Margaret Millar - Fire Will Freeze

Mrs. Vista shouted, “Driver!” again, but the door had closed and the wind howled against it with impotent rage.

Miss Seton woke up and rubbed her neck. The warmth of her head had cleaned the ice from a small circle of window. She blinked gently and looked out. The snow had drifted, curved and sharp like scimitars, along the fences. She saw the driver plod past the window with his head bent against the wind.

She leaned forward and tapped the red-haired young man on the shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

The young man scowled and said, “He’s just going to fix something.”

“Oh.” Miss Seton smiled with relief. “I’m Isobel Seton. I suppose we’ll all going to the same place and might as well get acquainted.”

“Chad Ross,” the young man said. “And this is Paula...”

“Lashley,” the girl said quickly. “Paula Lashley.”

They both turned away. Feeling properly snubbed Miss Seton looked at Mrs. Vista.

“It’s the tire chains,” Mrs. Vista said loudly. “Don’t get excited, anyone. He’s simply gone to fix the chains.”

Joyce Hunter snapped back to consciousness.

“Well, why doesn’t he?”

Every eye in the bus turned simultaneously to the back window, but like the others it was frozen solid.

“He’s been gone,” Joyce said calmly, “exactly five minutes. I’ve been counting. I don’t think it should take more than one minute to reach the chains, and if he’s fixing them why don’t we hear something?”

“Because you’re talking too much,” Mr. Hunter said irritably. “It’s all nonsense.”

Joyce smiled patiently and did not answer. The others were silent, staring at her, listening intently for any signs of the driver.

“I hope ,” Joyce said affably, after a time, “there are no wolves.”

“You silly girl,” Mrs. Vista said, just as affably.

Without a word Joyce went to the back window and began rubbing it with her handkerchief. She paid no attention to the man occupying the seat, though he watched her with quiet amusement.

The others had broken into excited conversation about wolves. Miss Seton stepped into the aisle and stretched her arms.

“I should be very surprised to see a wolf,” she murmured. “Very surprised.”

Joyce turned around. “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised. I happen to know you’re an American.”

Miss Seton nodded guiltily.

“And you wouldn’t know about wolves in Canada. Canada is teeming with wolves.”

Miss Seton conceded the wolves but refused to lose faith in the bus driver. “He may be having more difficulty than he...”

“Look out,” Joyce said grimly, pointing to the small space she had cleared with her handkerchief. “Come and look out.”

Miss Seton walked to the back of the bus and looked out.

The bus driver had disappeared.

“He seems,” Miss Seton announced in a weak voice, pressing her nose right up against the pane, “to be gone.”

The man in the back seat removed Miss Seton’s sable-covered elbow from his ribs and said dryly, “Would you mind? I’m rather ticklish.”

Miss Seton looked down into a pair of amused brown eyes shaded by the brim of a grey fedora. Against the grey of his hat and overcoat, the man’s skin was deeply tanned and leathery. His mouth was twisted in a rather cynical half-smile.

“My name’s Charles Crawford,” he said. “Remember me as Charles Crawford, a very ticklish man.”

“The bus driver,” Miss Seton said coldly, “has disappeared.”

“Well?” Mr. Crawford said. “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing at all.” Miss Seton turned away, blushing slightly. Obviously Mr. Crawford was not one of those people who are helpful in a crisis, if there was a crisis. A city slicker, she decided, who got his tan under a sun lamp and stood around making small talk.

Still, he looked competent — more competent than the other men in the bus. She glanced worriedly at the cluster of men standing in the aisle talking. Neither Mr. Hunter nor Mr. Herbert Thropple would be capable of taking charge in an emergency. They were both good substantial citizens, but they couldn’t even manage their respective women. Mr. Goodwin was probably, if the magazine was correct, drunk, or if not drunk, crazy. As for the red-haired Chad Ross, he looked as though he was impatiently waiting for the rest of the bus to be devoured by wolves.

Miss Gracie Morning’s voice rose above the babble:

“Give the fellow time. Maybe he’s taking a walk or something.”

“Taking a walk?” Maudie said shrilly. “In this blizzard?”

“Well, you never can tell,” said Miss Morning, who had met many strange people in her short life and had learned not to be surprised.

“This is so stupid!” Joyce cried with a withering glance around the group. “Here we are in a serious situation and all we do is talk! The driver has gone. Why should he disappear in a raging blizzard with no place to disappear to? What is there to talk about? We’ll have to follow him, now , before the snow fills in his tracks.”

None of the others had thought of this possibility. A pregnant silence descended, broken finally by Miss Seton.

She said in a quiet voice, “If we wait much longer we won’t have any choice. The driver must have gone some place. If we follow him now, we’ll be able to reach the same place. If we wait we’ll have to stay here in the bus all night.”

“Why?” Charles Crawford demanded lazily from the back seat.

“Talk, talk, talk,” Joyce said scathingly. “He’s been gone fifteen minutes now.”

“Perhaps Mr. Crawford has a suggestion,” Miss Seton said.

“Well,” Mr. Crawford said, “I have driven buses.”

Mrs. Vista beamed in the direction of Mr. Crawford. “Splendid! I knew everything would come right in the end. ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men...’ ”

“Evaline,” Mr. Goodwin said sadly, “it is bourgeois to quote Shakespeare.”

“You can?” Miss Seton said sharply to Mr. Crawford. “You think you can drive it?”

“Of course,” said Mr. Crawford.

“Hadn’t you better hurry then? The snow may be drifting over the road.”

Mr. Crawford rose from his seat. The others fell back to let him pass. He seated himself behind the wheel and reached for the ignition.

“And what,” Joyce inquired with gentle irony, “if the driver comes back and finds us gone? He may freeze to death. I think we’re making a terrible mistake and I’ll bet two to one that Mr. Crawford couldn’t drive a camel .”

“True,” said Mr. Crawford. The engine began to roar and Mrs. Vista began to roar, too, encouraging it.

The others sat on the edge of their seats waiting for the lurch forward. The lurch came, and another, and another, and the bus was a few yards closer to the Chateau Neige. The engine raced and sputtered into silence.

Mr. Crawford removed his hat and Miss Seton could see that he was sweating and his hands were clenched tightly on the steering wheel, almost desperately.

Queer, Miss Seton thought. In an interval between lurches she moved up the aisle and took the front seat beside Mrs. Vista. Though the bus was extremely cold she saw that Mr. Crawford had unbuttoned his overcoat. Lurch . Mr. Crawford’s overcoat pocket swung and struck the back of his seat. There was a clang of metal, barely noticeable over the roar of the engine.

He has a gun, Miss Seton thought, and the whole scene became suddenly unreal — the blizzard, the missing driver, Mr. Crawford bent over the wheel with his breath coming out of his mouth like puffs of smoke, the gun in his pocket...

Lurch . The engine died again and Mr. Crawford’s mouth moved in silent cursing.