the farmer's daughter, part 3

by nick nelson

part three of three

to read part two, click here

to read part one, click here

with the sheriff gone, the farmer’s daughter resumed her knitting. the farmer resumed his staring into the fire. time passed. there were no clocks in the room, or in the house, and neither the farmer nor the daughter carried any kind of timepiece on their persons. another knock was heard at the door. not as loud or demanding as the sheriff’s, but clear enough. again, neither the farmer nor the daughter said aloud, who can that be? but the farmer hauled himself out of his chair and approached the door. the daughter was a bit surprised that the farmer did not retrieve his shotgun before opening the door, but she did not remark on it. but imagine her surprise, when on opening the door, the farmer did not angrily demand of the intruder what his business was or how he dared to impose his presence on such a foul night, but welcomed him instead with a hearty - come on in, stranger! as blasts of snow and wind, which had doubled in ferocity since the sheriff’s visit, invaded the room and almost extinguished the fire. a terrible night! continued the farmer, after closing the door. fortunately for you, we are welcoming folk in these parts. he took the stranger by the arm and led him to the fire. daughter, he said, why don’t get this poor fellow some dry clothes, while he warms himself at the fire? dry clothes? but where am i to get them? oh, frank, the hired man, left some behind when he mysteriously disappeared last summer. they will be in the closet with the rakes, behind the paint cans. as the daughter got up from her chair in the corner, she got her first good look at the stranger, and did not at like what she saw. he looked a perfect villain, with a stubbly beard and the long arms of a gorilla. his wet clothes were ripped and torn and as he was not wearing a hat, long strands of wet hair hung into his eyes, which were dark and staring. as the daughter climbed the stairs, she heard the farmer saying, once we get you into some warm clothes, we will decide where you are to sleep. and the farmer laughed as the daughter had never heard him laugh before. the daughter reached the second floor, but instead of looking for the hired man’s clothes she ran to a window at the end of the corridor between her bedroom and the farmer’s. yanking open the window, she climbed out onto a branch of the old apple tree, and shimmied down the tree and ran into the stormy night. she ran to the highway, which she could hardly see through the driving snow. she ran and ran. finally she saw a pair of headlights. she ran out in front of them. help me! she cried. help me! * at this point in the young woman’s narrative, she paused. just as mort was about to ask her why she had stopped, he too saw lights ahead - not the lights of another vehicle, but of a roadblock. he slowly drew to a stop, and a pair of uniformed men, whom he assumed to be state troopers , approached, one of them carrying a high powered flashlight. when the trooper shone the flashlight into the car, mort glanced over at the young woman, who had remained huddled against the door during the whole time of her recital of her story. and he beheld a gray wrinkled face with one tooth, and long strands of gray hair covering its eyes. can i help you, officer? mort managed to turn and ask. is anything wrong? i will say there is something wrong, mister. you are under arrest. arrest - arrest for what? for grave robbing, mister. and transporting a corpse across state lines! the end