More Good Old Stuff

The Night Is Over (“You’ve Got to Be Cold,” The Shadow, April — May 1947)

There was something infinitely irritating about the puffed, water-wrinkled hands of the man behind the bar. He was wringing out a rag with soft ineffectuality, humming a nasal tune that had been beaten to death by the jukeboxes.

Walker Post stifled the impulse to snarl at him. It was pointless. You can’t climb a man because you don’t like his hands, or you don’t like the tune he hums. He hadn’t been in that particular bar before. A quiet neighborhood spot, drowsing in the heat of an early July afternoon. One other customer, an old man with a ragged yellow beard, sat at a table and sweated in the sun that came in the wide window. Walker Post realized that he was holding himself tense and rigid on the barstool. His shoulder muscles hurt. He made himself slump and forced his eyes away from the bartender’s hands. He swallowed the last inch of rye and water and slid the glass down toward the bartender. He looked across at his own face in the blue-tinted mirror behind the bar. It’s so hard to look at your own face and know what you look like, he thought. What do I see? Dusty hair and pale gray eyes and lips that are thin. Thick shoulders and a sullen look around the mouth and chin. New lines from the corners of my nose to my mouth. The hair has gone back a bit further. A wrinkled and soiled collar. What am I and where am I going and why don’t I give a damn?

There had been people who had given a damn. Four years ago when he had been twenty-seven, when he had married Ruth, she had given a damn. His mother had always cared. Faulkner, the drafting-room chief, had cared, once upon a time.

He realized that going back to work for Faulkner had been a mistake. They had all been so kind and had tried to be so understanding. He shuddered, remembering the soft touches of their hands on his shoulders. It had been so unreal to stand and see the January snow piled so deeply across the trim new graves of Ruth and his mother. He had brushed the snow away so he could read the dates on the stones. Nineteen forty-six. The paper had used the term “common disaster.” Sure. It was a disaster and they seemed to be common enough. He could crawl up seven beaches with his eyes clouded with cold sweat and his fingers slipping on the gun and the grit of fine sand in his teeth, while Ruth skids the car through the side of a bridge.

It had been a reflex going to work for Faulkner again in January. He had been used to it. He had thought it would give him something familiar to hold on to. It hadn’t worked. Where is the point in drawing fine clear lines on white paper while the spring sun melts the snow on the soft earth near the stones? He had known he was being careless — his work had been sloppy.

He remembered the afternoon several weeks before when Faulkner had taken him into the empty office of the boss and given him a cigarette. Faulkner had perched his lean frame on the edge of the table and said, “I’ve been trying to go along with you, Walker. I can only imagine what you’ve been through. But, man, you’re not helping yourself. You’re being a fool. I can’t cover you much longer. What are you going to do about it?”

There had been a long silence in the small office. Walker Post had sucked on the cigarette while the room had seemed to darken around him. Then he had dropped the butt onto the rug and ground at it with his heel.

He had spun on Faulkner and cut into his objections with a string of the foulest words he could think of. He had gone on and on in a low tone, watching the expressions of shock and anger color Faulkner’s long face. At last he was through and Faulkner had slid off the table and walked out the door.

Post had gathered his few personal possessions together and left the same hour. He hadn’t been back. Once he had met Faulkner on the street. He had turned his face away. They hadn’t spoken. It was like that.

He had put the furniture in storage and moved his clothes into a furnished room on Plant Street. He hadn’t tried to find work. There was still more than two thousand dollars of insurance money left in the bank. He knew he wasn’t drinking himself to death. Just enough liquor each day to cloud the pictures in his mind. Just enough to dull the constant irritation with everything around him. He slept in the cheap, sour room between the gray sheets. He ate heavy fried foods. He walked the streets slowly and wondered what there was to care about. In some distant corner of his mind he was uncertain and frightened. Some mornings he would remember and realize that it would have to end sometime. There would be no more money. But that was a long way off.

He spoke to no one. He didn’t read. He didn’t go to movies. He sat and drank and ate and slept and walked, fighting down the mad thing in his heart that wanted to flash out at the people around him. He wanted to strike and crush and batter the faces of those around him.

The bartender placed the fresh drink in front of him. “Sure is hot, hey?”

Walker Post looked up into the man’s mild eyes. He looked for several long seconds, expressionless and motionless. Then he said shortly, “Yeah.”

The man shrugged and walked back down the bar. Post sat and tapped with his blunt finger at a spot of water on the dark bar. He sipped the drink. The traffic noises seemed to be softened by the heat. A woman walked past the open door pushing a baby carriage. One of the wheels squeaked piercingly. Post wondered what it would have been like if Ruth had left a child for him to care for. Would it have been different? Maybe. Maybe it would have been no different if Ruth were still alive. Maybe the sullen core of him had been slowly growing through the years. Maybe nothing that had happened had really changed him. Maybe it was all inside himself. He scratched at the stubble of beard on his chin with his thumbnail. He dug the last cigarette out of a pack, crumpled the pack and tossed it onto the bar. It slid across and fell behind the bar. The bartender walked heavily over and grunted as he picked it up. He stared at Post and half opened his mouth to speak. Post stared steadily at him. The man closed his mouth again and licked his underlip. He walked back to his spot at the end of the bar.

Some more customers came in. Post glanced in the mirror as they walked behind him. He noticed idly that there were three of them. They were noisy.

They climbed onto the stools. “And a fine afternoon it is, Mr. Donovan. Hessy here is buying us some beer. Right out of his own pay, too. Three superior beers.”

The bartender grinned and drew three. He swiped the foam off and set them down. Post noticed that the three were young. Their hands were greasy. They wore T-shirts and soiled work pants. He figured them for mechanics or truck drivers. One had a silly bubbling giggle. Post shifted restlessly on his stool.

The bartender started to walk away and one of them said, “Hey, Donovan! Get back here. We need a cultured citizen like you to settle something.”

Donovan beamed. “And sure, what do you want to know?”

“This is important. We got two bits on it. What the hell is a cygnet?”

“It’s a ring. A signet ring.”

“Nuts, Donovan. You tell him, Hessy.”

“This kind of cygnet is spelled with a c-y, Donovan. I say it’s a female swan and Fenelle here says it’s a baby swan. You ever heard of it?”

“Never did. Sorry, boys.”

The one they called Hessy looked down the bar at Post. “Hey, you. You know what a cygnet is?”

Post felt the quick rush of irritation. What right had they to drag him into their silly argument? He turned slowly around on the stool so that he faced them. His arm hit his glass and knocked it over. The chill drink ran across his wrist. He realized that they had caused him to spill his drink, and that made the room darken before his eyes.

“Get somebody else to settle your damn argument. Don’t bother me.”

The one they called Hessy slid off the stool and strutted over. He was a slim kid with cropped hair. He had a smear of grease across his cheek. His nose was slightly twisted. He stuck his thumbs under his belt as he walked. The muscles on his brown arms looked tightly woven and efficient.

He stopped with his chest a few inches away from Post’s shoulder. Post had turned back to the bar and stood his glass up again. Donovan hurried toward them, an anxious look on his face.

Hessy stood quietly for a moment, his eyes small and his mouth compressed. “Turn around, honey, and look at me,” he said gently.

Post turned around slowly.

“When I ask a guy a civil question, I kinda like to have a civil answer. Understand?” Post stared at him, expressionless. He wondered if he could take the kid. The kid looked rough and willing.

Donovan coughed. “Hey, now. None a that, boys. Skip it. You go sit down, Hessy. None a that around here.” His words were bold but his voice was apologetic.

“Shut up, Donovan. This punk needs a course in manners. Who the hell is he?”

“I don’t know, Hessy. Please leave him alone, hey?”

The talk sounded blurred in Post’s ears. His back felt tight and strained. “Get away from me. Don’t talk to me.”

“Come on, honey. Take it sitting or standing. Any way you like it.”

“Please, boys, let’s drop it, huh?”

Post spun quickly and threw his left hand like a club at the boy’s head. He missed as Hessy drove his head back a few inches. The force of the lurching blow dragged him off the stool and he tramped on the edge of the brass spittoon. It tilted up, throwing stale water into his shoe. He couldn’t see clearly. He heard someone say, “Nice and easy now, Hessy. Nice and easy. Make it last.”

The boy took his thumbs out of his belt and moved easily around Post. He carried himself well. Post swung again, and as he realized he had missed, a fist splatted lightly against his mouth. He tasted warm flat blood. He felt blundering and clumsy. He realized the boy was good. Probably had been in the ring. He felt suddenly afraid. He wanted to drop his arms and let the boy hit him. Anything to get it over.

The boy skipped around him and he circled slowly. The fist hit him again on the mouth. He hadn’t seen it coming. It hurt. Then the boy started clowning, leaping high in the air and landing in grotesque positions. He chanted at Post, “How do you like it, honey? How do you like it, honey?” Again the hard fist smashed into his mouth. Each blow was a bit harder than the one before.

Suddenly the dancing, posturing figure in front of him became the personification of all the blind and bitter luck that had hung on his heels. Post forgot where he was. He forgot what it was about. He couldn’t see and he couldn’t hear. There was a dancing face in front of him that he had to beat down to the floor. He felt the fury roll into his arms. He felt his nails biting into his palms.

He rushed the white face, swinging blindly and grunting as he swung. He was moving forward and the face receded. Then the room seemed darker and he felt stabbing blows on his eyes and mouth. For the first time he felt the jar of his fist striking bone. He dug his chin into his chest and hammered with his two arms, short chopping blows as his mouth grew dry and his breath was an acid gasp in his throat. He couldn’t feel the blows on his own face anymore, and suddenly the white face wasn’t in front of him. His fist smashed into wood. He stepped back and looked down. The white face was there, suspended a few feet off the dim floor. He swung his right leg and felt his shoe smack something. The face was white and red and it was lower. He swung his leg again and somebody spun him around. He clubbed his fist at another face and it went back into the mist. He could see the white rectangle of the doorway. Something hit him on the side of the head and he tried to run toward the door. It was like running through deep water.

Then somebody had hold of his arm, pulling him out through the doorway, where the bright sun smacked down against his face and blinded him. He was pulled toward a car, and he fell into the seat, still unable to see clearly. He felt the car move and heard the roar of the motor. He was tossed over against the driver as they turned around a corner. He pulled himself back. Then another corner. He lurched against the door. It was an open car. The wind blew through his hair.

The world began to clear. He heard his own sobs as his breath kept catching in his throat. He had a deep sharp pain in his side, the same pain he used to get as a kid when he ran too far. He looked around, realizing that they had turned into Carmody Road, heading out of town by way of French Hill.

He looked at the driver. He was a swarthy man, a small man, with dark hot eyes and a wide firm mouth. He was dressed quietly and well. He had a faint smile on his lips — a smile of amusement and condescension. It annoyed Post. He decided not to speak until the driver did. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his lips. He felt dried blood on his chin.

The man didn’t speak. He drove fast and skillfully. The car was a new maroon convertible — a Ford. They drove beyond the expensive new developments, out to where the farms begin. The road climbed and there were fewer farms. At last the man pulled off onto the wide shoulder near a small patch of woods. He switched off the motor and opened the glove compartment. He handed Walker Post a wad of Kleenex.

