That was when the thought struck me. I don't know why it hadn't hit me before. It came in the form of a question, and the question was: if they were hunting me with rifles, why in hell hadn't they hit me? Because they were bad shots? Hardly. At forty or fifty yards it'
s not difficult to hit a man-sized target. Then why? Even to think was appallingly difficult. I felt as though I were crouching in a furnace and my mind seemed to be only a quarter my own. I forced myself to concentrate. On the lake I'd been forced along, shepherded, driven northward. And then, at Overton Beach, there hadn't been a cruiser between me and the shore. And in the car . . . the shot that had been fired at the car had missed. From fifty yards it had missed a car? A car! The driver had been in cahoots too, waiting for me. That's why they hadn't hit the car. But up here? Among the red rocks? A rifleman need only go high, wait for me to show myself and pick me off, True or false?
It could only be true. So why was I still in one sweaty piece? There had been at least two easy chances.
I thought I knew the answer, but still I weighed it carefully. The only possible answer seemed to be that they hadn't shot me because they didn't want to shoot me. But was that the only possible answer? It seemed to be, unless they were all blind and their hands trembled as badly as mine. Which couldn't be true. They could stroll in the heat, come slowly and easily towards an unarmed man. Also, they'd be accustomed to the temperature, to the high land.
No. The first answer must be the right one. They didn't want to shoot me. Next question: what did they want? No answer; no way of guessing. I didn't begin to comprehend what was happening. But . . . I clung to the one thought: they weren't going to shoot me!
Slowly I forced myself to stand upright and looked round for a way to the top of the rocks. If I was wrong, they'd shoot me now instead of ten minutes from now, by which time I'd be a sweating, semi-conscious wreck a short distance farther on. Over there. Over there it would be easier. There was a worn rock forming almost a staircase upward. I began to climb, awkwardly because my strength was almost gone, making each upward step with an audible grunt of effort. One more yard and I would be in clear sight. I hesitated. What if I were wrong? But I 'already knew the answer to that. I took a deep, gasping breath and forced myself higher.
Crack! The bullet smacked into the sandstone a yard from me and instinctively I almost dived for cover again. I was trembling so much I could hardly keep my balance, but I forced myself to straighten and turned my head to look in the direction from which the shot had come. A man was standing there, atop a rock, rifle at his shoulder, perhaps forty yards away. As I watched he moved his head to sight and fired again and red stone chips flew from the rock a couple of feet away. Two shots at forty yards. Two shots that missed. I struggled one weary step higher, straightened and stood with my hands loose at my sides, staring across at him.
Then a movement caught my eye. Another man, another rifle, off to my right. The next shot came from him and it, too, flew w by. I looked round. There were two more of them, an arc of four men, all with rifles at the shoulder, all close. And quite suddenly they all started firing at once. God knows how many shots there were! And God knows why I didn't fling myself down on the blistering rock! From four directions the shots whistled past, one after another, a stutter of firing that sounded almost like a machine gun. I ber closing my eyes, clamping my teeth together, waiting for one to hit me. It seemed impossible that among all that rifle fire not one bullet should touch me, even by accident. Then, suddenly the last sounds had bounced away among the rocks and I was standing in an incredible flat silence, uninjured, looking across that weird landscape from one man to the next. For all of a minute it stayed like that. Then one of them shouted, 'Okay, let's go!
' And they turned their backs to me and began to move slowly away, back down towards the road.
Maybe it was the relief, perhaps sheer weakness, but I was suddenly dizzy and almost passed out. I know I stood swaying in the burning sunlight until the sheer heat of it reminded me that to collapse on the spot would be more certainly-lethal than the rifle fire.
It took me nearly an hour to pick my way back to the road and even though it was downhill, I wasn't recovering at all. Sweat still flooded out of me, breathing was difficult. I remember glancing at my watch and being astonished that it was still only eleven, and realizing that the worst of the heat was still to come. The two cars had long gone, of course, and the road was deserted. I stood beside it for a little while until I realized just how hot the sun was on my head and neck, so I found myself a shady place beside a big boulder and crouched there, waiting. It was forty minutes before a vehicle came along and I must have been halfdozing because I almost missed it. In a panic I staggered out of the shade on to the road, waving my arms, and forced it to stop or run me down.
I blinked at it. The car was bright and clean and shiny and the blazing sun shone blindingly off its chromium. Then the door opened and a middle-aged woman got out. When she spoke, there was a quaver in her voice.
Ìs something wrong?'
I almost laughed,' not because the words were funny, or even because they were conventional, but because I was close to hysteria.
I said, simply, 'I got lost.' My month was so dry it hurt to speak.
`Lost?' The quaver was still them She was torn between a wish to help and fear of this unknown stranger on a lonely. road.
`Lost,' I croaked. 'I've been out in the sun. Have you water?'
`Water? No.'
_ .`Could you give me a lift?'
`You're British?'
`Yes."
The quaver disappeared, Nobody's afraid of the British, I suppose. She said, 'I'm going to Vegas.'
I managed a grin of thanks. 'Perfect!'
Only two miles along the road we came to a building labelled Visitor Center and she stopped. 'There'll be water in there.'
There was. I drank about six pints of it and walked back to the car feeling it switching round inside me..I'd also washed and I felt better.
We talked a bit on the fifty miles or so into Las Vegas. However had I got lost? I told'
her a little lie about setting off for a walk from Echo Bay. Walk! She was horrified and gave me a long, solicitous lecture on the manifold dangers of walking in the United States. It wasn't she said, like England. She was right there. She was a nice woman, her ancestors came from Noocastle,
and she insisted on driving me right to the Dime Palace, where she warned me again with some severity about walking, and drove away with a wave.
I walked into the foyer, and a large man in a uniform that would have stifled him five yards away from the air conditioning, looked at my dishevelled state as though he was contemplating throwing me back on to the street.
Tour-one-oh-five, please.'
`Here it is, sir.' The smiling girl handed me an envelope along with my room key. I looked at it for a moment then ripped it open with my thumb. A single sheet of paper, folded once, no signature, type-written. It read: 'Take three o'clock United Airlines flight Chicago. Connect direct to London. You will be watched. If you do not go, you will be killed.'
I swallowed. The message was clear enough, the morning's horror recent enough. I still didn't understand why, couldn't see how I could be a danger to anyone, or why it should be necessary to somebody to get me out of the US. But evidently it was, and Susannah Rhodes certainly wasn't worth staying for. Not at the price I'd pay. Alex Scown would be annoyed or worse, but Scown at least wasn't a killer. Not in the short term, anyway. I said, 'My account please.'
`Cashier's counter is right over there, sir.'