The Long Ride (10 page)

“That might be the best idea, after all,” John said finally. “We’re not trying to break a speed record on this, trip, I’m sure.”

“Why, of course not!” Miss Kennicot said. “You know how Shakespeare, that dear Bard, said it. ‘He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes.’ Now doesn’t that make you feel better?”

“Yeah,” Allan Garwith said, putting his forearm over his closed eyes.

“You relax too, Mrs. Garwith,” John said to Cicely. “I’m sure he’ll be all right.”

They returned to the elevator. On the way down, John realized that Miss Kennicot was staring at him again, a smile trembling nervously on her mouth. “John—” she began, then bit her lip, flushing deeply.

“Yes?” he said, puzzled.

“John, I—” She started snapping the clasp on her purse again. “I just—” Then she suddenly laughed and her hand shot out, whacking him in the arm. “Isn’t this fun though?”

As they crossed the lobby below, he gave up trying to figure out Miss Kennicot and thought: Garwith’s going to try something, and very shortly. I had better be ready.

Outside, when they had reached the station wagon and explained the Garwiths’ delay, he carefully moved away from Miss Kennicot, to stand a good dozen yards away. He had a feeling that if she were too close to him in an emergency, she would, somehow, manage to trip him, foul him, prevent him from action at the proper moment, just out of her inherent nature.

At five minutes before nine, Allan Garwith stood up in his room.

“Allan,” Cicely said, “do you feel better now?”

“Allan, do you feel better now?” he mimicked. “You talk and talk, don’t you?”

“Allan, please don’t be mean to me. I know it’s because you aren’t feeling well. But I’m only trying to do things right.”

He lifted the telephone and said to the operator, “Let’s have somebody come up and get the bags.” He dropped the telephone. He could feel that muscle twitching at the side of his mouth. That money, he thought, had better be there; it had absolutely better be there.

“Are we leaving now?” Cicely asked, blinking.

“I’m leaving,” he said. “You wait for the bellboy. I’ve got to have some air.”

“Allan, I just hope—”

“Don’t hope,” he said.

He strode swiftly down the hall. When he came out of the lobby downstairs, he looked at the group standing around the station wagon. They were all looking at him. It only made his nerves jump again, until he picked out Margaret Moore. She was wearing a fresh white dress that showed her body perfectly. If it weren’t for her, he thought, he would walk off now. The hell with the ride. But no, he thought, that wasn’t entirely true. If the money wasn’t there, if it had gotten fouled up some way so he couldn’t get it, then he had to have this ride—they couldn’t afford anything else. But if he got to the post office and did get the money, which he had damned well better do, then there was still Margaret Moore. For her, he was going to hang on a little while longer. One try for her. He had to have that…

“Are you feeling all right now, Mr. Garwith?” Mrs. Landry was calling.

“I’ve got to have a little air,” he said. He realized then that the Army guy, Wells, was looking at him with hard, mean eyes. He met Wells’s eyes for a moment, defiantly. He was thinking; Well, spit out an order, soldier boy. You don’t like my holding things up? Then put out an order on it. He motioned with his arm. “I’ve got to take a little walk. I’ll be all right then. I don’t want to hold you up. If you want to go on without us, I guess we can manage.” Now he was looking at Mrs. Landry.

Quickly Mrs. Landry shook her head and said, “Why, that’s ridiculous. Now don’t you worry about a thing! You just go have your little walk and get yourself some of this nice Wyoming air. There isn’t a thing to worry about. When we get out on that Great Divide, why, I can just make up all kinds of time!”

“All right,” Allan Garwith said. “If you don’t mind, that’s what I’m going to do.”

He crossed the street and walked through the park. He glanced idly at a man sitting on one of the benches, then turned left on the far side of the park, walking toward downtown. He had to restrain himself now from breaking into a run.

Downtown he stopped an elderly woman and asked for directions to the post office. While she gave them to him, he looked back and saw Harry Wells moving swiftly up behind him. Harry Wells then stopped and turned and looked into a shop window. Allan Garwith frowned. Again he sensed that same familiarity about Wells that he’d noticed just before they’d left Loma City. There was something about him. But what? And why was he following him?

Once again his nerves jumped wildly. He shook his head and moved on in the direction of the post office. He was imagining things now, and he couldn’t afford to do that. Wells wasn’t following him, he was simply killing time wandering around downtown until the station wagon started rolling again. That was all it was.

