What she said gave him the clue to his next action. He’d had no conscious intentions toward her, until what she told him not to do put them into his head. He was compelled to perform the positive of every negative command she gave. It was a matter of self-assertion more than defiance, a result of being rubbed raw in his pride by Roscoe and Junior’s telling him what to do, what not to do, how worthless he was.

“Don’t touch me—”

He took one of her wrists, and when she tried to break away, he grabbed the other. She kicked him, and he pulled her to him so that she would have no room in which to kick again.

Struggling, she declared, “You are evil like your father!”

He tossed his head as if to clear it. “No.”

“Let me go!” As she made a greater effort to pull away, she dropped the shawl, and her dress split from neck to right shoulder.

He stared at her, still without purpose until she gave it to him. She began to scream, and he held her close to him with one arm so that the hand of the other might close her mouth. As she struggled harder and he worked to hold her, their bodies grew warmer, and he became more aware of the feel and smell of her. Another part of her dress ripped, the result of her own twisting. She shook her head free and cried, “No! No!” as if he had harmed her, and he had not, or had not meant to. She began to weep and to plead. “Please don’t—Don’t hurt me! Have mercy, do! Oh, have mercy!”

Her weakness made him powerful. It was not her struggling that excited him, but his own. He could, he discovered, resist. He did not have to yield when told to yield. He was not his father’s nor his brother’s servant; he was not this woman’s dog to be commanded. He would conquer her—and then all who thought him weak.

He gripped her in his arms, and she could only bleat and beg: “Have mercy! Have mercy on me!” Then suddenly, shockingly, she was no longer weak, but a force that fought back and might overcome him, “God damn you!” she cried. “God damn you, Roscoe Elk!”