“Better go and mop off that face. You’ll feel better. There’s a stream right down there beyond those rocks. I’ll wait.”

Post took the tissues and climbed out. He felt stiff, sore and shaken. His legs quivered as he climbed down over the rocks. The stream widened to a dark pool under a thick willow. Water bugs skated across it. A dragonfly hung in the air over a weed.

He knelt down and dipped the tissue in the cold water. He mopped his face and it felt good. The damp tissues were stained pink with the blood from his lips and the cut beside his eye. He took his time. He bathed his knuckles. The air in the moist hollow smelled dank and sweet.

He brushed his hair down with his fingers and walked back up to the car. The man was smoking a cigarette. He silently handed Post one when he climbed back into the car. The dash lighter clicked out and Post lit it. It didn’t taste good. His heart still thumped from the exertion of the fight.

“I might as well let you know who I am. Dr. Benjamin Drake. I’ve no right to the title Dr., but I like to use it.” His voice was soft and seemed to be filled with gentle self-scorn.

“I’m Walker Post. I suppose I owe you some thanks.”

“You’re a mean citizen in a scrap, Post.”

“I wanted to kill him. I never did anything like that before. If I hadn’t been stopped, I would have, I guess. How much did you see?”

“Walked in just as you backed him against the wall. He lost the grin when you hit him the first time. You were lucky. He could have taken you.”

“What’s your object? What do you get out of this?”

“Probably nothing. You don’t look either friendly or grateful.”

“I don’t give a damn whether you came along or not. I wouldn’t have given a damn if I had killed him.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. I can read it on your face. Something has given you a kicking around. Right?”

“What if it has? I don’t want sympathy and I won’t answer questions.”

“Maybe I could help you.”

“Nuts.”

“You can’t make me mad, Post. Here, let me show you what I do.” He pulled a wallet out of his inside jacket pocket and leafed through it. He found a clipping and handed it to Post.

He read: “MERIDIN LAKE SOLD. The Republic Lumber Company announced today that they sold eight square miles of land, including Meridin Lake and the deserted lumber camp, to Mr. Benjamin Drake of Chicago. Mr. Drake stated that he will open up a combination summer camp and health resort restricted to a few patients at a time. The camp will open on July 1. Tax stamps on the recorded copy of the deed indicate that the sale price was in the neighborhood of $110,000.”

Post handed it back to him. He was puzzled. “What’s that got to do with me? I’m no patient. I don’t need a cure.”

“You don’t know what you need. I’m what you might call an amateur psychiatrist. I don’t want you as a patient. I want you to work for me. You don’t look as though you have a job. You look like you need some outdoors in your system. You look like you could use the very small pay I’ll give you.”

“I don’t need a thing from you or anybody else. I got plenty of bucks in the bank. I’m getting along. Just drive me back or let me out here.” He snapped the cigarette butt off into the highway.

“I did you a favor; now you do me one. Just take that chip off your shoulder for five minutes and don’t interrupt me. Okay? You owe me that much.”

Post shrugged. “Go ahead, Doc.” He knew he couldn’t be talked into anything.

Drake slumped down behind the wheel and stared down at the horn button, a frown of concentration on his face. Finally he looked up at Post and smiled.

“I was trying to find the best kind of approach to your type of closed mind. Let me put it this way. Life has slapped you down. I don’t know how and I don’t care. You’re down. You have no interest in anything. Sometimes you wish for death but not strongly enough to kill yourself. Back in your mind is the furtive little idea that someday you’ll be okay again. You don’t really know. You wonder about it and then force your mind away from it. What are you doing? Nothing. So long as you have that idea in your mind that someday everything will come back — energy, enthusiasm, ambition — you owe it to yourself to put yourself in circumstances that will do the most for you. Right now you revel in drab surroundings. You won’t admit it, but you do. You’re punishing yourself for something. Get away from it. Come on up to Meridin Lake and get brown and healthy. Healthy on the outside. The work isn’t hard. I need another man. You can have your drinks there. I won’t pay much. Fifteen a week and your keep. Get away from this town for a while. It won’t cost anything. Nobody’ll expect you to be friendly. Just do it on a hunch of mine. Now don’t answer quickly. Wait a few minutes.”

Post sat and looked at his skinned knuckles.

He made himself yawn. He said, “I don’t give a damn whether I go up there or stay in town. I don’t care one way or the other. You’re nosy and you got a lot of cracked ideas. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Make it easy for me and I’ll go on up. What’s the difference what I do?”

Drake grinned at him. “I’ll get through that shell yet. Meet me right here at eight tomorrow morning. You can catch a bus out from town. I think the one you want leaves at seven-thirty. Buy some work clothes. That’s all you’ll need. Try to be on time.”

He turned on the motor and yanked the little car around in a screaming U-turn. He didn’t speak on the way back to town. He dropped Post off at the corner of Plant Street. Post walked down the street, conscious of the stiffness in his legs, wondering whether he would bother to buy the clothes and show up at the appointed place. He doubted it. He wanted to rest for a while, and then get something to eat. It wouldn’t be convenient to buy the clothes. It was going to be too much trouble. There was something about the man, Drake, that he didn’t like. Something superior and cold.

He stood in a chill morning rain under a maple across the road from where Drake had parked. The water dripped through the leaves. He was still stiff and sore from the fight. He wondered for a moment whether or not Drake would come. He felt annoyance as he realized that he wanted Drake to come. He stood quietly and forced himself into a state of mind where he didn’t care whether the man came or not. Then he relaxed. A few cars whoomed by him, their tires making a tearing sound on the wet concrete. He was lighting a cigarette when the familiar maroon coupe bounced over onto the shoulder. He picked up his bag and strolled through the rain. He tossed it over the back of the seat.

“Good morning, Post.”

“Dandy.”

“I have things on my mind today. I won’t talk to you on the way up. It’s five after eight. We’ll get to the lake at about two. Just relax.”

“You’re hurting my feelings.” Drake didn’t answer. They drove up through the hills that grew almost to mountains. Post watched the road ahead until it made him sleepy. He wedged his head in the corner and went to sleep.

He woke up with a bad taste in his mouth and saw that Drake was getting gas. He glanced at his watch. It was eleven. He stretched his legs and in a few minutes they rolled back out onto the highway. Drake drove at a good rate. His nervous brown hands were firm on the wheel. He cursed softly when cars ahead were stubborn about moving over. Post went to sleep again.

Finally he woke up. Drake was saying, sharply, “Post! Snap out of it!”

“What is it?”

“Nearly there. It’s one o’clock.”

“Better time than you thought.”

“I never make careless estimates, Post. Get used to that. We have four miles to walk through the woods before we’re there.”

Drake glanced at the rear vision mirror. He slowed down to twenty. An old car rattled by. Drake watched the woods on the right side of the road. He slowed down to ten and then to five. The car ahead disappeared around a curve. He glanced in the rear vision mirror again.

“Now,” he muttered, and swung the wheel hard right. The little car lurched across a shallow ditch and scraped under low branches. The back wheels were spinning on the wet earth. He twisted it around another turn and the state road was out of sight. He slowed down. Directly ahead, across the faint trail, was a massive log, nearly a yard in diameter and about eight feet long. The lower third of it was embedded in the trail.

“Get out and move the log, Post.”

“Are you nuts? That thing weighs more than a ton!”

“That thing, as you call it, weighs precisely forty-five pounds. Hop along.”

Post got out of the car. The rain had stopped. The huge log looked immovable. He wondered if it was a gag. He grabbed the end of it and it lifted out of the soil. He carried the end around. It was a log. Drake drove past and he replaced the log the way it had been.

He climbed back in the car and Drake started down the narrow track.

“What is that thing? What kind of a tree is it?”

“Just what it looks like. I had it sawed into short sections and the center hollowed out. Then I had the boys fit the sections back together with glue and wooden pins. It’s strong enough to stand on. The marks are concealed. A stranger would have to kick it or try to lift it to find out what it is. It discourages visitors.”

“What are you running down here, Doc? A counterfeiting plant? What goes on?”

“Relax, Post. You’ll find out all the answers in time. I run a health farm and I like to keep it private.”

After a quarter mile of winding trail through dense brush, they came to a small clearing circled by tall spruce. Drake ran his car under the close branches. They climbed out. Post hauled his suitcase out. As they walked across the clearing, Post saw the rear bumpers of several other cars hidden deep under the trees. He wanted to ask Drake about it. Then he shrugged and followed along in silence.

For a long time the trail wound upward and the vegetation grew denser. Slim branches whipped back, lashing Walker Post across the face. He lowered his head and plodded along, considering only each step at a time. He began to imagine that if he had to stop, he would fail. He wondered where his ability to hike thirty miles in a day had gone.

Suddenly he stumbled against Drake’s back. The man had stopped. He stood calm and cool and pointed ahead down the trail. They stood at the crest of a hill.

“Meridin Lake,” he said with obvious pride.

It lay below them, a thousand yards away. It was small, possibly a mile long and a half mile wide. A large patch of the sky had cleared and the still water threw a deeper blue back toward the sky. It ran east and west. They stood above the west end. Wooded hills rose steeply from the lake on every side except the west. Ahead Post could see the outlines of weathered gray buildings against the evergreens. It was very quiet, strangely quiet. Post felt a momentary uneasiness.

“Like it?”

“It’s okay.”

“There’s one thing you should know about it. This is wild country. The only decent way to and from the lake is the way we’ve come. The thickets and brambles and hills are so bad on all the other sides that even hunters never come near us. Remember that.”

“So I’ll remember it.”

Drake started down the trail. The rest of it was easier for Post. It was downhill. He was so tired that his heels thudded against the hard earth with blows that jarred him. He wasn’t so tired, however, that he didn’t look around at the two buildings as they came out into the clearing.

They were two long, low buildings of wood weathered gray by the sun and rain and snow. They were of simple construction with gradual slopes on the peaked roofs and overhanging eaves. The square windows were netted. They appeared to Post to be each about forty feet long and fifteen to eighteen wide. They were set parallel, about twenty feet apart. Looking down the alley between them, he could see the blue glint of the lake about fifty feet beyond their farthest edge.

Drake shouted when they emerged into the clearing. There was an open door at the end of the building on the left. A tall man in faded blue denim with flame-red hair hurried out. A stockier dark man followed slowly after him.

They met in the middle of the clearing. Post dropped his bag with a hidden sigh of relief.

“Boys, this is Walker Post. Post, that tall one is Rob Strane, the man who has been with me the longest.”

Strane grabbed Post’s hand in his big red fist and said, “Hi ya, Post.” He was tall and rangy and looked as tough and hard as a pump handle. Post noticed that his eyes were a strange shade of faun, almost a yellow. He acted nervous and anxious to be liked.

“And this is Sam Frick.”

The stocky one nodded, and then looked idly off into the woods. He looked impassive and casual. His face was masked and the expression in his eyes hidden by the massive ridge of bone across his brows. Post noticed that the man’s lips were tightly compressed, as though by an inner tension that he couldn’t permit himself to show.

Frick spat on the ground and said, “Thought you were coming back with Jorder, boss. Told us you’d bring Jorder. Who’s this Walker Post?”

