The Killer | Page 3

only entrance. The buildings within were all
immaculate also: evidently Old Man Hooper loved whitewash.
Cottonwood trees showed their green heads; and to the right I saw the
sloped shingled roof of a larger building. Not a living creature was in
sight. I shook myself, saying that the undoubted sinister feeling of utter
silence and lifelessness was compounded of my expectations and the
time of day. But that did not satisfy me. My aroused mind, casting
about, soon struck it: I was missing the swarms of blackbirds, linnets,
purple finches, and doves that made our own ranch trees vocal. Here
were no birds. Laughing at this simple explanation of my eerie feeling,
I passed under the gate and entered the courtyard.
It, too, seemed empty. A stable occupied all one side; the other three
were formed by bunk houses and necessary out-buildings. Here, too,
dwelt absolute solitude and absolute silence. It was uncanny, as though
one walked in a vacuum. Everything was neat and shut up and
whitewashed and apparently dead. There were no sounds or signs of
occupancy. I was as much alone as though I had been in the middle of
an ocean. My mind, by now abnormally sensitive and alert, leaped on
this idea. For the same reason, it insisted--lack of life: there were no
birds here, not even flies! Of course, said I, gone to bed in the cool of
evening: why should there be? I laughed aloud and hushed suddenly;

and then nearly jumped out of my skin. The thin blue curl of smoke had
caught my eye; and I became aware of the figure of a man seated on the
ground, in the shadow, leaning against the building. The curl of smoke
was from his cigarette. He was wrapped in a serape which blended well
with the cool colour of shadow. My eyes were dazzled with the
whitewash--natural enough--yet the impression of solitude had been so
complete. It was uncanny, as though he had materialized out of the
shadow itself. Silly idea! I ranged my eye along the row of houses, and
I saw three other figures I had missed before, all broodingly immobile,
all merged in shadow, all watching me, all with the insubstantial air of
having as I looked taken body from thin air.
This was too foolish! I dismounted, dropped my horse's reins over his
head, and sauntered to the nearest figure. He was lost in the dusk of the
building and of his Mexican hat. I saw only the gleam of eyes.
"Where will I find Mr. Hooper?" I asked.
The figure waved a long, slim hand toward a wicket gate in one side of
the enclosure. He said no word, nor made another motion; and the other
figures sat as though graved from stone.
After a moment's hesitation I pushed open the wicket gate, and so
found myself in a smaller intimate courtyard of most surprising
character. Its centre was green grass, and about its border grew tall,
bright flowers. A wide verandah ran about three sides. I could see that
in the numerous windows hung white lace curtains. Mind you, this was
in Arizona of the 'nineties!
I knocked at the nearest door, and after an interval it opened and I stood
face to face with Old Man Hooper himself.
He proved to be as small as I had thought, not taller than my own
shoulder, with a bent little figure dressed in wrinkled and baggy store
clothes of a snuff brown. His bullet head had been cropped so that his
hair stood up like a short-bristled white brush. His rather round face
was brown and lined. His hands, which grasped the doorposts
uncompromisingly to bar the way, were lean and veined and old. But

all that I found in my recollections afterward to be utterly unimportant.
His eyes were his predominant, his formidable, his compelling
characteristic. They were round, the pupils very small, the irises large
and of a light flecked blue. From the pupils radiated fine lines. The
blank, cold, inscrutable stare of them bored me through to the back of
the neck. I suppose the man winked occasionally, but I never got that
impression. I've noticed that owls have this same intent, unwinking
stare--and wildcats.
"Mr. Hooper," said I, "can you keep me over night?"
It was a usual request in the old cattle country. He continued to stare at
me for some moments.
"Where are you from?" he asked at length. His voice was soft and low;
rather purring.
I mentioned our headquarters on the Gila: it did not seem worth while
to say anything about Box Springs only a dozen miles away. He stared
at me for some time more.
"Come in," he said, abruptly; and stood aside.
This was a disconcerting surprise. All I