Holme looked at him. Then he said: I’m huntin a woman.
The old man nodded his head. I cain’t say as I blame ye for that. I live to see the fifth day of October I’ll be sixty-three year old and I…
No, Holme said. My sister. I meant to say I’m a-huntin my sister.
The old man looked up. Where’d you lose her at?
She run off. She’s nineteen year old and towheaded. About so high. Wears a blue dress all the time. Rinthy. That’s her name.
How come her to run off?
I don’t know. She ain’t got right good sense in some ways. She just up and left. I don’t reckon you’ve seen such a person have ye?
Not to notice it I ain’t.
Well.
I had a wife one time used to run off. Like a dog. Best place to hunt em is home again.
She ain’t rightly got a home.
Where’d she run off from then?
Holme had paused with one foot on the top step, one hand spread over his knee. He pursed his lips and spat, dry white spittle. Well, he said, she ain’t actual what you’d call run off. She just left. I figured I’d ast anyways. If she might of come this way. If I don’t find her soon I’m going to have to start huntin that tinker and I’d purely hate that.
Cormac McCarthy, Outer Dark
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