Clay Hand by Dorothy Salisbury Davis Page A

itself was matted with weeds and a sort of knotty quag-grass. There were a few scraggy trees, but beyond that nothing to break the monotony of an untilled land whose only life was the dead deposit of centuries, the coal yield far beneath its surface.
    From the height of the hill he saw the whole town of Winston—the churches, the railroad station, the tracks, a web of them running out of vision, all looking like miniatures on a simulated setting. The nearest building was the Clauson house. Four goats were lined up at the back gate, their soft bleating rising to him.
    Phil started down the hill, intending to cover it, as if a fan might have been spread over it, by following each rib to its apex on top. The first few trips yielded him nothing except pain in the calves of his legs from the climbing. Then he came upon another abandoned mine shaft, this one freshly boarded up. About it the ground had been trampled recently, probably by many feet. It might have been the entry Kevin Laughlin had taken, and all the scuffling and tramping had come after his body was found. If that was so, it was in this area Dick had first detected the gas. He wondered if Dick knew mines and mining that well.
    Ranging the vicinity of the entry, Phil saw the weed-overgrown markings of a former railway bed. It ran through the valley around the hill and joined the main line. A flight of sparrows was the only movement along it now. He climbed the hill once more. A train whistle whined in the distance, and seemed to come up to him in an eddy of sound, bouncing from one valley to another until, at moments, it seemed within a few feet of him. He lit a cigaret and waited, presently seeing the little curls of smoke rising from among the southern hills. At the station, the mail truck turned in and backed up to the platform. Another truck was standing there, and a few men gathered around it, waiting. The train crept past the tool sheds, the engineer waving to the men working there. Phil watched it slowly take the hair-pin turn through the hills into town. When it pulled into the station, he went down the hill.

Chapter 12
    M ARGARET WAS HAVING BREAKFAST when he knocked on her door. She was wearing a trim black suit, with a white blouse that was almost clerical in the severity with which its collar circled her neck. He remembered Randy Nichols’ words immediately, and as quickly thrust them from his mind.
    “It was very kind of you to spend last evening with me, Phil,” she said coldly.
    “I thought you wanted to rest.”
    “Be honest, at least, Phil.”
    “I was ashamed to come, Margaret. I know now that was petty vanity on my part, indulging my shame. I’ll stay with you now, and do everything I can to help you.”
    She smiled up at him. “You sound like a child who knows he’s been naughty. Come and have a cup of coffee. Mrs. Krancow expected you. She brought an extra cup. I’ve made the arrangements for the train tonight for Dick’s remains. I hope to leave then, too. The sheriff has been very kind. I’m not sure the coroner will be as considerate.”
    “I think he wants a quick verdict,” Phil said.
    “Why?”
    “The men are still out at one of the mines as a result of the death of a man there. Dick reported the gas in the mine by which he died. You’ll hear it all at the inquest.”
    “No doubt. But will it bring them any nearer to the cause of Dick’s death?”
    “I don’t know, Margaret. I doubt that anything will until they find out what he was doing here in the first place.”
    “And no leads on that?”
    “None that I know of.”
    Phil went to the window. People had gathered outside the funeral parlor, most of them in their Sunday clothes. They were talking together in small groups. He noticed Randy Nichols moving among them, asking a question here and there. The Winston taxi drove up. Mrs. O’Grady was sitting in the front seat with Whelan.
    “Margaret, here’s Mrs. O’Grady, if you’d like to get a look at her.”
    She