“Take it easy, Frick,” Drake snapped. “I do as I please.” He stopped and smiled. “Jorder is unfortunately detained. He won’t be able to come out. Post will be okay when he gets in shape. You might say he’s halfway between a patient and an employee. Be easy on him.”

Frick said, “Oh,” and looked at Post with silent amusement.

“How are the patients, boys?”

“All quiet,” Strane said eagerly. “Benderson and his daughter are taking a walk around the lakeshore. He seems okay. Mr. Burke and the girl are in their cabin.”

“Good. I better go visiting. Take Post in and give him a bunk and answer his questions, if any. He doesn’t talk much.” Drake headed off toward the lake.

Frick nudged the bag with his foot and gestured with his thumb toward the door they’d come out of. “Lug it in there.”

Post picked up the bag and walked into the long building. It was lined with double bunks on both sides. He stopped and stared.

“Used to be the bunkhouse when it was a lumber camp. The other building was the kitchen and mess hall. We still use the kitchen, but use the mess hall for storage of supplies. Grab any bunk except these two lowers on this end. That one by the window there ought to be as cool as any.”

Post tossed his bag into the bunk and sat down on it. He sat on the bare slats. The bunk above him was high enough so that he could sit upright.

He waited until his breath was coming more slowly. Frick and Strane stood by the door and stared at him with frank interest.

Post felt that they expected him to ask questions. He decided that it would be easier to satisfy them, even though he couldn’t generate much specific interest.

“What kind of work am I going to have to do around here? The boss didn’t tell me that. He just said it wouldn’t be hard.”

“It was hard when we were fixing up those two cabins. Damn hard,” Strane answered. “Easy now, though. Nothing to it. Issue them the food out of stores. Bury garbage in the woods. Cut wood for the fall. Just hang around. We have to go out and get stuff once in a while, but the boss probably won’t want you to do that. Just hang around and kind of watch. We take turns on our own cooking. With you around, it’ll come up every three days.”

“Are there only two of these cabins?”

“Yeah, two sets of guests at a time are plenty, hey, Frick?”

“Shut up, Rob. What else you want to know, Post?”

“Where do I get some bedclothes — mattress and blankets?”

“Go right in next door and pick out what you want. Grab some bug repellent, they get rough when it gets dark. Take it easy for the rest of the day and get used to the place. Really, there are three cabins. They were built when the camp was. They’re along the south shore there, about a hundred yards from here. The boss lives in one. We had to fix them up.”

They followed him out, and then headed toward the lake. He poked around in the litter on the floor of the supply building and found what he needed. He carried the supplies back in and made up his bunk. As soon as it was ready, he felt drowsy. He hadn’t had as much exercise in months. He lay on the bunk and drifted off to sleep. His last conscious thought was that the pine woods smelled crisp and clean.

Post gradually came awake and heard voices.

He recognized Rob Strane’s voice. “You sure that guy won’t wake up, boss?”

“He’s too tired and it won’t make any difference if he does. Relax. He’s all set. Now, here’s the deal. Things are going to get a little tight for a while, so don’t be too liberal with the food. I got to go back out in the morning. Don’t ask me why. I’ll be gone maybe two days. You know your orders.”

Then Sam Frick said, “You want we should keep Post away from the patients?”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Drake said slowly, “I can’t see as that’s going to make any difference. Just let him wander around. He’s a funny guy. He isn’t going to give much of a damn about anything. He’ll turn out to be a good man. You’ll see.”

Post couldn’t catch the rest. They lowered their voices. After a time they left and he could hear a bird calling a hot-weather note in the trees outside. He drifted off again.

When he awoke the second time he felt more rested. The sun was out and he could tell from the slant of the rays outside the window that it was getting late. He stood up slowly and stretched. He could smell food cooking. Suddenly he realized that he was ravenously hungry — hungrier than he had been in many weeks.

He walked out the door and saw the setting sun resting on the top of the hill they had walked down. He remembered that they had told him where the kitchen was. He walked toward it. Smoke wisped out of a crazy-angled stovepipe that stuck through the roof. He found a door in the end of the building nearest the lake.

Strane looked up from the wood stove. “Sleeping Beauty awakes. Hungry?”

Post yawned again. “Yeah.”

“Sit down there at the table. I’ll eat with you in a minute.”

“Where’s Frick?”

“He’ll be in after a while. We’ll eat first.”

Post sat down by one of the enameled plates. In a few minutes Strane carried the frying pan over to the table and dished out some of the potatoes and meat. It smelled good to Post. He ate rapidly and then leaned back and lit a cigarette. Strane was still eating. He chewed with his mouth open and the cords in his neck worked. He bent low over the plate and shoveled the food in with jerky scooping motions.

He got up and shoved his chair back. “Tomorrow you can cook, Post. That’ll be all you have to do. Ever done any?”

“Camp stuff. That’s all.”

Strane left and in a few minutes Sam Frick came in. He grabbed the frying pan and heaped what was left on his own plate. He sat down and started to eat without a word. Post stared out the open door and saw that the lake blue had darkened to gray as the sun had gone further below the hills. He finished his cigarette and snapped it out the door. Frick’s head was bent low over his plate.

Suddenly Post tied two things together in his head. The two of them didn’t eat together. Strane had said they had to “hang around and kind of watch.” He realized that the two men might be guarding the exit from the lake. He wondered if he ought to risk having some fun with Frick. He felt full and strangely contented.

“I suppose you guys take turns eating first?” he asked casually.

Frick stopped chewing and looked up. His small eyes were shadowed. “What gives you the idea we take turns, chum?”

“You can’t eat together. Who’d watch the patients?”

Frick waited a few seconds and then said softly, “I don’t know what you’re driving at, Post. Maybe you better let the whole thing drop.”

Post hid a grin and stood up. He stretched and walked to the door. The lake was quiet. He walked down to the shore and sat on a flat rock. The waves lapped against the rock. Blackflies gathered around his head and he lit another cigarette to keep them off. The sky grew darker. He heard frogs grumbling in a distant marsh. He noticed that there were no boats.

He stared up the lakeshore and saw a light flicker in the thick brush. He guessed that it was a light in one of the cabins. He couldn’t see the other cabins. It had grown too dark. He could see a strange patch of sun at the peak of a mountain in the east, but in the deep valley of the lake it smelled of night.

He sat and wondered what sort of an arrangement he had dropped into. It seemed strange, somehow, but he couldn’t work up any great interest. He felt the familiar dull lethargy creeping over him. He shivered in the sudden chill that swept in from the lake. He walked to the bunkhouse and climbed into his bunk.

Just before he fell asleep, Sam Frick came in and climbed into his bunk. He lit a kerosene lamp and found his place in a ragged magazine. He didn’t speak. Post watched the sullen face for a time, watched the man’s lips moving as he read. Post fell asleep, after deciding that maybe it would be a good thing to leave. He decided he would leave without finding out what it was all about. He drove the growing curiosity down into himself and commanded it to be still.

He climbed out of bed when the air was still chill. Strane was asleep, a nasal snore rattling in his throat. Frick’s bed was empty. He wandered across to the kitchen and looked around. He decided to wait until either Frick or Strane could show him where to find the supplies. He wondered how they kept the food cool. He walked down to the lake and skipped flat stones out over the still water. His aches and stiffness were gone.

After a time Strane came out and showed him where the food supplies were kept. They used a crude windlass to lower supplies which had to be kept cool down into a narrow hole that appeared to be at least twenty feet deep. The butter was hard and the eggs were fresh.

He cooked the breakfast and they ate it separately, without comment. After he had cleaned up, Strane came in and made up two baskets of food supplies to take to the two cabins. Post walked over to the bunkhouse and picked up his suitcase. He walked out of the building and toward the entrance to the trail. He decided to walk slowly and enjoy the morning.

He hadn’t gone more than twenty feet up the trail when Sam Frick suddenly stepped in front of him.

“What’s the matter, Post? Don’t like cooking?”

“Cooking’s okay. I just don’t like the setup. I’m leaving.”

Frick didn’t move out of the narrow path. He put his big hands on his hips and turned to a bush and said in a mincing way, “Mr. Post doesn’t like it here. He’s leaving.” Then he turned back to Post. “Get on back there, sucker. You love it here. Besides, you told the boss you’d work. If you want to quit, you got to talk to him.”

“They keep telling me it’s a free country. How about getting out of the way?”

In answer, Frick put his big hand against Post’s chest and shoved. Frick was on higher ground. Post tumbled backward onto his side and rolled into a bush. His suitcase snapped open and the clothes slid out onto the dirt.

Post got to his feet. Frick still stood above him, a half smile on his face. He said, almost kindly, “Get on back, Post. You’re not in shape for this sort of thing. Don’t make me hang one on you and drag you down. Let’s keep it pleasant, hey?”

Post stood and looked at the broad chest, the thick wrists. He thought of how quickly the man had moved when he had pushed against his chest. The smile faded from the heavy face and Post knew that the man would move again in a few seconds. He knelt in the trail and gathered his clothes back into the suitcase. He turned and walked back down the trail. He walked into the bunkhouse and slid his bag under his bunk. He sat on the edge of the bunk and lit a cigarette. His hand trembled. He felt angry and vaguely frightened. He tried to retreat back into the calm of indifference, but he couldn’t do it. He knew that they weren’t going to let him leave.

He wondered what kind of a chance he would stand with either Frick or Strane. He peeled off his shirt and tried to look at himself in the battered steel mirror hanging on one of the bunk posts. He could see flashes of white flesh, of a roll of fat around his waist. His arms looked soft and formless.

Within a half hour he was standing out beyond the kitchen stripped to the waist. He could feel where the axe handle was going to raise blisters. Sweat was soaking him around the waist of his trousers. He set another chunk on the block and split it cleanly through the middle with the double-bitted axe. It was as easy as a problem in addition. He could sense trouble ahead, and for some reason he wanted to be ready for it. The better shape he could get into, the better chance he would have. He stopped and wondered why he wanted a better chance. He stared out across the small lake. Maybe he just didn’t want to be pushed around. He set another chunk on the block and imagined that it was Sam Frick’s hard head. He sunk the blade so deeply into the block that he had to smack the handle up with the heel of his hand to loosen it.

After he had split a sizable pile, he sat on the block to rest for a few minutes. The sun felt warm on his shoulders. He heard footsteps behind him and glanced around. A soft fat man, with crisp curling black hair and white jowls that sagged below his chin, stood with his plump hands on his hips and stared down at Post. He wore a tan sports shirt and flowered shorts. His hairless legs were scarred with a hundred insect bites.

“So there’s another one of you guys, hah? What’s he running, an army?”

“Are you Mr. Burke or Mr. Benderson?”

“Burke, and I always thought I was a smart operator until I walked into this with my stupid eyes wide open. Where’s your boss? I want to talk to him now.”

“Not around.”

The man turned and looked toward the cabins. A tall tanned blonde in a yellow playsuit stepped carefully across the uneven ground. She looked blankly at Burke and Post. Her face was puffy. Her eyes were wide, brown and dull.

“Millie, this new guy says the boss is away. When’ll he be back, fella?”

“Don’t know.”

Millie pouted. Post saw that the roots of her bright hair were streaked with black. “Gee, Burky, I got to get outa here. All the time you keep telling me to wait. I got other things to do. Maybe they’ll let me go now.”

