‘Nothing broken,’ said Bond. ‘Suppose that’s what’s meant by an eighty percenter.’ He grinned painfully. ‘It’s better being kicked than being shot.’
The girl’s face cringed. ‘I just had to sit there and pretend that I didn’t care. Spang stayed and listened and watched me. Then they checked up on the ropes and slung you into the waiting room and everyone went happily to bed. I waited an hour in my room and then I got busy. The worst part was trying to wake you up.’
Bond tightened his arm round her shoulders. ‘I’ll tell you what I think of you when it doesn’t hurt so much. But what about you, Tiffany? You’ll be in a jam if they catch up with us. And who are those two men in the hoods, Wint and Kidd? What are they going to do about all this? I wouldn’t mind seeing a little more of those two.’
The girl glanced sideways at the grim curl of the bruised lips. ‘Never seen them without those hoods on,’ she said truthfully. ‘They’re supposed to be from Detroit. Strictly bad news. They do the strong-arm work and special undercover jobs. They’ll all be after us now. But don’t you worry about me.’ She looked up at him again and her eyes were shining and happy. ‘First thing is to get this crate to Rhyolite. Then we’ll have to find a car somewhere and get over the state border into California. I’ve got plenty of money. Then we’ll get you to a doctor and buy you a bath and a shirt and think again. I got your gun. One of the help brought it over when they’d finished picking up the pieces of those two guys you wrassled with in the Pink Garter. I collected it after Spang had gone to bed.’ She unbuttoned her shirt and dug into the waistband of her slacks.
Bond took the Beretta, feeling the warmth of her on the metal. He flicked out the magazine. Three rounds left. And one in the breach. He replaced the magazine, put the gun on safe and tucked it into the top of his trousers. For the first time he realized that his coat was gone. One of his shirt sleeves hung in tatters. He tore it off and threw it away. He felt for the cigarette case in his right-hand hip pocket. It was gone. But in the left-hand pocket there was still his passport and note-case. He pulled them out. By the light of the moon he could see that they were cracked and dented. He felt for his money in the note-case. It was still there. He put the things back in his pocket.
For a while they drove on with only the purr of the little engine and the clickety-click of the wheels to break the looming silence of the night. For as far as they could see, the thin silver line of the rails spun on towards the horizon with only an occasional break, marked by a points lever, where a rusty branch line curved off into the dark mass of the Spectre Mountains on their right. To their left, there was nothing except the endless floor of the desert on which the hint of dawn was beginning to edge the writhing cactus clumps with blue, and, two miles away, the gun-metal shimmer of the moon on Highway 95.
The handcar sang happily on down the rails. There were no controls to bother with except a brake lever and a kind of joystick with a twist-grip accelerator which the girl held fully open with the speedometer steady at thirty. And the miles and the minutes clicked by, and every now and then Bond turned painfully in his seat and inspected the blossoming red glow in the sky behind them.
They had been going nearly an hour when a thin humming undertone in the air or on the rails made Bond stiffen. Again he looked back over his shoulder. Was there a tiny glow-worm glimmer between them and the false red dawn of the burning ghost town?
Bond’s scalp tingled. ‘D’you see anything back there?’
She turned her head. Then, without replying, she slowed the engine down so that they were coasting quietly.
They both listened. Yes. It was in the rails. A soft quivering, not more than a distant sigh.
‘It’s The Cannonball,’ said Tiffany flatly. She gave a sharp twist to the accelerator and the handcar sped on again.
‘What can she do?’ asked Bond.
‘Maybe sixty.’
‘How far to Rhyolite?’
‘Around thirty.’
Bond worked on the figures for a moment in silence. ‘It’s going to be a near thing. Can’t tell how far away he is. Can you get anything more out of this?’
‘Not a scrap,’ she said grimly. ‘Even if my name was Casey Jones instead of Case.’
‘We’ll be all right,’ said Bond. ‘You keep her rolling. Maybe he’ll blow up or something.’
‘Oh, sure,’ she said. ‘Or maybe the spring’ll run down and he’s left the key of his engine at home in his pants pocket.’
For fifteen minutes they sped along in silence and now Bond could clearly see the great pilot-light of the engine cutting through the night, not more than five miles away, and an angry fountain above it from the woodsparks flaming out of the great dome of the smoke-stack. The rails were trembling beneath them and what had been a distant sigh was a low threatening murmur.
Perhaps he’ll run out of wood, thought Bond. On an impulse he said casually to the girl, ‘I suppose we’re all right for gas?’
‘Oh, sure,’ said Tiffany. ‘Put in a whole can. There’s no indicator, but these things’ll run for ever on a gallon of gas.’
Almost before the words were out of her mouth, and as if to comment on them, the little engine gave a deprecating cough. ‘Put. Put-put.’ Then it ran merrily on.
‘Christ,’ said Tiffany. ‘D’you hear that?’
Bond said nothing. He felt the palms of his hands go wet.
And again. ‘Put. Put-put.’
Tiffany Case gingerly nursed the accelerator.
‘Oh, dear little engine,’ she said plaintively. ‘Beautiful, clever little engine. Please be kind.’
‘Put-put. Put-put. Hiss. Put. Hiss ...’ And suddenly they were free-wheeling along in silence. Twenty-five, said the speedometer. Twenty ... fifteen ... ten ... five. A last savage twist at the accelerator and a kick from Tiffany Case at the engine-housing and they had stopped.
‘—’ said Bond, once. He got painfully out on to the side of the track and limped to the petrol tank at the rear, pulling his bloodstained handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. He unscrewed the filler cap and lowered the handkerchief down so that it must reach the bottom of the tank. He pulled it out and felt it and sniffed it. Dry as a bone.
‘That’s that,’ he said to the girl. ‘Now just let’s think hard.’ He looked all round. No cover to the left, and two miles at least to the road. On the right the mountains, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. They might get there and hide up. But for how long? It looked the best chance. The ground beneath his feet was shaking. He looked down the line at the glaring, implacable eye. How far? Two miles? Would Spang see the handcar in time? Would he be able to stop? Might he be derailed? But then Bond remembered the great jutting cow-catcher that would sweep the light car out of the way like a bale of straw.
‘Come on, Tiffany,’ he called. ‘We’ve got to take to the hills.’
Where was she? He limped round the car. She was running back down the track in front. She came up panting. ‘There’s a branch line just ahead,’ she gasped. ‘If we can push the thing there and you can work the old points, he might miss us.’
‘My God,’ said Bond slowly. Then, with awe in his voice. ‘There’s something better than that. Give me a hand,’ and he bent down and gritted his teeth against the pain and started pushing.
Once started, the car moved easily and they only had to follow behind it and keep it rolling. They came to the points and Bond went on pushing until they were twenty yards past.
‘What the hell?’ panted Tiffany.
‘Come on,’ said Bond, half stumbling, half running back to where the rusty switch stuck up beside the rails. ‘We’re going to put The Cannonball on to the branch line.’