“I know,” said Tommy, “but these cars can take a lot of abuse. It’ll have to do me until I get to San Berdoo.”
“That’s a long way from here.”
“I’ll fill it up with water in every town. If I drive slow, I think I can make it.”
The man shrugged. “It’s your car.”
He got the water hose and sprayed water over the radiator, cooling it off. Then finally he took off the radiator cap and squirted water into the radiator. It was sloshed around inside and he added a little more water, then deeming it cooled off sufficiently, he filled the radiator.
Tommy had him fill the gas tank with gas, although he fretted over every moment that was used in the operation. But finally he paid for the gas and got into the car.
He drove cautiously until he was away from the filling station, then again let out the car. He held it at seventy-five, passed through another tiny village and came to a fork in the highway. He took the left road and traveled over a miserable section of road; it was paved but pockmarked with chuckholes and several times when he hit especially big ones Tommy expected the axles to break. But the only flaw in the car was the water pump, and the axles held.
He was engrossed in watching the road, when he suddenly became aware that he had passed a graveled road and, braking the car, put it into reverse and backed to the road. He looked ahead and to the rear, saw no other car in sight, and turned off.
The road, although graveled, was actually an improvement over the paved one he had left, and Tommy sent the car hurtling along. A fork went off to the right and Tommy, keeping to the left, had to slow the Buick down to forty miles an hour. A mile or two further and a fork went off to the left and Tommy, taking the right this time, found himself on a mere trail that didn’t seem to have been traveled in a week.
The motor began to wheeze and Tommy was aware of the hissing of steam. The water he had put into the radiator has vaporized. He stopped the car for a moment and the violence of the steam issuing forth alarmed him so that he started driving again.
After five minutes he topped a rise and shut off the motor. He stood there for a moment, his foot on the brake, then took it off and coasted downhill. The grade was an easy one and he coasted for a full mile, but looking ahead and seeing the steep grade he whistled softly.
He stopped the car and sized up the situation. He could see the road, a mere rutted trail winding up a steep grade, running along the side of an almost vertical cliff and disappearing behind the mountain.
He shook his head. The engine would never make that, not without a refill of water. But this was desert country and there was no water anywhere. No water, no houses, no filling stations.
There was no turning back, however, and he put the car in gear and started forward. He went a mile and the motor began to knock fiercely. The roaring of the hissing steam filled his ears. Ahead the road became even steeper. He shifted into second gear, then believing that the second gear heated the motor too much, he went back into high; the engine began to chug and miss, seemed to have no power. He shifted back into second, then finally into low.
The road had become a mere shelf running along the side of the mountain. To the left was a sixty per cent grade, falling off into a narrow valley below, a rock-strewn, impassable valley.
The tortured motor wheezed and clanked and then something broke. Metal hit the hood of the car such a blow that Tommy, behind the wheel, flinched. He applied the emergency brakes, shut off the motor and got out of the car.
He had come at least two miles up the steep grade and although the road disappeared ahead, around the mountain, he estimated that it was at least another mile to the top. And after that...?
He shook his head, became aware that the car was jerking against the emergency brakes. With a sigh he stepped to the door, opened it and reaching in, twisted the wheel. He whisked out the briefcase, then, stooping, released the emergency brakes.
The car slewed sidewards and back. The rear wheels went over the edge of the road, the front of the car jerked up... and then the car was gone.
Tommy watched it fall. It turned over two or three times, hit a shelf and flew out into space. He counted the seconds before his ears heard the final crash as the car was smashed to bits on the valley floor below.
He drew a deep breath and started walking.
It couldn’t have been past noon when Tommy Dancer started walking, yet when the sun disappeared behind the mountains in the west, he had not seen a human being. He had left the road long ago, crossed a narrow valley, climbed a steep mountain and descended into another valley and was almost across it.
He had walked perhaps fifteen miles, although he could not be sure about the distance, because some of the going, up the mountainsides and down, had been slow traveling.
He had eaten nothing since morning, had tasted no water. In his briefcase he had one hundred and fifty-eight thousand dollars, but it could not assuage his thirst or hunger.
He sat down on an outcropping of rock and watched the darkness settle over the valley... and over him. He thought of the little lock and key shop on Melrose Avenue, that he had always hated; he thought of his dingy apartment on Las Palmas Street, and the empty evenings he had spent in movie theatres and bowling alleys. He thought of the hollowness of his life since his discharge from the Army — and he would, at this moment, have made a compact with the devil to give ten years of life to go back to the day before he had met Willis Trent.
No, not quite. For on that day he had seen Betty Targ for the first time. She was the one bright spot in this entire mad pattern. But he had lost her, too. Perhaps he had even caused her death.
Somewhere in the distance a dog howled, but after a few moments, Tommy realized that it wasn’t a dog, but a coyote. However, the sound was an eerie one and Tommy, shivering, got to his feet.
It was almost totally dark, but since it didn’t matter in what direction he went, Tommy began walking. He stumbled over rocks and fell once or twice, but continued on. Later, he would sleep, but his brain was seething now and he knew that rest was impossible.
He was aware that he was climbing and after awhile came out on a shelf that was fairly level. The coyote howled again, much closer this time.
The shelf narrowed and descended into a canyon, then rose again and widened.
The coyote barked and then Tommy suddenly knew that it wasn’t a coyote, after all. A light appeared straight ahead of him and the barking came from there.
Tommy stopped. The thing to do was to turn and put the light to his back, but the gnawing in his stomach would not be denied. It would be worse by morning. Besides, there was Fred Kraft’s revolver in his side coat pocket.
The house ahead was a small one. In the yellow light he could make out its outlines. An isolated ranch house. Drawing a deep breath, he went toward it.
The dog was aware of his approach and began barking furiously and when Tommy was about a hundred feet from the house the door was suddenly opened and a man became framed in the yellow light from within.
“Hello,” he called. “Who is it?”
“A stranger,” Tommy replied. “I seem to be lost.”
“You sure are, mister,” was the reply. “Ain’t nobody ever comes up here.”
Assured by that remark, Tommy quickened his footsteps. The dog rushed toward him, but was called back by his master. Tommy moved into the area of light from the house and saw that the man in the doorway was a thin, elderly man, wearing flannel trousers, white shirt and carpet slippers. A handkerchief scarf was about his neck.
“Missed the road, eh?” the man said.
“Some time ago, I guess. I’ve been walking for hours.”
“Well, come on in and rest a spell, then I’ll put you on the road.” The man in the doorway cocked his head to one side. “Haven’t been hunting, have you?”