“You shut your face and get back to that cabin. You’re not getting out until I do.”

They walked back toward the cabins. Burke tried to grab her wrist but she twisted away from him. Burke raised his fat clenched fist and then let it drop wearily at his side. He stopped just before he was out of sight, bent over and vigorously scratched both legs.

He didn’t meet the others until late afternoon. When his hands were too blistered to continue chopping wood, he found Strane on the trail. The lanky man was leaning against a tree peeling the bark from a slim stick.

“You guys got any objection to me walking around the lake before we eat?”

“Why should we care? Go ahead. Only don’t make us wait supper.”

He circled the lake, walking along the north side first. The brush was so thick that at times he had to splash through the shallow water. Once he stumbled and soaked himself to the hips. But he made better time than he expected. As he came back along the south shore, he found the walking easier. There were long stretches of flat gray rock slanting down toward the water. The slant wasn’t so steep that he couldn’t walk across it.

Finally he saw the gray buildings of the camp ahead of him. He looked up into the brush and saw a small gray cabin. It was surrounded with half-grown spruce. Beyond it he could see a part of the roof of a second cabin.

As he stood and stared, he caught a flash of movement down on the rocks. He turned. A slim girl was stretched out on her back in the sun. She was wearing a scanty white bathing suit laced with red. She had a book, sunglasses and a bottle of white lotion. The sun had turned her the soft brown of coffee with cream.

She raised her head. He was standing ten feet from her.

“Hello, there,” she said. He recognized the flat clear accent of Beacon Hill. He walked over to her, and because it seemed awkward to stand above her, he sat down and wrapped his arms around his knees.

She stared at him with calm appraisal. Her face was a shade too narrow with the brown skin tight over the high delicate cheekbones. Her eyes were gray and her eyebrows thick and black. She made him think of the women in the fashion magazines that Ruth used to buy. He sensed breeding, money and chill selfish charm.

“I’m Nan Benderson. I imagine you’re one of the men who work here.”

“That’s right. Walker Post.”

She rested her dark head back on the rocks and shut her eyes against the sun’s glare. “Tell Mr. Drake that Dad would like to see him. Dad is much better. He hasn’t had so much rest and quiet in years. I haven’t told him how bored I’m getting.”

“I’ll tell him.”

Suddenly she braced herself on one elbow and looked at him. “Mr. Post, are you certain Mr. Burke is entirely safe? Mr. Drake told us about his delusions of persecution, but he comes to our cabin and says strange things in such a wild manner.”

Post wondered what he should say. Burke didn’t act like a man with delusions. He acted like a man who was trapped and knew it. He shrugged. “Far as I know, he’s harmless.”

She continued to stare at him. “You’re an odd one!”

He started. Then he shrugged and looked away. He couldn’t permit himself the luxury of being curious. He looked back at her. She still stared and suddenly she looked away.

“That was rude, wasn’t it? I’m sorry. But your face looks... so dead. As though you... I can’t explain it. You look hurt and glum, like a whipped child, only there’s something more. I don’t know why I’m talking like this. I guess it’s just being alone so much up here and having time to think. Don’t pay any attention to me.”

He got to his feet and looked down at her. He looked into her eyes for a few seconds. “It’s okay, Miss Benderson. Don’t think about it.” He walked along the shore. He began to wonder what he could find to cook for supper. There wasn’t much food left on the platform lowered deep into the ground.

After supper he thought he would try to exercise, to harden himself more. It suddenly seemed pointless. He watched Sam Frick stand on the shore, stoop and lift an immense boulder. He held it high in the air and then shoved it from him. It landed in the shallow water, throwing a sheet of water high in the air to sparkle in the last rays of the sun. Post stood silently for a few minutes.

Then he got the axe and cut a short thick club. It fit his hand nicely. He wondered idly why they let him use an axe. An axe can be used as a weapon. He hid the club carefully. He guessed that Frick and Strane were probably armed. It seemed logical to him that they would be.

Drake didn’t return the next day — or the next. They were reduced to tinned foods. Post spent the long quiet days sitting in his bunk. He circled the lake once each day. The first day, he saw the girl out on the rocks again. She didn’t lift her head. He stepped by quietly.

Burke came down to complain about the food. He didn’t bring Millie with him. Frick and Strane ignored him. He stomped back toward his cabin, anger showing even in the lines of his back as he walked away.

Post felt a definite tension in the air. He couldn’t reason it out and he shrugged it off. He ate and slept and watched the lake. He knew that nothing was mending inside of him. And it didn’t matter.

Drake returned on the third day at eight in the morning. He had a small man with him. Post watched them walk across the clearing. The stranger staggered and swayed. His eyes were almost shut and his face was slack. Drake walked behind him, shoving him in the back with his left hand. In his right hand he carried a light rifle. Drake’s dark face was twisted. He pushed the man through the open door of the bunkhouse. The man tripped and sprawled face down on the floor. He was breathing heavily. He didn’t try to get up.

“Frick. Toss him on one of the bunks. You don’t have to watch him. There’s enough stuff in him to keep him out for hours. He won’t remember how he got here.”

Frick gathered the man up and held him in his arms like a sleeping child. Post noticed that the stranger’s clothes were ragged, his face unshaven. Frick stepped over to one of the bunks and tossed the man onto a top bunk. His head and heels thumped against the wooden slats.

Drake sat on a bunk and wiped his head. “What a job, getting that joe through the woods. I bet he fell a hundred times.” He handed the rifle to Frick, who balanced it in a corner. “How are things?”

Frick didn’t answer. He sat down on a bunk across from Drake and jerked his thumb at Post, his eyebrows raised.

“Go ahead. Mr. Walker Post isn’t in the way.”

“If you say so. Burke has been yapping about the food and about getting out of here. His dish wants me to ask you if she can go even if Burke can’t. She’s talking about appointments she’s got.”

“She stays. Pay no attention to Burke. We’ll let him steam for a while longer.”

“Right. Benderson and the daughter are still in the clouds. She’s bored. He’s getting healthy. No attempt to get out. He wants to talk to you. She’s worried about Burke. Wonders if he’s dangerous.”

“I’ll talk to them. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Strong and silent here tried to leave with his stuff a few days back. I stopped him on the trail and I had to push him around. He hasn’t said much since. I told him he had to see you.”

Drake looked at Post. His dark eyes were full of amusement. “Restless, hey? I wouldn’t have expected that of you, Post. I thought you didn’t care where you were. Why try to leave? The work too hard?”

“I suppose you want the truth.”

“Why not?”

“These two big clowns of yours got on my nerves. They both handed me smart talk about this place. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I can see it isn’t kosher. Just tell me what it’s all about. I don’t care what you’re doing. I just don’t like not having a question answered when I feel like asking it.”

Drake turned to Frick. “Take the panel job and go after the food. I’ll have Rob help you pack it in after you get back. Same place.” Frick strolled out.

The unconscious man in the top bunk moaned softly. Drake picked at his teeth with a fingernail. He studied Post. Post looked back at him without expression.

“You remember, I told you that I’m an amateur psychiatrist? Well, this place is an experiment in applied psychiatry. Science at work. You can’t have outside factors intruding in a controlled experiment. So I’ve made it tough to get in or out.

“I’ll give you a case history. We’ll take Burke. I needed a lusty playful guy with a rich wife who has a narrow moral outlook. After a little research I located Burke in a city about two hundred miles from here.

“He fit my requirements. He was supporting this character he calls Millie. He’s been married for eighteen years to a fantastically ominous woman. She’s a modern-day dragon. I saw her. The kind of a woman who can word-whip you till your ears bleed. Burke’s never worked. He has a drawing account. She keeps a pretty close watch on him, but he’s been clever enough to keep this Millie on the side.

“I met Burke at a bar. I told him about this place I had bought and promised him that he could come up here and nobody would know where he was and nobody could find him. I got him a doctor’s prescription to take a rest. He asked me if Millie could come along. He trusted me. I told him that she could. I brought them in here.

“In my safety-deposit box I’ve got a series of negatives of Burke and his Millie. I haven’t made him any offer. He doesn’t know what I want, but he’s pretty damn sure I want money. I do. I want lots of it. Now comes the psychology. I just keep him here and let him stew, imagining what will happen when his wife tosses him out without a dime. That frightens him. At the proper moment I’ll make a contract with him that will give me a neat little income each month for as long as he lives.”

The little man licked his firm lips and grinned at Post. “That’s one case history. We’ve just started here. There’ll be lots of them. I got the idea that you isolate people and they lose courage. They can’t go out on the street and see thousands of other people around them. They sit and look at the lake and think. Things bother them. I like to think that I’m a doctor of mental ills. I don’t cure them — I rub a little salt in them and let the bucks drop into my hand. The trouble with most operators who start this kind of a racket — they’re out of touch with their customers. I just bring the customers right here to me and let them sweat it out. Then they don’t get out of hand.”

“How about the Bendersons?”

“A good question. I got him up here on the spur of the moment just because he has more bucks than anybody I ever met before. His pappy founded shipbuilding outfits and clock companies. He’s lousy with it. I’ve done research on him, and the guy has never stepped out of line far enough so I can put the pressure on him. It’s taken me a couple of weeks to get an idea. I’ve got one now.” He gestured toward the sleeping man in the bunk.

“Why tell me all this?”

“Because you’re staying here and you’re going to be right in it with the rest of us. I needed another guy and the one I was looking for is a guest of the government for an indefinite period. I was mad. I stopped the car and went into that little bar for a drink. There you were. Pennies from heaven. All wrapped up in a fight. I figured that I might be able to use you, and I turned out to be right.”

“I still don’t get it. How the hell can you use me? I’m not interested in your racket. I’m not interested in any racket. I just want to be left alone. That’s all. First chance I get, I’ll leave. It won’t be worth my time to go to the cops. I’ll just leave.”

“I don’t believe it, Post. I think you’ll be glad to stay. I got something I want to show you.” He slipped the familiar wallet out of his jacket pocket and found a clipping in it. He handed the clipping to Post.

He read: “HESSLER KILLER IDENTIFIED. Police today stated that they have identified Walker Post, age 31, as the man who brutally kicked Victor Hessler to death in Donovan’s Bar on West Street four days ago. Post is still at large. After Hessler died a few hours after the fight, police checked all places in the city where transients stay. Mrs. Mary Cortez of 88 Plant Street stated that a man named Walker Post had checked out of her rooming house a few hours after the fight. She stated that Post left no forwarding address and that he seemed nervous and upset. She stated that his face and lips were cut and bruised. A picture of Post was obtained from his previous employers, a prominent architectural firm, and the picture was positively identified by Mr. Donovan and the two companions of Hessler as the man who had kicked Hessler to death. Police expect an early arrest. Post is described as being of medium height, brown hair, gray eyes, wide shoulders. He is sullen and dangerous. He is a veteran of the war in the Pacific.”

Post sat and read it again. It gave him a strange feeling, as though he were reading about someone else. So he had killed the one they called Hessy. He remembered the boy’s brown arms, the way he had hooked his thumbs in his belt. He felt sudden regret and contempt for himself. He glanced up. Drake was wearing his superior smile. Post wanted to smash him in the face. Instead he handed the clipping back, holding his hand as steady as he could.

