Ballard tugged at the hem of his nightgown to hide himself. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there a minute. Then he stood up. He sat back down again and gripped the little table. Where we goin? he said. Somebody in the back of the crowd said something but Ballard didn't catch it. Is that all of a thing you got to wear? I don't know. They opened a closet and looked in but there were only some mops and a bucket. They stood there looking at Ballard. He didn't look like much. We better get out of here if we're goin. Earl's likely gone to fetch the sheriff. Let's go, Ballard. They raised him up and pushed him toward the door and closed ranks behind him. He looked back once at the bed. Then they were going down the wide hospital corridor. Past open doors where people in bed watched him leaving, the linoleum cold under his feet and his legs wobbling a bit as he went. It was a cool clear night. Ballard's eyes went upward to the cold wash of stars that lay beyond the pole lamps in the hospital parking lot. They crossed the black asphalt, damp from recent rain, and the men opened the door of a pickup truck and motioned Ballard in. He crawled up in the cab and sat with his bare legs together in front of him. Men got in on either side and the motor started and the lights came up and the lights from other cars and trucks down the parking lot. Ballard had to shift his knees like a child for the man to get 'to the gear lever. They pulled out of the parking lot and down the street. Where we goin? said Ballard. We'll all know when we get there, said the driver. They drove out the highway toward the mountains, a caravan of trucks and cars. They stopped at a house. A man left the car behind Ballard and went to the door. A woman let him in. Inside under the glare of a naked bulb he could see the woman and some children. After a while the man came out again and came down to the truck and handed in a bundle through the window . Tell him put these here on, he said. The driver handed the bundle to Ballard. Put them on, he said. It was a pair of overalls and an army shirt. He sat in the truck with the clothes in his lap and they started on up the road again. They turned off onto a dirt road and wound through low hills with black pines sprocketting across the headlights in the curves and then they took another road, grass growing in it, coming at last out onto a high meadow where the remains of a sawmill stood in the starlight. A shed with the windows stoned lightless. Stacks of gray lumber, a sawdust pile where foxes lived. The driver of the truck opened the door and stepped out. Other vehicles pulled alongside and men began to crowd about. A subdued sound of voices and car doors closing. Ballard alone bareshank in his nightshift on the seat of the truck. Let Otis watch him. Why don't we just take him up here. Let him set there. How come he ain't put them clothes on. The truck door opened. Ain't you cold, said a man. Ballard looked at him dumbly. His arm hurt. Tell him put them clothes on. He wants you to put them there clothes on, the man said. Ballard began to sort through the bundle for arm or leg holes. Otis you watch him now. Reckon we ort to tie his hands.
You could tie his hands to one of his legs like a mule. Jerry you can put that jar right back where you got it from. This here is serious business. Ballard had on the shirt and was trying to do the buttons. He'd never tried to button a shirt with one hand and he was not good at it. He got the overalls up and the straps fastened. They were soft and smelled of soap and there was room inside for a whole Ballard more. He tucked the loose sleeve of the shirt down inside the overalls and looked around. A man squatted in the bed of the truck with a shotgun watched him through the rear glass. Up on the hill by the sawmill a fire licked in the wind and the men were gathered around it. Ballard pushed the button on the glove box door in front of him and it fell open. He felt among papers, found nothing. He shut the door again. After a while he cranked down the window. You ain't got a cigarette back there have ye? he said. The man leaned forward and held a pack of cigarettes up to the open window. Ballard took one and put it in his mouth. You got a match? he said. The man handed him a match. How you fixed for spit? he said. I never ast to come out here, said Ballard. He popped the match on the dashboard and lit the cigarette and sat smoking in the dark, watching the fire on the hill. After a while a man came down and opened the door and told Ballard to get out. He climbed laboriously down and stood there in his overalls. Bring him on up, Otis. Ballard at gunpoint shuffling up the hill. He must pause to roll the cuffs of the overalls. At the fire he stood and looked down at his bare feet. Ballard. Ballard didn't answer. Ballard, we're goin to let you make it light on yourself. Ballard waited. You show us where you put them people so they can be give a decent burial and we'll put you back in that hospital and let you take your chances with the law. You got it all, said Ballard. Where's them bodies at, Ballard. I don't know nothin about no bodies. Is that your last say? Ballard said that it was. You got that cable, Fred? Sure do. A man stepped from the circle and came forward with a coiled and greasy braided steel cable. You goin to have to tie that one arm down. Anybody got a rope in their truck? I got one. Ask him about that, Ernest. Yeah Ernest. The man turned to Ballard. What did you want with them dead ladies? he said. Was you fuckin em? Ballard's face gave a funny little jerk in the firelight but he said nothing. He looked about at his tormentors. The man with the cable had uncoiled a part of it along the ground. There was a ring spliced into the end of it and the cable was pulled through in a loop like an enormous rabbit snare. You know he was, the man said. Just take him on. Someone was tying a rope about Ballard's arm. The steel cable slipped over his neck and rested on his shoulders. It was cold, smelled of oil. Then he was walking up the hill toward the sawmill. They helped him along, down the skids, stepping carefully, the flames from the bonfire stringing them in a ragged