Фредерик Браун - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 37, No. 6. Whole No. 211, June 1961

All of a sudden he’s flat up against me backwards, pressing as close as he can get and quivering all over like jelly. There’s a clatter, and he’s dropped his gun. It sounds like a bee or hornet is buzzing around us. He’s crowding me so that I can’t get out of the way without going over the crest in full view of them, and he has no room to move, badly as he wants to.

I twist and look past him, and aiming out of a cleft between two boulders alongside of us, at about chin-level to him, is a perfect honey of a rattler, coiled in striking position. It’s so close to him the weaving of its head almost seems to fan his face — or it looks that way from where I am, anyway.

There’s no time to think twice; I whip up my hand and plug three shots into it, close enough to singe the line of his jaw. There’s no trouble hitting the thick bedspring coils — I could have almost reached out and touched them if I’d cared for the pleasure.

It strikes with a sort of a- flop, but it’s dead already, and hangs down like a ribbon. But there goes our chance of surprising them; in a split second we have to topple on our bellies and back off, the way bullets are pinging all over the rocks around us, and sending up squirts of dust. They are certainly quick on the draw, those guys.

The three who were together have shot apart like a busted tomato.

One gets behind a bit of scrub; one gets in closer, where there’s a little ledge to protect him. And one doesn’t get any place at all; he goes down on his knees as I get rid of my three remaining shots.

The driver has grabbed up his gun, and shoved over to the other side to have elbow room. The figure sitting by itself farther out has jumped to its feet and started to run toward the car. I can tell by the way she runs that it is Fay North, just as I thought. But she can’t make time on the hot sand in her bare feet.

The one under the ledge suddenly darts out after her before I have finished reloading, and the second one breaks for it too, at the same time; which is what you call teamwork.

The driver gets him the second step he takes, and he slides to a stop on his car. But the first one has already caught up with her, whirled her around, and is holding her in from of him for a shield. To show us who she is, he knocks the cap off her and all her blonde hair comes tumbling down.

“Hold it, don’t shoot!” I warn the driver, but he has sense enough without being told.

The guy starts backing toward the car with her, a step at a time. He’s holding one arm twisted painfully behind her back, and you can see his gun gleaming between her elbow, but she’s game at that. She screams out to us, “Stop him from getting to that car — he’s got a tom-my-gun in it!” Then she sort of jolts, as though he hit her from behind.

I burn at that, but there’s nothing I can do. But the driver doesn’t seem to have that much self-control. He’s suddenly flying down the incline almost headfirst, in a shower of little rocks and dust, arms and legs all waving at the same time. But at least not dropping his gun like before. When I see that, I break cover too, but not quite that recklessly, keeping bent double and zigzagging down the slope.

Fay is almost hidden by smoke, the way the guy behind her is blasting away; but I see her suddenly come to life, clap her elbow tight against her ribs, imprisoning his gun and jarring his aim.

He tries to free it, they struggle, and she gets a terrific clout on the jaw for her trouble. It seems impossible the driver didn’t get any of that volley, but he keeps going under his own steam, as though he can’t stop himself.

Fay is out cold now. We are both almost over to her, but the thug with her is only a yard or two away from the car. He lets both her and the gun go and dives for it. He tears the door open and gets in. I jump over her where she is lying, without stopping, because once he gets his hands on that tommy-gun—

He has his hands on it already but that split second’s delay while he is swerving it my way costs him the decision. I tomahawk him between the eyes with the butt of my gun. The tommy goes off spasmodically in the wrong direction and the windshield up front flies in pieces; then him and me go down together in the back of the car.

The driver shows up and sort of folds up over the side of the car like a limp rag, head down.

“Gee, that was swell,” I tell him when I get my breath back, “the way you rushed him from the top of that hill!”

“Rushed him hell!” he grunts. “I lost my balance and fell.”

We truss up the guy in the car, who is all right except that my gun broke his nose; and then we go back to where Fay is sitting up in the sand, looking very bedraggled. Her shoulder is wrenched from the way he had held her, there is a lump on her jaw, and her face is all grimy and dust-streaked. Even so, when we stand her on her feet and she takes off those smoked glasses, him and me both stare at her.

“I know — never mind rubbing it in,” she groans. “After this, I’m through passing myself off as Fay North, rubber checks or no rubber checks. What an experience! I’m her stand-in,” she explains, limping back to the car. “Same measurements, coloring, and everything. I guess that’s what gave me the idea. But all I ask you boys is to pick a nice cool jail for me where the sun never shines — if we ever get back to civilization.”

About three o’clock a plane sent out from the casino to look for us sights us and comes down, and the girl and the driver go back in it, but we neither of us say anything about what she has done. I stay there with two cars, two dead snatch-artists and one live one, a pailful of water, and a stack of sandwiches for company; and it’s early Monday morning before I’m back in Agua with the rescue party sent out to get me.

She’s been let out, of course, but she’s standing there waiting for me on the casino steps.

“Gee, Miss North,” I mumble, “how was I to know—?”

She shakes her finger at me and says, “Now don’t try to act modest. You knew what you were doing, and I think it was simply wonderful of you! That was my new system, of course. Remember, I told you I consulted an astrologer the day we left Hollywood. She told me the trouble with my betting was I had the wrong aura! I was too blonde and refined. She said if I’d send out tough brunette vibrations my luck would change. Of course I couldn’t tell you, because that would have broken my winning streak.”

“Then you’re not sore?”

“Sore? Why it was wonderful of you Shad, the way you put me in jail to save me from being kidnaped. Such foresight — such cleverness! And I’m through with Timothy for trying such a thing on me. You’re my business manager from now on — and I won’t take no for an answer!”

As long as she won’t, I don’t try to say it.

Number 21 in our series of “first stories”... It is the exception that proves the rule, and Jeraldine Davis’ “Grownups Sure Are Funny” is a case in point. Although the author’s theme is a dangerous one, she handles it with remarkable delicacy — indeed, Mrs. Davis’ control of her material and the discipline of her writing are amazing in и “first story” Here is a newcomer with a perception and sensitivity that many old “pros” will envy...

Mrs. Davis is in her mid-thirties. She was graduated in 1947 from the University of Colorado where she majored in philosophy and English (always an excellent combination for would-be writers). At the time we accepted her “first story!” she was earning her livelihood by running a small secretarial service in Houston, Texas.

We predict a bright future for Jeraldine Davis — if only she continues to write...