his boots.
Then he shook my hand and left.
It turned out he went straight to Pastor Lyndon’s house and asked him for the big, silver collection plate he had used so long to pay for the damned things’ dinner.
WHILE THE NEW sheriff went to the mill town to have bullets cast for the posse and in the days before those bullets would be ready, Whitbrow settled again into the spell of waiting it had learned so well these past months.
Stores and houses were put up for sale as refugees continued to limp away from the hurt town, but nobody came to buy. Some didn’t wait for buyers. Those who left went as far away from Whitbrow as their money would take them. Some to Morgan, but more to the mill town. One family to Nashville. Several to Atlanta. All of them were glad when they got on the road. Poverty and hunger were not as bad as what they left behind, and when they got where they were going, I doubt they talked about Whitbrow.
Sarah Woodruff left her father’s house on a clear night when the stars raged overhead, taking one change of clothes and a sack of books she could not abandon. Charley Wade saw her walking out of town with the boy who talked about the army; she walked with him all the way to the bus station in Morgan. Like my mother, she got out of this place; I hope she did a better job getting it out of her.
EUDORA BEGAN TO sleepwalk on the same night that Sarah ran off. The same starry, cool night.