The current was gentle. Far across the river I saw a tiny light now.
We drifted slowly past it. I moved my hands just enough to keep my
nose above water. The surface was calm. I yawned; I could have slept
tonight, I thought, remembering the sleepless hours of the night
before. But it would be a long time between beds for me.
I saw a glinting reflection on a ripple ahead, and glanced back. There
were lights on in the second story of the house we had left.
I called to Gaston, pointing out the lights.
"Yeah," he said. "I been watching them. I don't think we got nothing to
worry about."
They could follow our trail to the water's edge easily enough, I knew,
with nothing more than a flashlight. As if in response to my thought,
a tiny gleam appeared at ground level, wavering, blinking as the trees
passed between us. It moved, bobbing toward the river. I watched until
it emerged from the trees. I saw the yellow gleam dancing across the
water where we had started. Other lights were following now, two, three.
The whole household must have joined the chase. They must be expecting
to find me huddled on the ground nearby, exhausted, ready for the table
they had prepared for me in the presence of my enemies.
The lights fanned out, moving along the shore. I saw that we were
safely ahead of them.
"Gaston," I said, "have they got a boat back there?"
"Nah," he replied. "We're in the clear."
The little lights were pitiful, bobbing along the shore, falling behind.
We floated along then in silence for an hour or more. It was still,
almost restful. Only a gentle fluttering of the hands was required to
keep our heads above water.
Suddenly lights flashed ahead, over the river.
"Cripes," Gaston hissed, backing water. "I forgot about the Salan
bridge. Them bunnies is on there waitin' for us."
I could see the bridge, now, as the lights flashed across the pilings.
It was about a hundred yards ahead.
"Head for the far shore, Gaston," I said. "Fast and quiet."
I couldn't risk the splash of a crawl stroke, so I dog-paddled
frantically, my hands under the surface. They would have had us neatly,
if they hadn't shown the lights when they did, I thought. They couldn't
see us without them, though, so it was just a chance they had to take.
They must have estimated the speed of the river's flow, and tried to
pinpoint us. They didn't miss by much; in fact, they might not have
missed at all. I concentrated on putting every ounce of energy into my
strokes. My knees hit mud, and reeds brushed my face. I rolled over and
sat up, breathing hard. Gaston floundered a few feet away.
"Here," I hissed. "Keep it quiet."
The light on the bridge blinked out suddenly. I wondered what they'd
do next. If they headed along the banks, flashing lights, we'd have
to take to the water again; and if one man stayed on the bridge, and
flashed his light down just about the right moment--
"Let's get going," I said.
I started up the slope, crouching low. The lights appeared again, down
at the water's edge now, flashing on the tall grass and cattails.
Another appeared on the opposite bank. I stopped to listen. Feet made
sloshing sounds in the mud, a hundred feet away. Good; that would cover
our noise. My wet shoes dangled by the strings, thumping my chest.
The ground was firmer now, the grass not so tall. I stopped again,
Gaston right behind me, looking back. They'd find our tracks any
minute. We had no time to waste. The bundle of clothing was a nuisance,
but we couldn't stop to dress now.
"Come on," I whispered, and broke into a run.
Fifty feet from the top we dropped and started crawling. I didn't want
to be seen in silhouette against the sky as we topped the rise.
We pulled ourselves along, puffing and grunting. Crawling is hard
work for a grown man. Just over the top we paused to look over the
situation. The road leading to the bridge wound away toward a distant
glow in the sky.
"That's an army supply depot out that way," Gaston said. "No town."
I raised up to look back toward the river. Two lights bobbed together,
then started slowly away from the water's edge. I heard a faint shout.
"They've spotted the trail," I said. I jumped up and ran down the
slope, trying to breathe deep, in for four strides, out for four. A man
could run for a long time if he didn't get winded. Stones bruised my
bare feet.
I angled over toward the highway, with some idea of making better time.
Gaston was beside me.
"Nix," he said, puffing hard. "Them bunnies got a machine."
For a moment I didn't know what he meant; then I heard the sound of
an engine starting up, and headlights lanced into the darkness, beams
aimed at the distant tree-tops as the car headed up the slope of the
approach to the bridge from the other side. We had only a few seconds
before the car would slant down on this side, and illuminate the road
and a wide strip on either side; we'd be spotlighted.
Ahead, I saw a fence, just a glint from a wire. That finished it; we
were stopped. I slid to a halt. Then I saw that the fence lined a cross
road, joining the road we were paralleling twenty feet away. Maybe a
culvert ... I dived for shelter.
A corrugated steel pipe eighteen inches in diameter ran beside the main
road where the other joined it. I scrambled over pebbles and twigs and
into the mouth. The sounds I made echoed hollowly inside. I kept going
to the far end, Gaston wheezing behind me. I stopped and looked over my
shoulder. Gaston had backed in and lay a few feet inside his end. The
glow of the headlights gave me a glimpse of a heavy automatic in his
hand.
"Good boy," I hissed. "Don't shoot unless you have to."
The lights of the car flickered over trees, highlighting rocks.
Through the open end of the pipe I saw a rabbit sitting up in the
glare, a few feet away. He turned and bounded off.
The car came slowly along, passed, moved on down the road. I breathed a
little easier.
