Джон Макдональд - More Good Old Stuff

At last he found the spot he was looking for. Gray rocks climbed up out of the slanted forest floor. He circled the rocks and climbed up behind them. Then he walked to the edge. He was above the tops of the trees which grew on the slope below the rocks. He could see the entire lake, the two long buildings on his right and the three cabins almost directly across from him.

He sat down on the mossy top of the rocks and put the rifle and the camera beside him. His shirt stuck to him and he pulled it away from his damp skin. He took deep breaths until his wind was back. He watched across the lake.

Frick came running from the bunkhouse down to the lakeshore. He dipped what looked to be a tin pail into the lake water and hurried back. Post grinned as he thought of Drake nursing his crushed nose. He regretted that he hadn’t had time to stay and enjoy it. He hummed softly to himself.

He saw the slim figure of Nan hurry from the Bendersons’ cabin and head toward the long buildings. There was something frantic in the way she was running. He stopped humming and watched her. Strane ran from the bunkhouse and met her when she was in front of the last cabin. Post could see that he was shouting at her.

She tried to squeeze past him. He grabbed her wrist and looked around for a long second, staring at the long buildings. He ignored the blows she was flinging at his head. He turned back to her and grabbed her around the waist. He clamped a big hand across her mouth and carried her, kicking and struggling, into a nearby clump of brush. Post jumped up and then realized that there was nothing he could do.

She broke out of the bushes, Strane behind her. She poised for a second on the rocks as the tall man reached for her again. Then she went out in a long, shallow dive. Strane hesitated. He waited long enough to give her ten yards’ start and then he went in after her.

At first it looked to Post as though he couldn’t possibly catch her. She surged through the water with a smooth-flowing stroke, her dark hair plastered against her head. Strane slapped the water with his arms and kept his head high. He looked clumsy. But as he watched, he saw the distance begin to narrow between them. It narrowed slowly, but he could see that he would catch her before she reached the middle of the lake.

He wondered if he could put a shot between them. He aimed and sighted. It was too long a shot. He estimated it at six hundred yards. He was afraid he would hit the girl.

Then Strane seemed to tire. He wasn’t closing the gap. He stayed the same distance behind the girl. Post realized that he probably wasn’t tiring. He was probably content to stay up with her, a dozen feet behind her, and catch her on the far shore. She looked around and saw him and increased her speed. He stayed at the same distance. They drew nearer. They were both going much more slowly. She began to roll in the water with each stroke.

Post suddenly realized that when they drew close enough to the shore beneath him, the trees would block his view. He saw Frick come out and peer across the water, then go back into the bunkhouse.

He aimed the rifle again. He realized that it might take two shots to discourage Strane, so he decided to fire before they were too close to the trees. He checked the clip and then worked the bolt. They were about two hundred yards away. He aimed carefully at the strip of clear water between them. He steadied his arm and slowly squeezed the trigger.

The gun cracked and jerked against his shoulder. He looked for the splash of the bullet. There wasn’t any. The smack of a bullet hitting a hard substance echoed back to him. Strane’s head sank slowly out of sight. For a second he saw the glow of the red hair just below the surface and then that too was gone.

He laid the gun down and plunged recklessly down the hill, slowing himself by grabbing the trees. He burst through the bushes at the edge of the water just as she touched bottom and stood up.

She took a few steps and fell and struggled to her feet. He waded out to meet her. Her face was twisted and she was making a high continual sound that was neither laughing nor crying. He slapped her and she stopped suddenly. Her slacks and halter clung to her.

At last he led her around the edge of the outcropping of rock and she stretched, exhausted and panting, on the thick moss. He saw her glance at the rifle. The ejected case lay gleaming on the moss near her hand.

He sat and watched the long buildings. No one came out. His mind kept circling back to the way the red hair had looked as Strane had sunk slowly under the surface. He realized what he had forgotten — that guns fire high when aimed downward. He cursed his stupidity and forgetfulness.

At last she was relaxed. She said in a weary tight voice, “I’m glad you killed him. I’m glad.”

“Shut up. I didn’t try to kill him.”

“We have to get my father. Now. What’s happened to him? Why are you over here?”

“Your father’s in no danger. They’ll take good care of him now. You and I are the ones in a spot. We’re not going back over there.” He told her what had happened to her father. He told her about Drake. He made it considerably less brutal than it had been, but it was still bad enough. She shivered and rolled over so that her head was buried in her arms. Then he told her that he had come under false promises by Drake and that he had quarreled with Drake.

When at last he was through, she sat up and brushed her drying hair back with her fingers. She looked solemn and capable.

“What do we do now, Walker?” she asked. He felt pleased that she had remembered his name, his first name. Then he remembered the way Ruth had said it and the black lethargy crept into him. Suddenly he realized that he didn’t know what to do — where to go. The world was again a pointless place and he wondered why he had gotten so interested that he had bothered to slug Frick when they stood on the trail. For a time she had been a friend. He looked down at her. She wore the face of a stranger.

“You’re odd,” she said gently. “Don’t be angry. For a while you looked... alive. Now you’re the way you were when I met you. Why?”

He didn’t answer her. He looked off across the lake. There was no point in trying to come alive again. How can a man live in a prison? He waited for long minutes and then he began to think of a plan.

At last he said, “Here’s what we do, Miss Benderson. Somehow we get through the brush back to the road. We can get a ride. I’ll see that you get dropped off in the nearest town. You can get the police to go back with you and get these men and your father. Without the film that’s in this camera, they have nothing to threaten him with. I’ll go on. I’ve done you a favor. As soon as you can manage it, put two thousand dollars in an envelope and mail it to John Robinson, General Delivery, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Remember that. I’ll be there to pick it up. Don’t tell anyone about it.”

Just at that moment he saw Frick and Drake walk down to the edge of the lake. Frick was pointing in their direction. Drake was holding something white to his face. Post leveled the gun and fired, aiming short. He saw the splash of the shot and saw the two men run back toward the bunkhouse. He fired another shot in the air and stood up. She seemed eager to start. He knew that she must be worrying about her father. He felt anxious to get out, to drop her in a village and be on his way. He longed to return to his unthinking quiet, though he knew that he would carry with him a small spot of horror — carry it until he was caught. He didn’t doubt that he would be caught — eventually.

The sun was directly overhead when, after a half hour of sweating effort, they gained the top of the first hill. The brush was too deep for them to see ahead. He worried about the direction, knowing that with the sun in the center of the sky, they stood their best chance of wandering away from the line they should follow. He hoped to parallel the regular trail.