The Man in the Tree by Damon Knight Read Free Book Online Page A

few hundred

yards and waited. In ten minutes the boy was back; Cooley watched him

out of sight through the trees and then went home.

The next day he took up his station farther away from the road, and the

next day farther still, extending his observation points little by little,

until on the fourth day he was rewarded: he saw the boy climb the opposite

slope and disappear into a thick stand of fir. He watched the ridge-line,

visible through the trees, and did not see him emerge.

The next day he was watching when the boy came down from the hillside. As

soon as he was out of sight Cooley scrambled down the slope, jumped

over the little stream, and climbed the opposite ridge fifty yards away

from the point where he had seen the boy appear. Halfway up the hill,

he worked back through the trees in the other direction. There it was:

a house built of scrap lumber in an old oak tree. In the shadowless light

he could see the footholds nailed to the tree-trunk in a zigzag line:

they were made of sawed-off pieces of oak branches, most of them with

the bark still on; their color and texture was so close to that of the

trunk that from a few feet away they would have been unnoticeable.

Cooley drove out to his cousin Jerry's place a few miles outside

Odell. Jerry was three years younger than Cooley, a lank; hollow-checked

man. They talked on the front porch; it was late in the evening, and

Jerry's wife was yelling at the kids in the kitchen.

"Here's the way it looks to me," Cooley said. "When he goes out to

get his mail, we move in. When he comes back, I'm up in the tree house

waiting for him, and you're behind the bushes. That sound all right?"

"Sure, but why not just be there when he comes out and then nail him? Easy

as pie."

"Because if anything goes wrong, either he ducks back into the house

and we have to go in after him, or else he's out of the tree and off

into the damn woods. If you don't want to do it, tell me."

"No, I'm in."

"Got a gun?"

"Sure -- same old Police Special."

"I don't mean that. A rifle -- what kind?"

"Remington .30-30, sweet little scope. Last year, doe season, I got one

right behind the ear at two hundred yards."

"No good." A scope would just get in the way. Wait a minute." Cooley

went out to his car and came back with a short-barreled rifle.

"This here is an Enfield carbine, for jungle fighting. War surplus, I got

it from a place in Corvallis four years ago. The ammo is .303 British,

ten in the clip and one in the chamber. Plink some tin cans with it

tomorrow, get used to the feel. Monday morning, I pick you up and we

go. That a deal?"

"Okay, Tom."

They parked their cars on the country road, out of sight of the mailboxes,

and went into the woods. Jerry had the carbine and his Police Special,

"just in case," and Cooley was armed with his usual Colt .45. They

followed the ridge down to the observation point Cooley had used before.

Shortly after noon they saw the boy come down from the hillside. When

he was out of sight, they crossed the valley and climbed the slope to

the treehouse. Jerry clucked his tongue admiringly. "Imagine him doing

that," he said.

"It's just a damn treehouse, Jerry."

"Sure, but way out here? Pretty slick kid."

Cooley spat. "We've got about an hour before he gets back. Pick yourself

a good spot right over there in the brush and just take it easy. No smoking,

he might see it or smell it. Soon as he starts to climb the tree, you get

a bead on him, but don't pull the trigger unless he starts down again.

Chances are you won't have to do a thing."

"You sure you want to do it this way? I mean, be's just a kid."

"Jerry, that's the reason . Suppose I haul him in, what will the law

do? They'll put him in the juvenile detention house for a year, maybe,

and then he's walking around, and my kid is dead."

Jerry nodded. "Guess I'd feel the same way."

Cooley climbed the footholds, eased the door up and looked in. He saw

wooden shelves, a canvas