Inside the post office, he paused to look out a window, back in the direction from which he’d come.

His heart seemed to stop for a long moment, then started pumping wildly. Harry Wells was moving swiftly toward the building. His tropical suit pressed perfectly, his freshly shined shoes glistening in the sun, he moved with quick determination.

Allan Garwith blinked, his mind spinning back to that moment when he’d watched those two men stride down the alley toward the bank. One of them had worn a well-pressed tropical suit, his highly polished shoes had flashed brilliantly in the sunlight…

“My God,” Allan Garwith whispered.

John Benson, after Allan Garwith had crossed the street toward the park, had stepped over to Mrs. Landry and said, “If it’s all right with you, Mrs. Landry, I think I’ll look around a little bit too. Maybe we can just move up our leaving time, say, an hour. Is that agreeable?”

“Why, of course, Mr. Benson,” Mrs. Landry had said cheerfully. “You just go right ahead.”

“Good. I’ll get some cigarettes first and then get some exercise.”

He’d been able to note Allan Garwith’s general direction. Then he’d gone swiftly into the hotel. Margaret Moore had looked at him expectantly. He’d merely smiled at her. Miss Kennicot was turned away, talking vacuously to Harry Wells, who obviously did not hear a word she said. John saw Cicely stepping out of the elevator as he came into the hotel. Then he went swiftly out the rear exit. A dark blue Chevrolet was parked on the opposite side of the back street, a tree-lined boulevard that was very quiet. John glanced at the man sitting in it; he was certain that it was the local office’s man, but there wasn’t time to check.

He circled the block and walked swiftly back in the same direction Allan Garwith had taken, a block up from where the station wagon was parked. Then he saw Garwith cross the street a half block beyond, moving in the direction of downtown. John paused. In a few minutes, looking straight ahead, Harry Wells strode across the same intersection, behind Garwith. John moved forward, following both.

He was a half block behind Harry Wells when he saw Allan Garwith go into the post office. Wells seemed to speed up. John was perhaps a hundred yards behind him when he heard the loud cry behind.

He turned and looked, anger pulsing in his temples, as Miss Kennicot, laughing and gasping, bore down on him once again.

Inside the post office, Allan Garwith did not see either John Benson or Miss Kennicot. He was only aware of Harry Wells.

Throat dry, hands trembling, he swung around and went directly to the general delivery window. He asked for a package bearing his name. He’d made up his mind how he would get it back into the station wagon. He would stop somewhere and have it wrapped as though it were a gift purchased in a department store. He would tell everyone it was a present for Cicely, which he was going to give her in San Francisco. But he’d figured that out before he’d realized what was familiar about Harry Wells. Now he didn’t know what he was going to do. Now he didn’t know anything.

The clerk came back to the window. “How do you spell that name?”

“G-a-r-w-i-t-h! It’s a package!”

He turned nervously, looking at the doorway. He could not see Harry Wells.

“No,” the clerk said, returning. “No package material for any Garwith.”

“It’s got to be there! It’s a package this big.” He motioned his hand, shutting his eyes against the awful fear drumming through him, remembering how he’d thrown the satchel into the river and then carefully packed the currency into a stiff pasteboard box. “It’s a box, wrapped in heavy brown paper, first-class mail stamped all over it. I’m telling you—”

“Oh,” the clerk said. “I assumed you meant fourth-class surface mail when you said it was a package. First class. I’ll check again.”

Sweat was now gleaming on Garwith’s face. He could feel himself trembling all over. The clerk came back with the package.

“Here we are. I’m sorry. I thought you meant—” Garwith grabbed the package and turned swiftly. Harry Wells now was standing at the doorway, looking at him with icy blue-gray eyes. Garwith’s eyelids flickered spasmodically. He suddenly moved to a mailing window. He looked back at Wells. Wells had not moved, only stood there, blocking the doorway.

Garwith shoved the package into the window and said, “Give me that heavy pencil!”

The clerk blinked, looking at him.

“The pencil!”

The clerk handed him a thick pencil. Garwith crossed out the stamps and address, turned the package over and started to write his name. He paused, his mind spinning into blankness because of his wild fear. He forcibly got control of himself. He finally wrote,
Raymond Jones.

