not as welcoming. The trouble was that they
were forcing each other to mourn and remember what in fact they wanted to forget. Sometimes
Bobby could: when he was playing basketball or driving his car over country roads at eighty miles
an hour, or when, as part of a self-imposed athletic program (his ambition was to be a high-school
gymnastics instructor), he took long-distance jog-trots across flat yellow fields. And now, after
helping clear the dining table of all its holiday dishes, that was what he decided to do — put on a
sweatshirt and go for a run.
The weather was remarkable. Even for western Kansas, renowned for the longevity of its Indian
summers, the current sample seemed far-fetched — dry air, bold sun, azure sky. Optimistic
ranchers were predicting an «open winter» — a season so bland that cattle could graze during the
whole of it. Such winters are rare, but Bobby could remember one — the year he had started to
court Nancy. They were both twelve, and after school he used to carry her book satchel the mile
separating the Holcomb school-house from her father’s farm ranch. Often, if the day was warm
and sun-kindled, they stopped along the way and sat by the river, a snaky, slow-moving, brown piece of the Arkansas.
Once Nancy had said to him, «One summer, when we were in Colorado, I saw where the
Arkansas begins. The exact place. You wouldn’t believe it, though. That it was our river. It’s not
the same color. But pure as drinking water. And fast. And full of rocks. Whirlpools. Daddy caught
a trout.» It had stayed with Bobby, her memory of the river’s source, and since her death. . . Well,
he couldn’t explain it, but whenever he looked at the
Arkansas, it was for an instant transformed, and what he saw was not a muddy stream
meandering across the Kansas plains, but what Nancy had described — a Colorado torrent, a
chilly, crystal trout river speeding down a mountain valley. That was how Nancy had been: like
young water — energetic, joyous.
Usually, though, western Kansas winters are imprisoning, and usually frost on the fields and
razory winds have altered the climate before Christmas. Some years back snow had fallen on
Christmas Eve and continued falling, and when Bobby set out the next morning for the Clutter
property, a three-mile walk, he had had to fight through deep drifts. It was worth it, for though he
was numbed and scarlet, the welcome he got thawed him thoroughly. Nancy was amazed and
proud, and her mother, often so timid and distant, had hugged and kissed him, insisting that he
wrap up in a quilt and sit close to the parlor fire. While the women worked in the kitchen, he and
Kenyon and Mr. Clutter had sat around the fire cracking walnuts and pecans, and Mr. Clutter said
he was reminded of another Christmas, when he was Kenyon’s age: «There were seven of us.
Mother, my father, the two girls, and us three boys. We lived on a farm a good ways from town.
For that reason it was the custom to do our Christmas buying in a bunch — make the trip once and
do it all together. The year I’m thinking of, the morning we were supposed to go, the snow was
high as today, higher, and still coming down — flakes like saucers. Looked like we were in for a
snowbound Christmas with no presents under the tree. Mother and the girls were heart-broken.
Then I had an idea.» He would saddle their huskiest plow horse, ride into town, and shop for
everybody. The family agreed. All of them gave him their Christmas savings and a list of the
things they wished him to buy: four yards of calico, a foot-ball, a pincushion, shotgun shells — an
assortment of orders that took until nightfall to fill. Heading homeward, the purchases secure
inside a tarpaulin sack, he was grateful that his father had forced him to carry a lantern, and glad,
too, that the horse’s harness was strung with bells, for both their jaunty racket and the careening
light of the kerosene lantern were a comfort to him.
«The ride in, that was easy, a piece of cake. But now the road was gone, and every landmark.»
Earth and air — all was snow. The horse, up to his haunches in it, slipped sidewise. «I dropped our
lamp. We were lost in the night. It was just a question of time before we fell asleep and froze.
Yes, I was afraid. But I prayed. And I felt God’s presence . . .» Dogs howled. He followed the
noise until he saw the windows of a neighboring farmhouse. «I ought to have stopped there. But I
thought of the family — imagined my mother in tears, Dad and the boys getting up a search party,
and I pushed on. So, naturally, I wasn’t too happy when finally I reached home and found the
house dark. Doors locked. Found everybody had gone to bed and plain forgot me. None of them
could understand why I was so put out. Dad said, ‘We were sure you’d stay the night in town.
Good grief, boy! Who’d have thought you hadn’t better sense than to start home in a perfect
blizzard?'»
