Twelve“Git out of here. She don’t need your kind.”
Brawny arms folded in an aggressive defensive stance, her dark eyes glittering with animosity, a solid, square-faced woman with legs like tree trunks blocked entry to the Polk family shack, but as far as Hiram Williams could tell she wasn’t Mrs Polk.
He took a step back, unsteady on his feet on the unpaved ground, and prodded his cane to anchor himself. The house he’d sought out was little better than a tumbledown shed, the rough-sawn walls exposing gaps where the boards didn’t meet.
Not too bad in summer, when a gentle breeze might freshen up the stuffy interior, but wet and cold in the winter. The air was ripe with the foul smell of waste from nearby slaughterhouses that backed onto the river in this poorest part of town. Hiram pinche