He stopped again. Next stop would be in Utah probably. Probably Salt Lake. But he couldn’t be sure, not the way that grandmother, Mrs. Landry, drove. He’d have to send it beyond that. He wrote,
c/o
General Delivery. Reno, Nevada.

“Okay,” he said, shoving the package at the clerk. The clerk examined the address, then turned the package over where Garwith had lined out the previous address and cancelled stamps. He shook his head. “It won’t go like this, of course. It should be rewrapped, by all means, and—”

“Send it! Airmail!”

“Well—” The clerk finally pulled several wide strips of brown paper tape from a roller and carefully pasted them over the old stamps and address. “There. That ought to take care of it.” He looked at Garwith, smiling in satisfaction. “Airmail?”

Garwith had gotten out his wallet and now opened it. There were no bills in it. My God, he thought, and remembered how, before they’d left Loma City, Cicely had asked for all the currency he had, so that she could count the money and make sure they spent it correctly. That stupid bitch, he thought. He reached into a pocket and drew out his change. He’d accumulated some silver that Cicely hadn’t gotten. “How much?” He turned and looked at Harry Wells, who now was moving from the doorway toward him.

The clerk quoted the cost of airmail stamps. Garwith shook his head weakly. “Make it regular.”

He shoved the silver at the clerk. It took all but three pennies to buy the postage. Swiftly the clerk stamped the package and snapped it into a large canvas bag, smiling. “Thank you, sir.”

Allan Garwith turned from the window just as Harry Wells reached him.

Garwith finally found his voice. “What do you say, Wells?”

Harry Wells stood looking at him, eyes hard and hating.

Miss Kennicot fitted her hands around John Benson’s arm like a wrestler about to try for the first fall. She grinned wickedly and said, “Why, imagine, John! I guess we both had the same idea, didn’t we! Coming down here? I felt so sorry for that poor boy, of course, but I said to myself, ‘Vera, you just haven’t even seen very much of Cheyenne.’ And so I just tripped right downtown. And here we are, both of us! Two minds with but a single thought. I’d call that a mental marriage, wouldn’t you, John? And marriages, as Tennyson says, are made in heaven!” There was a full, long gale of laughter, as Miss Kennicot’s fingers tightened on John’s arm to the point of pain. “John,” she said, looking at him. “John, John.”

He forced himself to smile at her, eyes flickering to look toward the post office. He could break her hold on him, forcibly, trip her, slam her to her back. He would have liked that. But he could not do it. And he did not know what he was going to do about her. Because he was certain that anything less than physical violence was not going to get rid of her.

Harry Wells, he saw, had disappeared into the post office.

Miss Kennicot loosened her fingers for a fraction of a moment, then dug in even harder, laughing loudly again.

Allan Garwith knew he was visibly shaking, but he stood his ground as Harry Wells stared at him. A smile flickered off and on, then Harry Wells said to him, “Needed a couple of stamps. I thought you were pretty sick, Garwith.” He looked inside the postal window, but the bag which contained the package was now being carried toward a rear loading dock.

“That’s right,” Allan Garwith managed. “Had a package to mail—something Cicely’s mother sent on here to Cheyenne. I just remembered it this morning. I decided to mail it on to San Francisco and save packing it in the station wagon. You pack pretty good, Wells, but it’s still crowded.”

“Yeah,” Wells said, staring at Garwith. “You feeling better?”

Garwith shrugged. He was not. He truly was not now. He’d been faking before. But he was not now. He was trembling so hard he was certain that he was going to be ill. “I don’t know,” he said. “This altitude must really be getting me.”

“Yeah?” Wells said. Then, after a moment, “Well, how about it?”

Garwith felt his heart jump again. “How about it?”

“How about letting me by so I can buy those stamps?”

His head suddenly bobbed. “Yeah. Sure.”

When he got outside and felt the sun on his face, the breeze drying the sweat on his face, he felt a moment of relief. Then he went weak. His knees almost buckled, and he had to stop walking, to get back enough strength to continue.

He couldn’t be certain that Wells was the one who’d robbed that bank. But it was a possibility, and that possibility had thrown everything awry. He may have been in trouble before. But it was nothing, he thought as he forced himself to move weakly down the street in the direction of the hotel, to what he was into if Harry Wells really were the man he’d seen racing down that alley in Loma City…