The City of Fire - Page 30/221

The men were having a whispered consultation over the car. They were

not used to that kind, but a car was a car. They tried to start it with

nervous glances down the road. It jerked and hissed and complained but

began to obey. The wheels were beginning to move. In a flash it would

be gone!

Billy scrambled noiselessly up the bank behind the car, his move well

covered by the noise of the engine. With a quick survey of the

situation he tucked himself hastily into the spare tire on the back,

just as the car gave a lurch and shot forward down across the tracks.

He had all he could do to maintain his position and worm himself into a

firmer holding for the first minute or two, and when he began to

realize what he was doing he found his heart beating like a young trip

hammer. He slid a groping hand into his pocket once more for

reassurance. If anything really happened he had the gun.

But his heart was heavy. Things had not gone right. He had planned to

carry this thing through as a large joke, and here he was mixed up in a

crooked deal if ever there was one. The worst of it was he wasn't out

of it yet. He wished he knew whose car this was and where they were

bound for. How about the license tag? Gripping his unstable seat he

swayed forward and tried to see it just below him. In the dim light it

looked like a New York license. It must be the guy they were after all

right,--they had telephoned about a New York man--yet--Cart had

a New York license on his car! He was living in New York now,--and

there must be lots of other guys--!

A kind of sickening thud seemed to drop through his mind down to the

pit of his stomach as he tried to think it out. His eyes peered into

the night watching every familiar landmark--there was the old pine

where they always turned off to go fishing: and yes, they were turning

away from Economy road. Yes, they were going through Hackett's

Pass. A chill crept through his thin old sweater as the damp breath of

ferns and rocks struck against his face. His eyes shone grim and hard

in the night, suddenly grown old and stern. This was the kind of thing

you read about in novels. In spite of pricks of conscience his spirits

rose. It was great to be in it if it had to be. The consciousness of

Sabbath Valley bathed in peaceful moonlight, all asleep, of the

minister and his daughter, and Aunt Saxon, fell away; even the memory

of bells that called to righteousness--he was out in the night on a

wild ride and his soul thrilled to the measure of it. He fairly exulted

as he reflected that he might be called upon to do some great deed of

valor--in fact he felt he must do a great deed of valor to

retrieve his self respect after having made that balk about the detour.

How did that guy get around the detour anyway? Some guy!