The Long Ride (14 page)

She kept fighting him, determinedly, pulling on all of her strength now.

“Listen,” he gasped, “I can give you anything—anything you want! I’ve got the money. You name it—”

She suddenly got his hand from her mouth, then twisted so that he’d lost his command over her against the wall. She ran back toward the front of the cabin, listening to his footsteps behind her. She did not go to her own door, but instead to John Benson’s. She rapped on his door and turned, as Garwith came toward her. He stopped as the door opened, and ducked back out of sight. Margaret Moore moved inside swiftly, looking at the surprised eyes of John Benson.

CHAPTER

He looked at her standing there, looked at the tear at the neck of her yellow dress. Her hair had been disarranged. There was an alive, tense, frightened look in her eyes. She was breathing fast. She was, he decided, one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. He also knew that she had come to his cabin in extreme fear. He closed the door and said, “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Yes.” She walked across the room, arranging her hair with one impulsive motion. She turned around, beside a chair near the bed. A smile flickered. She was, he knew, getting control of herself rapidly.

“What happened?”

She shook her head faintly, her smile flickering again. “May I sit down?”

“Of course.” He came over to her. “Cigarette?”

“Please.”

He gave it to her. He held a match for her. She put her hand against his while he did. He could feel the trembling in her hand. He wanted suddenly to put his arms around her. But he did not. She inhaled the cigarette deeply.

“That’s better,” she said.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, looking at her eyes. “What happened?”

She took a deep breath, let it out, smiled at him. “Our young groom, Allan Garwith, just tried to rape me.”

His eyes, he knew, were steady. He was silent for a moment. He lit a cigarette for himself and finally the anger came. His professional calm shattered for a moment as he realized completely what she had just said. “How did it happen?”

“I went outside for a cigarette. He came out of his cabin and crossed the court. He said it was a nice night. Then he dragged me back of my cabin—” She shrugged. “I didn’t call for help because I couldn’t realize it was really happening. Then he got his hand over my mouth. I got away from him. I came here. He ducked into the shadows when your door opened.”

“I see,” he said flatly, thinking of what Garwith had attempted, feeling the anger once more. “I can call the police. I’ll—”

“No. I’d like to think maybe he just got an idea and got carried away with it. I’m sorry he did, but it didn’t work out. I like his wife. I wouldn’t want her to be hurt. I’m afraid she will be anyway, one of these days. But I don’t want to do it.”

He stood up. “I haven’t got a drink to offer. The best I can do is coffee. Instant, with hot tap water. Will that do?”

“Yes,” she said. “That’ll do fine.”

He fixed two coffees, using the cabin’s glasses. He sat down again with her. “You didn’t see this coming? I mean—” He paused. “Maggie used to know certain things. The way a man would look at her, certain things another man would never see or detect that a woman does.”

“I guess so,” she said. “Not rape. I didn’t see that coming. But the little things, yes. It’s puzzled me. The boy was just married, after all.” She looked at him directly. “There’ve been a lot of things that have puzzled me about this trip, John.”

He put his coffee glass down. “Yes?” Now he was being careful again.

“You, for instance. Something. I don’t know. Except you seem two different people to me.”

He shook his head, looking puzzled, knowing that he’d lost some of the ability he used to have for this kind of thing, knowing that he’d shown too much of himself to Margaret Moore. But he’d been unable to help that. “I don’t think I follow you.”

“Just a feeling. I’m sensitive to certain people, especially those I like. For instance, that complaint of yours in Cheyenne, bringing the manager into it. That didn’t fit. Then the way you’ve been watching people—Allan Garwith, Harry Wells, especially.”

He spread his hands. “I didn’t realize that.” And he was thinking, if she had detected it, had Garwith? Had Wells?

“Maybe,” she said, “it’s my imagination. But there’s something. I don’t know what. In Cheyenne, when Allan Garwith went for that walk after he came out of his room, Harry Wells disappeared. So did you.”

“So did Miss Kennicot,” he said, finally smiling.

“After you did, yes. After she’d inquired of everyone if they knew where you’d gone.”

“She seemed to know. She found me.”

“Yes,” Margaret Moore said. “She’s a pretty good bloodhound, I think. Anyway, Allan Garwith’s been acting peculiar all through this trip. Now this tonight. Maybe he’s simply a psycho, but I think he’s into something. When we checked in here, this morning, I couldn’t sleep. I was awake when he left his cabin. Did you know he left this morning?”

“No,” he lied. “I didn’t.”

“He did—after Harry Wells left. Same thing as in Cheyenne, only in reverse. Both of them off. And then what?”

“I don’t know.”

“You left your cabin and made a telephone call. Two of them, in fact, in fifteen minutes. I watched you. It isn’t because I’m so very damn snoopy in general. It’s just that I sensed something going on. I think Allan Garwith has been deliberately stalling on this trip. He said his wife had always wanted to see this city to get us to stop here. She hasn’t left her cabin. I think something’s going on that’s tense and serious.”

“Well,” he said. “What Garwith tried was tense and serious, I admit that. But the rest of it—” He shrugged. “I have an old Army buddy who lives in this town. I called him up. He wasn’t in the first time. He was the second.”

