crazy kid； working appeals； apt to be around for awhile。 Oh； that all sounded just fine。 Suddenly the day seemed hotter than ever； and I could no longer put off seeing Warden Moores。
I worked for three wardens during my years as a Cold Mountain guard； Hal Moores was the last and best of them。 In a walk。 Honest； straightforward； lacking even Curtis Anderson's rudimentary wit； but equipped with just enough political savvy to keep his job during those grim years 。。。 and enough integrity to keep from getting seduced by the game。 He would not rise any higher； but that seemed all right with him。 He was fifty…eight or …nine back then； with a deeply lined bloodhound face that Bobo Marchant probably would have felt right at home with。 He had white hair and his hands shook with some sort of palsy； but he was strong。 The year before； when a prisoner had rushed him in the exercise yard with a shank whittled out of a crate…slat； Moores had stood his ground； grabbed the skatehound's wrist； and had twisted it so hard that the snapping bones had sounded like dry twigs burning in a hot fire。 The skatehound； all his grievances forgotten； had gone down on his knees in the dirt and begun screaming for his mother。 〃I'm not her；〃 Moores said in his cultured Southern voice； 〃But if I was； I'd raise up my skirts and piss on you from the loins that gave you birth。〃
When I came into his office； he started to get up and I waved him back down。 I took the seat across the desk from him； and began by asking about his wife 。。。 except in our part of the world； that's not how you do it。 〃How's that pretty gal of yours〃 is what I asked； as if Melinda had seen only seventeen summers instead of sixty…two or …three。 My concern was genuine he was a woman I could have loved and married myself；