The cider-tart odor of spoiling apples. Apple trees and pear trees, peach and cherry: Mr. Clutter’s
orchard, the treasured assembly of fruit trees he had planted. Bobby, running mindlessly, had not
meant to come here, or to any other part of River Valley Farm. It was inexplicable, and he turned
to leave, but he turned again and wandered toward the house — white and solid and spacious. He
had always been impressed by it, and pleased to think that his girl friend lived there. But now that
it was deprived of the late owner’s dedicated attention, the first threads of decay’s cobweb were
being spun. A gravel rake lay rusting in the driveway; the lawn was parched and shabby. That
fateful Sunday, when the sheriff summoned ambulances to remove the murdered family, the
ambulances had driven across the grass straight to the front door, and the tire tracks were still
visible.
The hired man’s house was empty, too; he had found new quarters for his family nearer Holcomb

to no one’s surprise, for nowadays, though the weather was glittering, the Clutter place seemed
shadowed, and hushed, and motionless. But as Bobby passed a storage barn and, beyond that, a livestock corral, he heard a horse’s tail swish. It was Nancy’s Babe, the obedient old dappled
mare with flaxen mane and dark-purple eyes like magnificent pansy blossoms. Clutching her
mane, Bobby rubbed his cheek along Babe’s neck — something Nancy used to do. And Babe
whinnied. Last Sunday, the last time he had visited the Kidwells, Sue’s mother had mentioned
Babe. Mrs. Kidwell, a fanciful woman, had been standing at a window watching dusk tint the
outdoors, the sprawling prairie. And out of the blue she had said, «Susan? You know what I keep
seeing? Nancy. On Babe. Coming this way.»
Perry noticed them first — hitch-hikers, a boy and an old man, both carrying homemade knapsacks, and despite the blowy weather, a gritty and bitter Texas wind, wearing only overalls and a
thin denim shirt. «Let’s give them a lift,» Perry said. Dick was reluctant; he had no objection to
assisting hitchhikers, provided they looked as if they could pay their way — at least «chip in a
couple of gallons of gas.» But Perry, little old big-hearted Perry, was always pestering Dick to pick
up the damnedest, sorriest-looking people. Finally Dick agreed, and stopped the car.
The boy — a stocky, sharp-eyed, talkative towhead of about twelve — was exuberantly grateful, but
the old man, whose face was seamed and yellow, feebly crawled into the back seat and slumped
there silently. The boy said, «We sure do appreciate this. Johnny was ready to drop. We ain’t had
a ride since Galveston.»
Perry and Dick had left that port city an hour earlier, having spent a morning there applying at
various shipping offices for jobs as able-bodied seamen. One company offered them immediate
work on a tanker bound for Brazil, and, indeed, the two would now have been at sea if their
prospective employer had not discovered that neither man possessed union papers or a
passport. Strangely, Dick’s disappointment exceeded Perry’s: «Brazil! That’s where they’re
building a whole new capital city. Right from scratch. Imagine getting in on the ground floor of
something like that! Any fool could make a fortune.»
«Where you headed?» Perry asked the boy.
«Sweetwater.»
«Where’s Sweetwater?»
«Well, it’s along in this direction somewhere. It’s somewhere in Texas. Johnny, here, he’s my
gramp. And he’s got a sister lives in Sweetwater. Least, I sure Jesus hope she does. We thought
she lived in Jasper, Texas. But when we got to Jasper, folks told us her and her people moved to
Galveston. But she wasn’t in Galveston — lady there said she was gone to Sweetwater. I sure
Jesus hope we find her. Johnny,» he said, rubbing the old man’s hands, as if to thaw them, «you
hear me, Johnny? We’re riding in a nice warm Chevrolet — ’56 model.»
The old man coughed, rolled his head slightly, opened and closed his eyes, and coughed again.
Dick said, «Hey, listen. What’s wrong with him?»
«It’s the change,» the boy said. «And the walking. We been walking since before Christmas.
Seems to me we covered the better part of Texas.» In the most matter-of-fact voice, and while
continuing to massage the old man’s hands, the boy told them that up to the start of the present
journey he and his grandfather and an aunt had lived alone on a farm near Shreveport, Louisiana.
Not long ago the aunt had died. «Johnny’s been poorly about a year, and Auntie had all the work
to do. With only me to help. We were chopping firewood. Chopping up a stump. Right in the
middle of it, Auntie said she was wore out. Ever seen a horse just lay down and never get up? I
have.