Drake took it and tucked it away. “So you won’t leave?”

“I don’t know. I may still leave.”

The smile didn’t fade. “Here’s some more amateur psychiatry, Post. You are now running up against a primary instinct for self-preservation. I admire you. You can make yourself look calm. You know you’ve got to be cold. But it’s only on the outside. On the inside you’re afraid. No man is so depressed that he won’t fight against an outside force that wants to kill him or imprison him. A man on his way to a high building from which he wishes to leap will skip out of the path of a truck. Your face is a lie.”

Post shrugged. “Those are pretty words, Drake. Maybe you’re trying to talk yourself into the idea that you got me hooked here because I killed a man. I can’t tell you right now whether you have or not. I may leave. I may not.”

“You leave and they’ll pick you up.”

“So I get picked up.” Even as he said it, he felt a quiver of alarm. He knew he didn’t want to go back out to where they could find him. He wanted to stay hidden in the woods. Suddenly the quiet lake seemed like exactly the proper spot to be. The proper spot in which to stay. He kept all expression off his face. He had killed and he had run away. If they caught him, he would grow old in prison. The free existence which had become so unbearable during the past months became suddenly desirable. He stared steadily at Drake and shrugged again.

“You’re pretending, Post. No man willingly goes to the cops on a thing like this. I’m going to prove you’re pretending. If you’re so anxious to go, I’m going to do you a big favor.”

He got up and walked to the doorway. He called Strane. The tall man shambled in. “Rob, we’ve got an experiment here. Post killed a man back in town and the cops want him. He says he doesn’t care. I’m going to let him go. Don’t stop him. Pack up your stuff, Post, and shove off.”

Drake came and stood in front of him. Strane was in the doorway. “So the great man of indifference starts to care. Suppose I force you to leave?”

“Then they pick me up and I tell them what I know about this place.”

“And what do you know? Burke won’t talk. Benderson’s got nothing to talk about. You saw the other clipping. This is a health resort. I think you better write me a check. Strane, go through his stuff.”

Post tried to grab the suitcase but Strane brushed him aside. He sat while Strane pawed through his clothes. He found the checkbook inside one of the flap pockets. He handed it to Drake. Drake riffled through the stubs.

He handed it to Post. “About two thousand ought to be fine. Make it two thousand even. Don’t make it out to me. Make it to cash. I think I can get it cashed without identifying myself with a guy the police want.”

Post held the checkbook and his hands felt numb. He wondered how Drake had known about the checkbook. Strane and Drake stood over him. Drake handed him a pen. He didn’t try to write a check.

“I promise you, Post, that if you don’t write it, you’ll be out of here and in the hands of the police in two hours. Consider it a fee for being at my rest camp. You’ll still get your keep. I’m not a bad guy. I won’t even stop your wages.”

Somehow the money didn’t seem important. He knew that it was his last crutch, his last chance to spend idle empty days in small rooms stinking of stale beer. If Drake hadn’t demanded it, it would have gone slowly and the day would have come when there would have been no money to buy liquor or food or a roof. He wrote out the check and tore it out. Balance: twenty-one dollars and fourteen cents. He wrote that down at the top of the next stub.

He stood up. He wanted to walk down by the lake. He wanted to sit and think it all out. It had happened so quickly. He walked toward the door. Drake leaned against the doorjamb. He said softly, “I like to have a man know who’s running the show. I want people to jump when I talk. Suppose you call me Mr. Drake for a while.”

Post stopped. The smaller man’s head was near his right shoulder. Without looking he slapped his left hand around, palm open. Drake clattered onto the board floor. Post walked heavily toward the lake, his hand stinging.

He heard Drake call, “Strane! Get him. Bring him in here.”

He turned as he heard heavy feet pounding across the clearing toward him. He didn’t turn quickly enough to meet the rush. Strane’s shoulder caught him in the chest and slammed him onto the ground. He jumped up and Strane grabbed his wrist. There was a sharp pain in his arm as he was spun around. Then his hand was held up against the small of his back and he was marched back to the bunkhouse.

Drake stood in the door. His dark eyes were narrowed. There was a dull red discoloration across his swarthy right cheek. His nostrils were dilated.

His voice was hoarse as he said, “How about the suckers, Strane? They likely to come around this way?”

“Not this time of day, boss.”

“Then give this chump a going-over. Make it last.”

Post braced himself. The fight in the bar had given him a certain amount of confidence. He wanted to hit something with his fists. He wanted to wipe out the fear that was in his heart.

Strane came in slowly, his face solemn, his big hands swinging low at his sides. When he was close he stuck his left arm out. Post knocked it aside. Drake slid in and sat on the edge of a bunk. He kept licking his lips. He leaned forward and his eyes were bright.

Post tried a quick chop at Strane’s jaw. He never knew if the punch landed or not. He went spinning back into blackness with fire against the side of his face.

He came to on his back on the floor. His shirt was soaked with water. His hair was wet. His face felt swollen. He heard Drake say, with annoyance, “He’s coming out of it. Now get him up on his feet and make it last a while.” Strane mumbled something.

“That’ll do, Strane. Put him in his bunk.” He was dimly conscious of being carried. He lay in the bunk after they had gone and became conscious of the stinging pain in his face. After a time he climbed out of the bunk. He held on to the side post for a time. When he had the strength, he walked over to the steel mirror. A stranger’s face stared back at him. His lips were puffed. One eye was already dark. The entire left side of his face was so swollen that the lines of the cheekbone and jaw were gone.

He poured water into the chipped basin and washed his face. It didn’t feel any better. He sat for a long time on the bunk. He looked down at the floor. A small green caterpillar humped its way across the stained boards with anxious urgency. He heard the far-off murmur of voices. A breeze rushed through the pines.

He had no clear idea of his own thoughts and feelings. He was confused. He wanted to retreat into the lethargy to which he had become accustomed. It escaped him. He felt no anger. He felt no humiliation. In his mind was a feeling of disgust. And there was something else growing inside him. It was something new for him. He hadn’t felt it for a year. It was a growing sense of excitement and anticipation. But as yet it wasn’t strong enough to guide him. It flickered in the back of his mind like a candle behind blinds.

After a half hour Drake came in. He stood for a moment, looking at Post. Post didn’t look up.

“Are you okay now?”

“Fine.”

“That was necessary. I can’t take chances on discipline. I’m carefully guarded. Frick and Strane are careful of me. Each month I have to mail a letter to the West Coast. If I should die suddenly, and not mail the usual letter, Frick and Strane would be hunted by the police with the same energy that they’re hunting for you. A friend holds the information, which he’ll turn over to the police the first month he doesn’t hear from me.”

“Sure. You’re a brilliant man. You’re a genius. But you enjoyed watching Strane slug me, didn’t you? You got a real bang out of it.” He stared up at the slim man and his face felt hot.

Surprisingly, Drake looked uncertain. He turned slowly and walked out. Nan Benderson met him at the door. She was wearing slacks and a halter. She looked calm and poised.

“I wanted to ask you something, Mr. Drake. I couldn’t ask you while you were talking to Dad. Have you got a moment?”

He took her arm and led her away from the door. She glanced back over her shoulder. Post thought he saw her eyes widen as she saw his battered face. He couldn’t be certain.

In the afternoon he sat on the lakeshore in the sun. Later he walked around the lake. As he came down the south shore he felt a sense of anticipation. He thought that he might see her on the rocks. He slowed his pace as he saw that she wasn’t there. He was well beyond the Benderson cabin when he heard a scuffling on the rocks behind him. Miss Benderson and Drake were there. He turned and stopped.

They walked up to him, and Miss Benderson put out her hand to him. He took it awkwardly. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Post,” she said. “Stop up at the cabin and visit with us sometime, won’t you?”

He felt something pressing into the palm of his hand. He started to stammer and Drake interrupted smoothly. “I’m afraid that Post won’t have any time for social gatherings, Miss Benderson. Besides, I don’t believe your father should have visitors.”

She released his hand and he closed it around the small object in his palm. The girl and Drake stared at each other, and Post felt the cool animosity in their eyes. She nodded and said, “Well, I must get back up to the cabin and start dinner.” She walked quickly back across the sloping rocks. Post shoved the thing she had given him deeper into his pocket and followed Drake back to the compound.

When they were near the bunkhouse, Drake turned to him. “Tomorrow you take a one-third guard trick. Four on and four off. Fix the hours with Rob and Sam. Just keep your eye on the trail and keep our four guests from trying to use it. Be polite, particularly with the Bendersons. Use any excuse you can think of. But don’t let them get past you. Understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Drake,” he answered, his voice flat. Drake left him and he walked into the kitchen. It was empty. He fished the item out of his pocket. It was a small wad of paper. He unfolded it partway, not so far that he could see the writing. He held it in his hand. He realized he didn’t want any complications. He didn’t want to owe anyone anything, or have anything owed to him. With cool precision he tore it into scraps and dropped it into the wood stove. He looked at his watch. He’d have a chance for a nap before supper.

He realized that it was his last undisturbed night, and yet he slept poorly. When the gray dawn outlined the window near his head and the birds began to clamor, he finally drifted into a restless sleep. Once the low moans of the unconscious stranger awakened him and he listened. All he could hear were the snores of Frick. He went back to sleep.

When he awoke the second time, the sun seemed high. He dressed slowly and walked across to the kitchen. Breakfast was over. There was a cold fried egg in the greasy pan. He opened a tin of orange juice and drank it. He heard voices outside the kitchen window and he walked over.

Drake was giving Strane orders. “I’ve talked to Burke. I scared him. He and that woman won’t move out of the cabin all morning. That’ll give me the time I need. You go up to Benderson’s cabin and send the old man down here to me. You stay there and make sure the girl doesn’t come down here. He may call out to her and she may hear him. Keep her there. But if you lay a hand on her, except to keep her from getting out the door, I’ll make you wish you never met me. Understand?”

“Sure boss. Sure.”

Drake looked up and saw Post’s face in the kitchen window. “There you are. Come out here and watch. I want to educate you a little more. This lesson is called how to make a half million dollars. Let’s go look at my new guest while Strane sends Benderson down here. Frick’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

Post followed him over into the bunkhouse. He helped Drake lift the small man down from the high bunk. The man was blue around the eyes and his clothing stank. Drake put him on the floor and slapped him on both cheeks. The man didn’t open his eyes.

“Good. He’ll last until I’m ready for him.”

Post noticed that Drake was excited. His dark eyes were wide and he walked around nervously. He was dressed in a yellow-orange sports shirt and trim gray gabardine trousers. The orange shirt made his skin look more sallow than it had before.

Post wondered who the small man could be. He asked.

“This, Post, is that unique man, the man who has nobody and nothing. He has no home, no relatives, no friends and no money. He’s the essence of anonymity.”

Drake hurried out of the bunkhouse. Mr. Benderson was coming down the alleyway between the two buildings. He walked carefully. It was the first time Post had seen him. He was a tall, frail old man with a gray hairless skull. He wore rimless glasses over his faded blue eyes. The gray folds of his cheeks sagged over the bone structure. Even though he was slightly stooped, he had an air of pride and authority.

He glanced up as they stepped out to meet him. “Ah, Mr. Drake! Your man said you’d like to talk to me.” When he smiled his eyes were young.

