Winter's Bone by Daniel Woodrell Read Free Book Online

to fall as suddenly. They’d been there two or three lifetimes, though, and cascades of snow, mushes of rain, and huffing spring wind had tried to knock them loose and send them tumbling but never did. There were narrow footpaths wending all about the slopes between the trees, along the rock ledges, from house to house, and in better weather Ree thought Hawkfall looked sort of enchanted, if a place could be enchanted but not too friendly. Up the road she saw tire tracks that left the hollow in the other direction. It was the long way to get to most useful places but there was no hill of snow to climb before the blacktop in that direction.

    The woman came out the door and down from her porch, careful of the crusty steps, wearing a pearl-colored cowboy hat with a blue feather in the band. Her joint had smoked small and she held it to Ree, who took it and inhaled. The woman said, “I do know you, really. I seen you at some of the reunions at Rocky Drop.”

    “We don’t always go.”

    “You one time smacked fire out the ass of a fat Boshell boy who flicked a booger on your dress, didn’t you?”

    “You
saw
that?”

    “Knocked his plate of deviled eggs flyin’, then made the boy say uncle with his mouth in the dirt. And you got the momma who went daffy in her head, too, right? Live close by Blond Milton out there?”

    “Yup. That’s all me.”

    “My name’s Megan. And I knew Jessup when I seen him, too, but never did talk with him none.”

    “You
knew
him?”

    Ree had smoked the joint down to scrap and held it to Megan. Megan popped it into her mouth and swallowed, then said, “Knew him when I seen him around, I mean. He does stuff I hear about.”

    “Oh. Well, he cooks crank.”

    “Honey, they all do now. You don’t even need to say it out loud.”

    Ree and Megan began to walk toward Little Arthur’s, boots squeaking into snow, and the dogs rallied about them, flicking tails against their shins, then bounding ahead to break the drifts. As they passed other houses folks opened their doors to look. Megan would wave to them and they’d wave back and the doors would close. The stone faces of the houses had caught snow in their burls and creases and looked like small ideal cliffs in the wild.

    Little Arthur’s place was up the slope, nearly to the top of the ridge. His house was built more of wood than stone but there was plenty of stone. On the steepest side of the house there had been a porch outside the kitchen door but the stairs and pilings had broken away to leave the floor unsupported above a hellish plummet, a beguiling bad idea lying in wait for somebody high to give it a try. Two bullet-riddled barrels and other metal debris rusted near the house and a battered beige car seat had been set against the wall as a summer bench. A silhouette moved in the front window as the women approached.

    Megan said, “If he’s been runnin’ on crank for a day or two, you should just leave, honey. Don’t try’n make sense to him when he’s like that, ’cause he just can’t do it behind that much shit.”

    “I know Little Arthur. He knows me. I got to find Dad.”

    The door opened and Little Arthur smiled at Ree and said, “I knew it—I been in your dreams, ain’t I?”

    “She’s lookin’ for Jessup—you seen him?”

    “You mean she ain’t lookin’ for me? Ain’t you really lookin’ for
me,
Ruthie?”

    “It’s Ree, you asshole. And I’m only out to find Dad.”

    “Asshole? Hmmm. Now, I
like
a girl that calls me bad names, like her a lot, like her a whole precious bunch, right up ’til I don’t like her none at all no more. That’s always a weepy fuckin’ time when that time happens.” Little Arthur was a little-man mix of swagger and tongue, with a trailing history of deeds that vouched for his posture. He had a mess of dark hair and dark bristly eyes, with sparse curly whiskers and bitter teeth. Even without crank in his blood he always seemed cocked, poised to split in a