The Auctioneer

The barn was on fire now, too, but people were still running in to carry out water pumps and separators and power mowers. As flames became visible in more and more windows, the stillness was broken only by the footsteps of the people and the muted panting of the fire itself. The townspeople gathered closer and closer together, leaning into each other to stare in trancelike silence as the fire rolled through the house.

“There he is!” shouted Sally Rouse. And then, her full voice rising, “He’s in there!”

But still, during a long silence, the glimmer of the fire within seemed the only life behind the sooty windows.

Then, one by one, the people saw it. In the central attic dormer, still unlit by fire, a ghostlike whiteness floated in and out of focus. And beneath it, the shadow of torso and arms moved against the black glass of the window. Pale fingers began to move against the mullions, touching the panes, trying, with ritual slowness, to open the window. It would not give. The hands struggled—distant, ineffectual, and dreamlike.

Then, with a jolt of convincing energy, the figure straightened up and smashed a foot through the bottom of the window. Glass sprayed down on the roof of the porch below and everyone had a clear vision of the scarred yellow sole of a work boot.

Smoke billowed from the break and in moments the golden glint of fire appeared in the attic room. The dark shadow sagged against the top of the window. Behind him, something caught fire. In the brief blaze, the townspeople recognized the green work clothes and the length and strength of the man they were looking for. The whiteness was a towel wrapped around his head.

“Get a ladder,” yelled Sam Parry. “Somebody get a ladder.” He himself ran a few steps toward the firehouse, then stopped and looked around for help. Bob Gore ran past him and veered around the house toward the barn. None of the other townspeople moved.

A surf of smoke washed up and down over the roof around the dormer. Here and there, a ball of flame slipped down the steep pitch and disappeared. Then, with a shudder, a pillar of fire burst free and leaped against the sky.

Now steady flames inside lit the blank white towel and enlarged and blackened the silhouette in the window. Slowly, both arms moved up, palms outward. The hands began to beat against the upper sash, shaking the panes and finally breaking one. The swaddled head leaned into the hole for air, but the smoke gathered to it also, and spun in gagging gray spirals around the head.

Only then did anybody notice Bob Gore climbing a ladder to the flat porch roof directly beneath the window. Ian James followed him up and the two pulled the wooden ladder up onto the roof and set it against the sill of the high dormer window.

Molly Tucker cried out, clearly now, “Let him burn!”

The figure groped at the window. Bob Gore started up the ladder, a hatchet in his belt. As he climbed, the townspeople disintegrated into commotion.

“Stop!” cried Jimmy Carroll. “Let him burn!”

Gore paused and turned to look down at the crowd.

Go get him, ’ Ma urged. She looked ancient and tired in the quivering light.

A gunshot punctured the hubbub and reduced the Parade to stillness except for the sound of the fire, roaring now through the roof.

Gore looked behind him and began to scuttle down the ladder.

In the window, the figure did not move. He stood erect, his arms still raised against the wooden framework that held him.

“Get up there!” hollered Sam Parry.

Gore hung on the bottom rung. This time, Ian James headed up the ladder, pushing Gore ahead of him.

But before they were halfway up, four or five shots rang out. They came from all directions and they came at almost the same moment. The unbroken panes in the high dormer window shattered. The figure slowly crumpled, clawing at the jagged edges of broken glass as he collapsed, gradually disappearing inside the house.

Bob Gore stepped to the edge of the roof and faced the crowd. The people confronted him without expression and without motion. No guns were visible in the black shadows, and every eye was fixed on the burning house with its empty window.

Gore turned and headed up the ladder. He hit the window frame with his hatchet, splintering the old wood and releasing a wall of smoke. He coughed and ducked. Then he took a deep breath, threw one leg over the sill, and leaned into the room.

The once-graceful limbs in the fresh green work clothes flopped about awkwardly and resisted his efforts to get a grip on them. Finally, he got the arms across one of his shoulders and the legs across the other. James steadied the ladder, and Gore backed down with his burden.

The body jerked from side to side as Gore moved, and the towel around the head, soaked and brilliant now with blood, gradually unwound. When Gore turned at the bottom of the ladder to lower the heavy body onto the porch roof, the towel loosened and fell away.