Horace McCoy: Frost Rides Alone (Short Story)

Frost tied the gag and then stepped back to inspect his craftmanship. Apart from the woman’s squirming, and nobody has ever invented a way to stop that, he had to confess it was very good.

“Not bad for a beginner,” he observed.

The woman grunted and her eyes flashed. Frost picked her up and deposited her, none too carefully, on a lounge. He whispered in her ear: “Now we’re going up to take the wheel.” She grunted again, and in a fit of temper wriggled to the floor with a bang.

Frost looked at her loftily. “All right, baby— suit yourself.”

Helen Stevens handed him his pistol and said: “Don’t you think it would be wise to use the radio and let somebody know where we are?”

Frost slanted his head from side to side as if he had known her a century; decided she, too, was a fluffy bit of femininity. His light mood was sharpened by his success. “Another great idea,” he said. “Let’s have a look.”

They came on deck together, he holding her hand. It was, like the night, warm and soft—he remembered snatches of books and stories he’d read about women … regal poise … generations of aristocrats to produce one like this … long lashes … and full red lips…. He even tried to recall some poetry.

He looked at her suddenly as if he knew she had read his thoughts. He was blushing…. She laughed. He laughed too—not knowing what else to do.

They entered the wheelhouse of the Catherine B as she rose on a long swell, poised herself, and settled into the valley of the Gulf. It was dark and quiet, only a light glowed from the compass box; Frost found the switch and pulled it. A light sprang into life at the top of the pilothouse.

On one side was the wireless and without further ado Frost seated himself and cut on the switch. The motor hummed, tiny sparks glowed, and he adjusted the head set. He tapped out a message hurriedly. Presently there was a light cracking sound in the headphone and he bent over his task. He finished and sat up.

“They’re on their way,” he said.

He took a look at the binnacle and moved to the chart table. “Now to figure out which way to go,” he remarked. “I’d hate to wind up in Cuba.” He studied the chart for a few silent minutes. Then he moved the wheel and unchained it. “Look,” he said, “think you can hold this wheel on one-eighteen when I get her on that course?”

“Sure,” she said, still the adventuress.

“I’ll have a look around,” Frost said. He went to the side of the box and yanked at the control. From somewhere in the boat’s depth a bell tinkled. It slowly gained speed. Frost spun the wheel and held her circling until she was on the course he had determined upon as most likely to intercept the cutter he had summoned. Frost reached into his shoulder-holster and took out his other pistol. He laid it on the table beside her. “That’s a .38,” he said; “fitted with a silencer. And it’s ready to blast.” She nodded and he went out.

Frost noted that the Catherine B was holding steady at about half speed. He went to the rail and unloosed the rope that anchored his plane, snubbed it along the rail and finally tied it off the stern. Then he walked for’ard and went below through the fo’csle.

Helen Stevens, left alone on as weird an adventure as any newspaper woman ever had, gripped the wheel, her teeth clenched, and stared into that disk of white light that held the magic number, 118, wavering across a red line.

Some time later Frost emerged from the shadows of the deck-house and came forward into the wheelhouse wearing a wide smile.

“We’re all alone but for the engineer,” he said. “Now I’ll take charge of that.” He took the wheel, and she stood beside him and shivered.

“You might as well get comfortable,” he said.

“I’m all right,” she said. “I think this is a good time to begin that belated interview. Born?”

“Yes?”

She laughed. “Where?”

“I’d rather talk about you,” Frost said. “How long are you going to be around Texas?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“How long it takes to get this story.”

“In that case—” he smiled.

And she smiled.

They probably would have been talking yet had not a siren sounded off the port side some two hours later. Frost rang the signal for power off and went out of the wheelhouse.

“Ahoy, there!”

“Who’s there?”

“U.S. Coast Guard!”

“Okey! This is Frost—Texas Rangers!”

The cutter pulled up alongside, its fenders bumped and they lashed on. Haifa dozen huskies vaulted the rails. The leader shifted his pistol to his right hand and came forward fast. Frost could see in the half-light he was some sort of an officer.

“Frost?”

“Right!”

“I’m Al Bennett.” They shook hands. “We picked up your message. I radioed Clay in Corpus that I’d located you.”

Thanks,” said Frost. “Can you send a man over to take the wheel? I’ve got somebody in there who’s just about washed up.”

“Sure,” said Bennett. “Bucko—on the wheel!”

The man saluted smartly and preceded Frost and Bennett into the wheelhouse.

“Miss Stevens this is Mr. Bennett, of the Coast Guard.” Bennett nodded his head. “So you’re the little girl who’s been leading us such a merry chase?”

“I’m afraid so,” she said. She took Frost’s arm.

“Bennett, there’s three of the crew in the hold—one winged. For’ard there’s a man dead and beside the sky-light there’s another one in the same fix. There is a woman below I had to tie up.”

Bennett looked at him, his eyes wide.

“Say,” he said, “is it possible you took this baby all alone?”

“It was a cinch.” Lightly.

“Yeh? Well. I don’t mind telling you the whole Coast Guard has been trying to land this bark for weeks.”

“Will you,” asked Frost, disregarding the praise, “see that we get into port okey?”

“You bet.” He went to the door and spoke to the crew who had come over in the recent boarding. “Pass the word along for the cutter to shove off. You men stay aboard with me. We’re going to Corpus.” He came back to the wheel.

“We’ll go below,” Frost said. “Er—”

“Sure,” said Bennett, grinning.

“Business,” Frost went on. “She’s getting—”

“Sure—”

But Frost, self-conscious, refused to let Bennett be diplomatic. Helen Stevens finally had to rush to the rescue. “I’m interviewing him,” she explained.

Bennett laughed, full. “That’s okey with me, Miss,” he said. “But you’d better shove off. Ox Clay and Jimmy O’Neill are on their way out here.”

Frost and the woman walked out—close together.

The moment they disappeared Bennett turned to the man at the wheel and said: “Ever hear of anything like it?”

“Beats me.”

Bennett looked aft at the shadowy form that rose and fell behind like a phantom. It was Frost’s battle plane.

“I guess,” said Bennett, soberly, “a guy has got to be a little goofy to try something like this. It wouldn’t work once in a hundred times. They must be right about that guy, Frost. I’ve read of those one-man cyclones, but I never saw one before.”

“You said it,” contributed the man at the wheel.

The Catherine B , in the firm hands of the Coast Guard, slipped on towards Corpus Christi with a grim greyhound of the Gulf for a convoy, and another on the way.

In four hours they would be in port.