“Yes, Mr. Benderson. This is Mr. Post, another of my men. Mr. Post is going to sit in on this little conference — that is, if you don’t mind.”

“How do you do, Mr. Post. Why should I mind? I’m feeling excellent, sir. Excellent. This air, this quiet, it’s worked wonders for me. And for Nan too.”

“Post, you better sit over there out of the way. Lean against the bunkhouse. Mr. Benderson and I will have our little... discussion out in this cleared space. Are you certain you’re not too tired to stand, Mr. Benderson?”

The old man tapped himself on the chest. “Sound as a nut. Now, what is all this about?”

They stood in the middle of the alleyway, the early sun slanting across them, throwing their shadows in long strips toward the woods. Drake stepped closer to the old man and looked up into his face.

“You know, Benderson, in addition to running this place, I’m a philosopher. Did you know that?” There was something secret and dangerous in Drake’s tone.

The older man looked puzzled and stepped back. Drake’s face was so close to his own that Post could see that it made him uncomfortable.

“Yes, I’m a philosopher. This is a country where we value human dignity, Benderson. We bow deeply to the rights of the individual... I don’t think the individual has any rights.”

“But what has that got to do with...”

“Don’t be hasty, Benderson. Let me finish. You’re treated with what amounts to reverence because you stink with money. Money that was handed to you. I don’t think I’ll give you any reverent attention, Mr. Benderson.”

The gray cheeks flushed and Benderson coughed. “Look, Drake, I didn’t come down here to listen to any silly theories. I didn’t come to be insulted. Now get to the point. I believe that I may leave here today. Yes, I’m certain of it.”

Drake stepped forward again, slightly crouched, his head tilted sharply upward. “You’re quite right, Benderson,” he said, his voice soft and strangely warm. “Neither of us is interested in theory. We’re men who like to see theory in practice.”

His thin hand flashed up and the smack of hard palm on flesh resounded in the narrow space between the buildings. Benderson staggered back, bewildered, and stared in silent appeal at Post. Post could see that he felt he was dealing with a man who had gone suddenly mad. The red mark on Benderson’s cheek reminded Post of the mark he had made on Drake.

He glanced over and saw Frick leaning against the end of the building, watching Drake. Frick’s face seemed masked as usual. His heavy arms were folded.

“Now, Benderson, we start the practice. Now tell me. What did that do to you? How did it affect your immortal dignity? Tell me.”

“You’re mad,” Benderson gasped.

“Not mad. Just curious. Let’s try it again.” Benderson tried to duck but he was old and stiff. The force of the blow staggered him and he held his hand against his cheek. He looked as though he wanted to run. Drake darted around him and blocked one exit. Frick stood at the other exit. Benderson turned and faced Drake.

“You still seem to retain your dignity, Benderson. How about this?” Drake stabbed the old man in the diaphragm with a rigid forefinger. He gasped and doubled up, holding his stomach. Drake slapped him across the eyes. The glasses splintered and fell into the grass. A bit of glass cut the gray cheek and a trickle of blood started slowly down, following the line of a deep fold in the flesh. Before the old man was breathing properly again, Drake slapped him hard on the cheek for the third time. It knocked him down. He scrambled to his feet and looked again at Post and Frick. He seemed to Post to look like an old gray horse being worried by a yapping terrier.

Drake stepped toward him again and the old man put his hands up to ward off the blow. Then, he seemed to remember, to reach deep into his past and call up the forgotten motions of youth. He clenched his fists and held them rigidly in front of him. It was pathetic and as brave as banners in the wind.

Drake stepped to the side and hooked a short left into the old man’s stomach. As he slowly fell, Drake slapped him twice. The man lay on his back, gasping. He rolled over onto his stomach and pushed against the ground. He stood up and staggered against the building for support. Then he rushed at Drake, stumbling, his thin arms flaying the air. Drake stepped aside and he rushed into the side of the building. Drake laughed at him.

“The dignity is leaving, Benderson? Where could it be going? Where is that charming calm?”

He walked up to the old man and grasped the loose clothes under the old man’s chin with his left hand. With his right hand he slapped, firmly, in monotonous tempo, forehand and backhand across the sagging cheeks and mouth. Blood came on the lips and was sprayed across the lower half of his face with each slap.

“Any dignity left, Benderson? Any guts left?” He stepped toward the old man again. Benderson covered his face with his hands.

His voice was more of a bleat than a moan. “Don’t hit me. Don’t hit me again.” Drake dragged him to his feet and turned him around so that Drake’s back was toward the building. He shut his fist and released Benderson. The old man swayed but stood erect. Drake swung with all the power in his wiry back and shoulders. The small hard fist cracked against the lean jaw and Benderson fell with his gray bloody face against the green grass.

“Too hard, boss,” Frick said quietly.

Drake grinned and made a dusting motion with his hands. “Nonsense, Sam. He’s a tough old citizen, and he’s got to be sore as hell when he comes to.” He stopped smiling and stared at Post. “You look a little green. What’s wrong? This one isn’t dead. Don’t tell me a little rough stuff gets you down. Maybe I figured you wrong.” He stood and thought for a minute.

Then he turned to Frick. “Samuel, you better take Sister Ann away for the next act. There’s such a thing as knowing too much. Bring him back in an hour. Take him up the trail a ways.”

Frick stirred and pushed himself away from the building. He waited until Post got up and walked ahead of him. Then he followed along.

They walked across the clearing and entered the mouth of the trail. Post slowed and stopped.

“Move along. Get up the hill a little further.”

“Relax, Sam. This is good enough. Why climb that damn hill?”

Frick shrugged. “Okay. It’s hot. How’d you like the way the boss worked on the old gent?”

“Very pretty, if you like that sort of thing.”

“The boss and I can do it okay. Strane can’t. Anytime he hits anybody, it’s got to be for keeps.”

Post stood and tried not to look as ill as he felt. He couldn’t get his mind away from what Drake had said about human dignity. He suddenly realized what it was that had made him feel so peculiarly about Drake. The man barely concealed an enormous contempt for everyone around him. The small flame of excitement that had been burning secretly inside of him flared up a little higher. He’d like to show Drake how much dignity there is in being on the wrong end of eager fists. The color of the growing flame turned to red, the color of anger. He wanted to go back and have a few short words with Drake.

He moved over toward the familiar aspen. Frick blocked his way and looked at him peculiarly. “Move over, Sam. I want some more shade.” He stood under the aspen and yawned. He yawned again. Finally he stretched, moving his right hand around until his fingers grasped the familiar handle of the club he had made.

With one convulsive movement he tore it loose from the tree and crashed it across Frick’s head. Frick stood, his eyes half shut, swaying. Post raised the club and slammed him across the temple. The square man spun half around and dropped face down in the dirt. Post grabbed his arm and turned him over. He slapped at his clothes. No bulge of any gun. On a hunch, he slapped the stocky legs. He felt something against the solid calf of the left leg. He pulled the trouser leg up. There was a thin heavy knife in a stained cloth scabbard strapped to Frick’s leg. He ripped it out and threw it off into the brush. He picked up the club and walked quietly back to where he could see across the clearing. He angled off to the side and ran quickly around to the other side of the bunkhouse.

He knew that Benderson must be in the grass almost opposite where he was standing. The club was awkward. He laid it down. He grasped the low edge of the roof and slowly pulled himself up. His arms cracked with the strain. With infinite care, he got his body up over the edge. Then he wriggled slowly up to the peak, up to where he could look down into the open alleyway on the other side.

When he was near the peak he stopped and rested, waiting until his breathing was more regular. He knew that he had made a foolish move, that he had cut himself off from the safety of the lake. It was too late to turn back. He realized vaguely that he was enjoying himself. He tried not to think of the fight in the bar.

At last he could breathe quietly and his arms had stopped quivering. He raised himself slowly until he could look down into the open space. He saw Benderson first. The man was still on his side, but one hand was moving feebly, combing at the thick grass. Then he looked toward the lake. Ten feet from Benderson’s form, Drake lay stretched out on the grass on his face, his arms spread wide. Post couldn’t make any sense out of the scene. Drake didn’t look like a man who was resting. He knew that Benderson couldn’t have come out of it and flattened Drake. And yet it looked as if Drake was injured.

Then, with infinite caution, Benderson began to crawl toward the silent form of Drake. After each few feet he would stop and peer behind himself. He found something in the grass. He picked it up and looked at it. It was a short heavy club. He waved it in the air as though testing it. He carried it in his right hand and continued to creep. At last he was poised over Drake. He sank back onto his buttocks and grasped the club in both hands. Then he raised it high in the air and brought it down on the back of Drake’s head.

Post felt his mouth go dry as the club was lifted. Then, as the blow fell, he relaxed. He knew what had happened in the heart of the old man. There had been the idea of quick and brutal murder. But as his arms swung the club, some gentleness about him that he had almost forgotten softened the blow. It wasn’t a blow that would kill.

He left the club by Drake’s form and crawled over to the far wall. He grabbed it and pulled himself to his feet. He was shaking visibly. He panted and stared at the form on the grass with dull eyes.

Drake came walking around the end of the kitchen. Post almost gasped aloud. Drake was wearing different clothes. He was smiling. Benderson fell back against the wall and slid to the ground. He sobbed aloud. Drake leaned over and carefully hit him again. The old man’s lean form lay stretched out in the angle made by the wall and the ground. Drake turned him so that his face was against the building.

He stepped quickly over and picked up the club that Benderson had dropped. He stood over the form that Post had thought was Drake. He lifted the club and swung it down with the force with which a man would swing a mallet at a country fair. He grunted as he swung. When the noise of the blow hit Post’s ears, he pressed his face against the shingles and his stomach lurched. He felt dizzy. He knew that the man dressed in Drake’s clothes was the little man who had slept in drugged stupor in the top bunk. He knew that Drake had picked him for size as well as unimportance.

Drake whistled a gentle tune as he walked back toward the kitchen. He was back in the yard in a few moments. He fiddled with a small movie camera. He stepped over and took a close-up of the smashed back of the stranger’s head.

Then he walked over and looked down at Benderson. He spoke just loud enough so that Post could hear him. “Beautiful! A half million bucks’ worth of home movies. Just wait till I run it off for you and your haughty daughter, grandpop. Drake, you’re a right smart boy.”

There was a crashing noise in the brush across the clearing. Both Drake and Post looked over. Frick was coming across in a blundering run. He looked white.

“Where’s Post?” Drake snapped.

“I don’t know. I just come to. He slugged me somehow. I didn’t even see him do it. I got two knots on my head.”

“How long ago?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know how long I’ve been out. It was maybe five minutes or so after we got up there. Maybe ten.”

“You’re a fool, Frick. Where’d you hide the rifle I brought in?”

“Under the mattress on my bunk.”

“That wasn’t very bright, either. Go on up and get Strane. I’ll get the old guy into the shade and get the rifle. I can’t figure that Post guy out. He should be scared as hell about making me mad.”

Frick hurried off toward the cabins. Drake took the old man by the heels and dragged him around the corner into the shade. Then he darted into the bunkhouse. Post crawled along the roof peak until he was at the end above the door. Quickly he reversed his position so that his legs hung over the edge. He sat on the peak. It was a twelve-foot drop to the ground. He heard Drake’s footsteps hurrying across the board floor toward the door. He dropped, spinning as he dropped so that he’d land facing the door.

