In Cold Blood, 3.13: Bobby’s Run Pt. 2

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 girlfriend 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 take 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 their 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."