The farmhouse was well hidden in the hills. It was several miles from the main road, and stood entirely alone. It was well off the beaten track.
The sun was just up. Dillon and Roxy had spent the night in the woods, fearing to call at the farmhouse at night. They were both tired and irritable. Dillon’s nerves seemed to stand outside his body, so that the slightest movement or sound jarred him.
Roxy handled Ma Chester. She seemed to know all about it. Joe had got her on the telephone.
She said, “I guess you two want to see your room.”
They followed her into the farmhouse. There, was a smell of dirt and cooking in the place. Dillon twitched his nose a little.
The main living-room was bare and dirty. An old man who looked old enough to be Ma Chester’s father sat in a small rocker in front of the kitchen stove. In spite of the growing heat from the sun, he seemed to be cold, shivering every now and then. He was bald, unshaven and rheumy. He didn’t bother to look up as they came in.
Ma Chester led them through to a door at the far end. The room would have shamed an Eastside tenement. Dillon looked round, his face showing his disgust.
“I’ll bring you some breakfast,” the old woman said. She said it as if she expected a refusal.
Dillon said, “Yeah, and make it a big one.”
When she had gone, pulling the door behind her, Dillon wandered round the room. “A thousand bucks for this,” he said. “I’ll wring that goddam chiseller’s neck.”