He had the punch wound up before his feet touched. Drake’s face was in front of him, at the right distance. He swung a short heavy right and felt the meaty flattening of the proud slim nose under his fist. He dashed through the door. Drake lay on his back, scrabbling with his fingers on the floor.

Post scooped up the rifle and the camera and ran out. He turned to the right as soon as he was outside the door, and pounded off into the thick brush. After he estimated that he had gone a hundred yards he turned to the right again. He tried to gauge the slant of the sun through the leaves to keep his direction right.

The rifle was awkward to carry. The ground slanted steeply upward and he climbed for a time and then struggled along parallel with the slope. He kept looking to the right, trying to catch the glimmer of the lake below him.

At last he found the spot he was looking for. Gray rocks climbed up out of the slanted forest floor. He circled the rocks and climbed up behind them. Then he walked to the edge. He was above the tops of the trees which grew on the slope below the rocks. He could see the entire lake, the two long buildings on his right and the three cabins almost directly across from him.

He sat down on the mossy top of the rocks and put the rifle and the camera beside him. His shirt stuck to him and he pulled it away from his damp skin. He took deep breaths until his wind was back. He watched across the lake.

Frick came running from the bunkhouse down to the lakeshore. He dipped what looked to be a tin pail into the lake water and hurried back. Post grinned as he thought of Drake nursing his crushed nose. He regretted that he hadn’t had time to stay and enjoy it. He hummed softly to himself.

He saw the slim figure of Nan hurry from the Bendersons’ cabin and head toward the long buildings. There was something frantic in the way she was running. He stopped humming and watched her. Strane ran from the bunkhouse and met her when she was in front of the last cabin. Post could see that he was shouting at her.

She tried to squeeze past him. He grabbed her wrist and looked around for a long second, staring at the long buildings. He ignored the blows she was flinging at his head. He turned back to her and grabbed her around the waist. He clamped a big hand across her mouth and carried her, kicking and struggling, into a nearby clump of brush. Post jumped up and then realized that there was nothing he could do.

She broke out of the bushes, Strane behind her. She poised for a second on the rocks as the tall man reached for her again. Then she went out in a long, shallow dive. Strane hesitated. He waited long enough to give her ten yards’ start and then he went in after her.

At first it looked to Post as though he couldn’t possibly catch her. She surged through the water with a smooth-flowing stroke, her dark hair plastered against her head. Strane slapped the water with his arms and kept his head high. He looked clumsy. But as he watched, he saw the distance begin to narrow between them. It narrowed slowly, but he could see that he would catch her before she reached the middle of the lake.

He wondered if he could put a shot between them. He aimed and sighted. It was too long a shot. He estimated it at six hundred yards. He was afraid he would hit the girl.

Then Strane seemed to tire. He wasn’t closing the gap. He stayed the same distance behind the girl. Post realized that he probably wasn’t tiring. He was probably content to stay up with her, a dozen feet behind her, and catch her on the far shore. She looked around and saw him and increased her speed. He stayed at the same distance. They drew nearer. They were both going much more slowly. She began to roll in the water with each stroke.

Post suddenly realized that when they drew close enough to the shore beneath him, the trees would block his view. He saw Frick come out and peer across the water, then go back into the bunkhouse.

He aimed the rifle again. He realized that it might take two shots to discourage Strane, so he decided to fire before they were too close to the trees. He checked the clip and then worked the bolt. They were about two hundred yards away. He aimed carefully at the strip of clear water between them. He steadied his arm and slowly squeezed the trigger.

The gun cracked and jerked against his shoulder. He looked for the splash of the bullet. There wasn’t any. The smack of a bullet hitting a hard substance echoed back to him. Strane’s head sank slowly out of sight. For a second he saw the glow of the red hair just below the surface and then that too was gone.

He laid the gun down and plunged recklessly down the hill, slowing himself by grabbing the trees. He burst through the bushes at the edge of the water just as she touched bottom and stood up.

She took a few steps and fell and struggled to her feet. He waded out to meet her. Her face was twisted and she was making a high continual sound that was neither laughing nor crying. He slapped her and she stopped suddenly. Her slacks and halter clung to her.

At last he led her around the edge of the outcropping of rock and she stretched, exhausted and panting, on the thick moss. He saw her glance at the rifle. The ejected case lay gleaming on the moss near her hand.

He sat and watched the long buildings. No one came out. His mind kept circling back to the way the red hair had looked as Strane had sunk slowly under the surface. He realized what he had forgotten — that guns fire high when aimed downward. He cursed his stupidity and forgetfulness.

At last she was relaxed. She said in a weary tight voice, “I’m glad you killed him. I’m glad.”

“Shut up. I didn’t try to kill him.”

“We have to get my father. Now. What’s happened to him? Why are you over here?”

“Your father’s in no danger. They’ll take good care of him now. You and I are the ones in a spot. We’re not going back over there.” He told her what had happened to her father. He told her about Drake. He made it considerably less brutal than it had been, but it was still bad enough. She shivered and rolled over so that her head was buried in her arms. Then he told her that he had come under false promises by Drake and that he had quarreled with Drake.

When at last he was through, she sat up and brushed her drying hair back with her fingers. She looked solemn and capable.

“What do we do now, Walker?” she asked. He felt pleased that she had remembered his name, his first name. Then he remembered the way Ruth had said it and the black lethargy crept into him. Suddenly he realized that he didn’t know what to do — where to go. The world was again a pointless place and he wondered why he had gotten so interested that he had bothered to slug Frick when they stood on the trail. For a time she had been a friend. He looked down at her. She wore the face of a stranger.

“You’re odd,” she said gently. “Don’t be angry. For a while you looked... alive. Now you’re the way you were when I met you. Why?”

He didn’t answer her. He looked off across the lake. There was no point in trying to come alive again. How can a man live in a prison? He waited for long minutes and then he began to think of a plan.

At last he said, “Here’s what we do, Miss Benderson. Somehow we get through the brush back to the road. We can get a ride. I’ll see that you get dropped off in the nearest town. You can get the police to go back with you and get these men and your father. Without the film that’s in this camera, they have nothing to threaten him with. I’ll go on. I’ve done you a favor. As soon as you can manage it, put two thousand dollars in an envelope and mail it to John Robinson, General Delivery, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Remember that. I’ll be there to pick it up. Don’t tell anyone about it.”

Just at that moment he saw Frick and Drake walk down to the edge of the lake. Frick was pointing in their direction. Drake was holding something white to his face. Post leveled the gun and fired, aiming short. He saw the splash of the shot and saw the two men run back toward the bunkhouse. He fired another shot in the air and stood up. She seemed eager to start. He knew that she must be worrying about her father. He felt anxious to get out, to drop her in a village and be on his way. He longed to return to his unthinking quiet, though he knew that he would carry with him a small spot of horror — carry it until he was caught. He didn’t doubt that he would be caught — eventually.

The sun was directly overhead when, after a half hour of sweating effort, they gained the top of the first hill. The brush was too deep for them to see ahead. He worried about the direction, knowing that with the sun in the center of the sky, they stood their best chance of wandering away from the line they should follow. He hoped to parallel the regular trail.

When they reached the valley beyond the first hill, they were both scratched and shaken. She twisted an ankle stepping over a rotting log, but she refused his help. She limped along, her lips white and compressed. In a matter of minutes the ankle had swollen so that it puffed against the strap of the sandals she had worn in her swim across the lake.

After the first hour, he judged that they were halfway to the road. He knew they couldn’t be more. He made her rest, even though she was anxious to continue.

“Take it easy, Nan. That ankle must be killing you.”

“It isn’t so bad. It keeps my mind off of other things that hurt. It’s a clear sharp pain that I can understand.”

“How so?”

“I don’t want to think about Dad. And I don’t want to think about you.”

He knew that she wanted him to ask why. He sat in silence. Deerflies found them and buzzed around their heads. He cut her a leafy branch to swish them away. When her breathing was normal, he ripped a long strip from the bottom of his shirt and bound her ankle tightly. She gasped once, but that was all.

They started again. There was only the sound of insects in the darkness under the trees.

After the second hour he called another halt. He felt that they should have reached the road. She was too exhausted to talk. He tried to look confident. After ten minutes he helped her to her feet and then plunged off into the brush. She had trouble keeping up. He made her take hold of the back of his belt. Her weight was a drag on him and he went more slowly.

Finally he stumbled and fell forward. He didn’t want her to know how tired he was. He climbed to his feet and saw, ahead of him, the warm gray-blue of asphalt shining between the leaves. They stood at the edge of the road and, on impulse, shook hands solemnly.

After two sleek cars had roared by them, she stared ruefully at her thumb and said, “Wrong technique, Walker. Modern advertising says that you have to awaken the curiosity of the potential consumer. See that hunk of cardboard over there in the ditch? Get it, please.”

He brought it back to her. She picked an open place where she could be easily seen from any passing car. Then she spread herself out on her back on the ground, limp and helpless.

“Now, chum, you kneel here beside me and hold on to that cardboard. When you hear a car coming, you fan me as hard as you can. Pretend you don’t see the car until the last minute. Then jump up and wave your arms. When he stops, carry me to the car and tell the nice man that your wife has a touch of sun.”

He heard the far-off noise of a car and started fanning. She lay with her eyes shut, enjoying it. He fanned until he was certain the car was very near. Then he jumped up and turned, waving his arms.

Tires squealed on the pavement and an old black sedan lurched to a stop practically beside him. A man with a round red anxious face stuck his gray hair out of the window and said, “Trouble, son?”

“I think my wife’s got a touch of sun. How about a lift to the nearest town?”

“Sure. Need help getting her in?”

“I can manage.” He hurried over and scooped her up. He turned with her to find the rear door already open. He placed her gently on the rear seat. Then he ran back and got the rifle and the camera. He put them on the floor and then wedged himself in on the edge of the seat. As the man started, he picked up her hand and began to stroke it. He saw the man’s anxious eyes framed in the rear vision mirror as the old car rattled briskly along.

They turned onto a straight stretch and the man turned his head around and shouted out of the corner of his mouth. “Let ’er sit up now, son. That’s a right cute trick you two got there.”

“What do you mean, mister? My wife’s sick.” Nan opened one alarmed eye.

“Don’t think so, son. Her color’s too good for a sun case. Doesn’t breathe right. And wives usually like wearing some kind of wedding ring. Also I just come down the road here about twenty minutes back. Didn’t see nobody. You don’t get a touch of sun hikin’ around in the woods.”

Post was about to object again when Nan sat up with a sigh. “Okay, so you’re a bright-eyes. We just got tired of cars going right by us. Are you mad?”

“No hard feelings, lady. I get a kick out of it. Any special place you want to go?”

“Just the next town. My wife wants to stop off... I mean, Miss Benderson wants to stop off there. If you’re going further, I’d like to go along with you.”

“Sure, glad to do it. Where’d you come from? Been off in the woods there?”

“We’ve been down at Mr. Drake’s camp on Meridin Lake. He’s the man who bought the lake,” Nan answered.

“That so? Didn’t know anybody was down there. Hmmm.”