I was on the point of turning to say something to Gaston when a small
stone rolled down into the ditch before me. I stiffened. A faint scuff
of shoes on gravel, another stone dislodged--and then a flashlight
beam darted across the gulley, played on the grass opposite, came to
rest on the open end of the drain pipe. I held my breath. Then the
steps came nearer, and the light probed, found my shoulder. There was a
frozen instant of silence, then the sharp slap of the slug-gun hitting
my palm. I caught a glimpse of the car a hundred feet away now, still
edging along, heard a sharp intake of breath as the man with the light
readied a shout. I pointed the gun to the right of the flash and the
recoil slammed my arm back. The flashlight skidded across the rocky
ground and went out as the man's body crashed heavily and lay still. I
groped for the man's feet, hauled him back toward the pipe.
"Gaston," I whispered. The sound was hollow in the dark tunnel. "Give
me a hand." I pulled at the feet. I was glad it wasn't the doctor; he
wouldn't have fitted.
I crawled out of the pipe and Gaston came up beside me.
"After the car," I said. I had what I hoped was an idea. I was tired of
being chased; the hunted would become the hunter.
I headed up the ditch at a trot, head down, Gaston at my heels. The car
had stopped a hundred yards away. I counted three flashlights moving in
the edge of the field.
"Close enough," I hissed. "Let's split up now. I'll cross the road and
come up the other side. There's only one man over there. You get up in
the tall grass and sneak in as close to the car as you can. Watch me
and take your cue."
I darted across the road, a grotesque figure, naked, my bundle dangling
by its strap from my shoulder. The car's headlights were still on. No
one could see us from beyond them, looking into the glare. I dropped
down into the ditch, wincing as sharp sticks jabbed my bare feet. The
man on my side was casting about in wide circles, fifty feet from the
road. A cricket sawed away insistently.
The car started backing, swung to one side of the road, then went
forward; the driver was in the car, all right, he was turning around.
They must have come up the road to cut us off, planning to move back to
the river, searching foot by foot until they flushed us. No one seemed
to have missed the man who now lay quietly in the steel pipe.
The car swung around and moved along at a snail's pace, headlights
flooding the road I had just crossed. I dropped down to the bottom
of the ditch as the lights passed over me. The car came on, and
stopped just above me. I could see the driver, staring out through the
windshield. He leaned forward, peering. I wondered if he was looking
for the man who had been coming along on foot, checking the ditch; he'd
be a long time seeing him from here.
He opened the door, stepped out, one foot on the running board. The
car was long and top-heavy with flaring fenders. Dust roiled and gnats
danced in the beams from the great bowl-shaped headlights.
I picked up a heavy stone, rose silently to hands and knees, and crept
up out of the ditch. The chauffeur stood with a hand on the top of
the door, looking over it. I came up behind him and hit him as hard
as I could on the top of the head. He folded into the seat. I shoved
him over, jumped in, and closed the door. It was hard to get the coat
off him in the dark, while trying to stay down behind the door, but
I managed it. I put it on and sat up. There was no alarm. The three
flashlights continued to bob around in the fields. The engine was
running quietly.
I looked over the controls. The steering wheel was in the center, and
there were three pedals on the floor. I let the center pedal in; the
car moved off slowly. I steered to the right side of the road, crept
along the edge. Gaston must be about here, I thought. I stared out into
the darkness; I could see practically nothing.
I eased to a stop. The flashlight nearest me swung back and forth,
moving toward the bridge. I reached out to the dash, pushed in a lever
that projected from it. The headlights died.
I could see better now. The flashlights to my right stopped moving,
turned toward me. I waved cheerfully. I didn't think they could make
out my face in the dim beam at that distance. One of the lights seemed
satisfied, resumed its search; the other hesitated, flashing over the
car.
There was a shout then, and I saw Gaston up and running toward me.
The flashlights converged on him as he leaped across the ditch ahead,
coming into the road. The lights came bounding toward him and someone
was yelling. Gaston stopped, whirled toward the nearest light, aiming
the pistol. There was a sharp sound. Both lights on his side dropped.
Not bad shooting for a .45, I thought. I jerked open the door and
Gaston jumped in beside me. Behind there was a faint shout from the
remaining man on the other side of the road, and the crack of a gun.
The slug made a solid thunk as it hit the heavy steel of the car. I
floorboarded the center and left pedals; the car jumped ahead, then
coasted. Another slug starred the glass beside me, scattering glass
chips in my hair. I let my foot off, tried again. The car surged
forward. I flipped the lights on. The car shifted up, tires squealing.
Ahead, a figure stumbled down into the ditch, scrambled up the other
side into the road, waving its arms. I saw the open mouth in the taut
white face for an instant in the flare of the lights before it was
slammed down out of sight, with a shock that bounced us in our seats.
The bridge loomed ahead, narrow and highly arched. We took it wide
open, crushed down in the seat as we mounted the slope, floating as
we dropped on the other side. The road curved off to the left, tall
trees lining it. The tires howled as we rounded the turn and hit the
straightaway.
"This is great, Hammer-hand," Gaston shouted. "I never rode in one of
these here machines before."
"Neither did I," I yelled back.