Leon’s thinking of her made him curious to see her. He spoke hints, made seemingly casual speculations that encouraged answers, without learning any more than was common knowledge. Without deliberately setting out to do it, he rode his horse on several rainy days in February when there was little work at the sawmill and on the plantation, along the perimeters of the Anderson Place, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

And then one day he simply said out loud, “Hell and damnation!” and acknowledged that he was curious to see her. Feeling better and free to act natural because of his honesty, he rode his horse along the little road to the front door of the farmhouse of the Anderson Place. He did not get down to knock at the door; he did not call out. He saw no one, but he did not leave. He knew that eventually someone would discover his presence. The rain was a mere drizzle, but it was cold, Nevertheless, he waited.

Presently, a woman opened the door and bumbled out. He would not at first have recognized her as Clovis except that gossip had prepared him for her drunken appearance. Her hair looked as if it had not been properly dressed in days; it was every-which-way but the right one. Her dress was not quite disgusting, but it showed stains, the result of her drinking and eating carelessly. The shawl she must have picked up to throw over her shoulders before coming out into the damp, chilly weather of the porch was—Leon recognized it with astonishment—the very one Sarah had carried the day she was attacked, and that Alonzo, according to Roman’s report, had held like a veil in front of his face when Roman had raised the pistol to kill him.

She came to the edge of the porch and held a wooden column for support as she squinted her eyes to make out who the visitor was. When recognition came, she said, “I know you. Go away.”

He made no answer, and when the horse, disturbed by the woman’s tone and appearance, went tense—Leon could feel the body tensing with the inside of his thighs—he sat still, holding the reins a little more firmly than he had and looking back at the woman to make her feel that, although hers had been the last reaction, it was yet up to her to make the next move.

“I told you—get away from here!”

Finally he said, afraid she would simply leave him, “Clovis?”

“You remember my name, do you?”

He made no reply.

She said after a pause, “I know yours too. Leon Kendrick.”

He made no move, no reply.

“Your son Roman,” she continued after a moment, “came here and killed my son Alonzo!” She drew out the syllables of the last word, making of them a kind of howled curse.

Still he sat, making no reply.