They joggled along in silence for a while. Nan sat on the edge of the seat. Then the man hitched up to where he could look back at Nan in the rear vision mirror. “Seem kind of upset there, Miss Benderson. Got something on your mind?”

“I’m just anxious to get to the next town. How far is it?”

“Maybe another twenty minutes. Maybe a little less.”

“Please hurry, won’t you?”

“Doin’ the best I can right now.”

The narrow road wound through banks of thick green. Post sat back and realized that he had a feeling of regret at leaving the girl so soon. There’s nothing I can do about it, though, he thought. No point in fretting. Just get along to a new state and a new city. Find a room and sit through the empty days until they find me. Then the state can support me.

After another few minutes, the man turned around again. He had to talk loud to be heard over the motor roar. “Thought you ought to know I’ve decided not to take you two into the village. Figure we ought to stop at a trooper station just this side of the village and get a couple of things straightened out. Thought you ought to know.”

Post reached down and picked the rifle off the floor. He held it in his lap and Nan looked at him with wide eyes. He stared at the back of the driver’s red neck.

“I figure you’re going to tell me you’re holdin’ a gun on me, son. I can’t say as I like that. Gives a man kind of a cold feeling up his back. But I’m going to drive you right into the station and you can explain a couple of things to the trooper on duty.”

“What sort of things?”

“Well, for instance, how come you’re carrying a rifle around in the woods this time of year? Nothing open that’s worth shooting. Who’s been beating you up? What kind of talk is this about Meridin Lake being sold? That ain’t changed hands in forty years.”

“How could you know that?”

“I’m the county clerk, boy. I record all the deeds for land around here. I can remember the deeds for longer than you’d think. No sale on Meridin Lake land for a long, long time. Something funny here and I don’t want to drive you on out and then have to tell the law I thought you acted funny but I didn’t do anything about it. No sir.”

Post lifted the gun and reached the muzzle over until the barrel rested lightly against the back of the man’s neck. He shivered and sank a little lower in the seat, but he didn’t slow the car.

“Look,” Post said. “I can give you one through the head and grab that wheel. What makes you think I won’t?”

“I’m a little scared you might, son. But after fifty years or so you get so you size up people. You look kind of mean-tempered, son, but you don’t look like no killer to me.”

“Then slow down and stop. You get out and I’ll drive on from here.”

“Not in my car, son. And you try to climb over here in the front seat with me and I run it off into a ditch and nobody goes nowhere.”

Post didn’t know what to do. He knew he couldn’t pull the trigger. Nan was looking at him with an expression that was half pity and half satisfaction. The woods began to clear and ahead he saw the small white sign which read “State Police.” The man didn’t slow down. He turned into the front yard in a wide curve which ignored the driveway and tore the sod in the yard. As he slid to a stop, he leaned on the horn button and the old car yapped like a tortured thing.

For a second the yard was silent, the small white bungalow dreaming in the sun. Then the screen door slapped open and a burly man in gray ran out and down the steps. He started to demand explanations of the driver, and then he noticed the rifle in Post’s hands, noticed the battered face and the wide-eyed girl. He fumbled at the flap over his revolver and said, “Drop that gun, you!”

“Now you just take it easy, Bobby. This here fellow’s a friend of mine. He and his girl’ve just got a little explainin’ to do to the law. No call for you to get so official. You might get him excited and he might shoot somebody.”

Post climbed out of the car and handed the rifle to the trooper. Nan stepped out with great hauteur, which disappeared at her first limp. Post looked back and saw the camera on the floor of the car. He knew that somebody would get official and have the film developed. His own testimony might be discredited because of the killing he was wanted for. He reached in and pulled the camera out. Before the trooper could snatch it, he slammed it hard against the fender of the car. The bent metal sprung open and he tore the roll of film out.

“What did you do? What was that?” the trooper demanded.

“Half a million bucks’ worth of film. Why? Let’s get this over with.”

They walked into a narrow hall. On one side was a standard living room, with overstuffed furniture. On the other side was a small bare room in one end of which was a desk with a high railing in front of it. The trooper waved them into the bare room, shut the door and hurried around to sit behind the desk. He opened a notebook, licked a pencil stub and looked up expectantly.

First the driver, who turned out to be a Mr. Benz, told about the rifle and the story about Meridin Lake.

Nan interrupted him. “Please, we’re wasting time. My father’s back at the lake and he’s been beaten up and he’s being held by blackmailers. He’s Thomas Finley Benderson, owner of Benderson Shipbuilding. Unless you do something quickly, you’ll spend the rest of your life explaining why you didn’t. This man rescued me and brought me out. That’s why he has the rifle. Now get on the ball and quick.”

The trooper spent three stupefied seconds staring into the cold gray eyes, and then he grabbed the phone. It took him five minutes to get his call through to a trooper station in a town forty miles away.

They listened to his conversation. “Carl? This is Bobby. Is Gloria in shape?... Good. Hop over to Meridin Lake.” He held his hand over the mouthpiece and said, “How many of them are there?”

“Two of the gang and my father and another two people they’re holding.”

He talked into the phone again. “You and the new guy ought to be enough. Blackmailers or something holding three people there. Round ’em up. Leave the new guy and you fly back out with a man named Benderson, an old boy. Fly him down to Main Lake and shove him in the hospital if he needs it. If the radio’s working again, you might keep in contact with station eleven and let them send me the dope on the tape. Got Benderson’s daughter here and she’s anxious.”

He hung up and leaned back in his chair, smiling in appreciation of his own efficiency. “Gloria’s a float plane we use up here for search jobs. Carl’ll be in there in a half hour or so. Quicker than we could make it. Now you two just go on in the other room and sit tight until I get a report.”

Mr. Benz smiled at them as he left. At the door he turned around and said, “You’re too anxious to use that gun, Bobby. Get you into trouble sometime.” The trooper growled at him.

Nan and Post sat across from each other in the quiet sitting room and listened to the loud tick of the clock on the mantel. He looked at the open window and wondered how far he could get before being picked up. It was tempting. Her obvious honesty had relaxed the vigilance of the trooper.

She glanced up and saw him staring at the window. She caught her underlip between her teeth and shook her head. “No, Walker. I’ll get you off before he finds out. Wait.”

At last the trooper stuck his head in the door and waved a paper. “Got it.”

Nan jumped up and met him at the door. Post walked over to where he could see her face as she read. She turned white and swayed. They each took her arm and led her over to the couch. Post snatched the paper out of her hand and read it.

“Everything as reported. Leaving Carmody guarding two prisoners. Benderson okay. No hospitalization needed. Taking him back to eleven. He wants to see daughter. Will go back in and leave two more men to take prisoners through woods. Wheeler.”

He looked down at her and she was smiling up at him.

Then she turned her head and looked at the trooper. “Mr. Post has been very nice to me and he’s in a hurry. Couldn’t you people take a statement or something from him and let him go? He didn’t have anything to do with all this.”

The trooper rubbed his chin. “Why, I guess so, if Mr. Post lives close enough so that he can get back here if we need him. Sure, miss. I’ll do it.”

She smiled up at Post again and there was pity and farewell in her eyes. He stood looking down at her and suddenly it was as though a curtain had rolled back in his mind. Suddenly he had pride that was stronger than his fear. He knew that he couldn’t start running. It was too late to run, even though she had given him his chance.

“I don’t think that’s so good, Trooper. You see, you didn’t take my name. It’s probably in your wanted files. I’m Walker Post. They want me for killing a man in a fight in a bar about a week ago. I killed a man named Victor Hessler. Also, there were three of the gang up there. I shot one through the head as he was swimming across the lake. Maybe you better keep me around.”

The trooper opened his mouth and left it open. He shut it slowly and said, “Well, I’ll be damned. Wait till I see Benz.”

Ten minutes later Post sat on the edge of a bed in a small bedroom in the back of the bungalow. The windows were barred. The door was locked. It looked solid. The trooper had told him that it was temporary until he could be transferred to one of the customary places. He slipped out of his clothes and stretched out on the bed. He felt peaceful and relaxed.

He awakened several times during the late afternoon and early evening, but no one came in to tell him what was happening. He heard many people moving around and heard voices he couldn’t identify.

A strange trooper brought in a plate of food and a pitcher of water at seven o’clock. He didn’t volunteer any information and Post didn’t ask for any. There was nothing else he had to know. He didn’t let himself wonder how long his sentence would be. He ate and then stretched out on the bed.

He awoke with a start and saw that it was morning. The door was open a crack and somebody was pounding on it.

He recognized Nan’s voice saying, “Hey! Are you decent?”

“Just a minute,” he answered, and pulled on his shirt and trousers. He walked to the door and pulled it open. She stood there smiling at him. He stepped back and she walked in and sat on the bed. He stood beside the window.

“You fixed yourself up nicely, didn’t you, Walker?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t seem to be much point in doing anything else. Call it corny. Just say I was paying a debt.”

“To whom?”

“Maybe to myself. Maybe to you.”

“Why to me?”

“If I hadn’t gotten in this jam, maybe I would have asked you to let me come and see you in a year. I need another year to burn this black cloud off my mind. Maybe because I can’t do it now, I’ve got the courage to tell you. I would want to get a job on a construction gang or in the woods. Work each day until I dropped. In a year I’d be okay. I know that now. I found out too late.”

She fished in her bag and found a clipping. She handed it to him.

He read: “POST AND LIMPING DISH WIN OUT. Valiant Walker Post and his skinny gal friend, heiress to the Benderson hundreds, battled their way through seventeen thousand bushes yesterday, only to collapse on the highway. Happy couple refuse to explain why her ankle was bandaged with his shirt.”

He looked at her in amazement. “What’s this? How come?”

“You’re a little thick, friend. I printed it myself. Printed it with the stuff they found in the back of Drake’s car. Drake isn’t his name. He’s a confidence man who was expanding. He didn’t buy that lake either. Both the clippings he showed you were fakes. Had his own newsprint, ink and hand printing set. Nobody ever heard of a Victor Hessler. He just wanted to get his hooks into you so he could use you. He confessed to the whole works. The three of them killed a ‘patient’ out West somewhere, and moved here. He found the lake and took over. Bold guy, I’d say.”

“How did he know so much about me?”

“He said he got some information from your landlady. She apparently was annoyed at you. Didn’t you wonder how he knew you had a checkbook? Didn’t you wonder why, if the police had a picture of you it wasn’t printed in the paper, instead of your description? You need somebody to take care of you, Walker. You shouldn’t be around loose. You might hurt yourself.”

“How about Strane? I didn’t exactly mean to kill him, but I did.”

“The police don’t say that they’d exactly hang you. I heard one of them say something about an award of merit or a pension. You probably saved a western state a few execution expenses. They say you’ll be out this afternoon sometime. Oh, and by the way, we’re not to mention the Burke man. He and his lady were smuggled out to go separate ways. I saw her. She was wearing a handsome purple eye and an injured expression.”

She stopped and he looked at her. She had been gay and bright and glad to tell him that he would be free. She looked at him steadily and her smile faded.

She looked away and said, “And you’ll come back in a year?”

He waited for long seconds. He wanted to be certain. At last he said quietly, “I’ll be back.”

She stood up and walked quietly out of the room that was no longer a cell. She left the door ajar.