“I’m sure it’s none of my business,” she said. “But things still seem peculiar to me. I don’t, for example, really see you on this kind of ride. I know what you told Mrs. Landry. That you simply decided not to travel alone. But I rather think you’re not the type to do that—unless you had a more important reason.”

“Like?” he said.

“I don’t know. But there’re things that just don’t seem to add up to me about you.”

“Be specific, he said. “Please.”

“All right,” she said. “You say you had your advertising agency on Kosuth in Lafayette?” She shook her head, looking at him directly. “You pronounced it Kosuth with the hard o. The natives pronounce it Kahsuth, and with the accent on the last syllable.”

He smiled at her again, hating himself for the blunder. But he motioned a hand and said, “Not really good evidence, Margaret. That’s an old habit. A switch on the usual way of saying it. We used to do it. We called Lafayette Laughayette. Maggie and I had a few things like that—a kind of rustic humor. But I’m glad to hear you have a good imagination. It makes you more complete in my mind.”

“What Allan Garwith did a little while ago wasn’t imagination,” she said. “Nor what he told me.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That he could give me anything I wanted. That he had the money.”

Very carefully he lit another cigarette. That, he thought, absolutely sealed it as far as Garwith was concerned. But he frowned, puzzledly. “He said he had the money to buy you anything?”

“That’s what he said. I got the impression the Garwiths were making this trip on the proverbial shoestring.”

“Yes,” he said. He shook his head. “I don’t know. If he tried what he did with you, I imagine he’d say almost anything, wouldn’t he?”

“I guess he would,” she said slowly.

“I wouldn’t try to read things into this that aren’t there, Margaret. One thing’s certain. Garwith did attack you. What do you want to do about it? We’ve still got the rest of the trip ahead of us. You can’t just ignore it.”

“Yes,” she said, “I can. Because maybe there’s something wrong between him and the girl, something that might have made him try what he did. I don’t know. But I’ll respect the possibility. He may regret it very deeply right now. And, as I said, I don’t want to hurt his wife. As long as I’m safe, I won’t reveal it.”

“All right,” he said softly. He looked at her carefully, feeling the strong pump of his own blood, a building want in himself. If he could risk telling her who he really was, then it would be so much simpler. But he couldn’t. He was almost certain that she was all right. But if she were somehow connected with this, then this might be a last-ditch effort to find out who he was. If she were connected with Wells, for example, this would have been a good attempt to do that. The story she’d told about Garwith might or might not be true. He thought it was. But he couldn’t be sure, and so he had to keep on playing the game. “I want you to be safe too. How can we make sure of it?”

“Right now,” she said, looking at him in a way that he could not fail to understand, “I feel very safe with you.”

“Right here,” he said softly, “in this cabin.”

“Yes,” she said.

He bent forward and kissed her. Her response was sudden, almost explosive. She put her arms around him, digging her fingers into his neck, her breath coming short all at once. He felt her lips on his ear, cheek, as he held her tightly. Then his mouth was on hers again, feeling it open…

The hands on his traveling clock announced that it was eleven o’clock that evening. She stood in front of a mirror, buttoning the yellow dress, a soft smile on her good mouth. Then she combed her hair. She is radiant, he thought, lying in the bed, watching her, taking these last few minutes with care, to enjoy them fully.

“You look truly beautiful,” he said.

She turned to him. “I feel truly beautiful.” She came over to him and he kissed her again. Her lips were warm, soft, the fury of passion replaced by a quiet contentment, the result of what they had had together during the past dark hours. “I’d better hurry,” she whispered. “I can’t leave here just as the caravan is gathering outside.”

“Will you be all right?”

“If there’s any more trouble, I’ll call this time. You could hear that, couldn’t you?”

“Yes,” he said and kissed her carefully again. She moved away from him then, applied new lipstick, touched her hair once more and finally came over and took his hand. “The best thing about this,” she said softly, “is that I’ll see you again in an hour. But don’t feel obligated, John. Anytime. Anywhere. But no strings. Remember that.”

She left swiftly.

Miss Kennicot had been awake for three hours, puttering about the cabin, while Mrs. Landry slept contentedly. Packed, ready to go, with a little over an hour to kill, Miss Kennicot got out the poem she’d written after she’d returned from her tour of downtown Salt Lake City. It was written on a sheet of purple stationery, in a fine, swirling script. It read:

TO A SUMMER PHEASANT ON THE WING

(For one loved and dear)
¹

Oh, hail to thee, blithe fleeting pheasant

In the sky. So full of all colors in your

Coat so gay. Dost thou know the burning

In my heart, whilst thou flees through the

Scudding clouds up in the sky of blue? Oh,

Pheasant, do you carry the secret of this

Tortured love so bright and flaming, going

Through the scudding clouds in that sky of

Blue?

¹
Written summer of 1961 to John Benson, unknown to him.

Tears formed in Miss Kennicot’s eyes when she had finished reading. A smile trembled on her lips. She folded the paper carefully, then thrust it lovingly down the front of her dress. She turned out the lights and stood breathing hard for a moment, then opened the door, ready to sniff in the deep nectar of nature’s summer night.

As she did, she saw the door of John Benson’s cabin open. She saw Margaret Moore step out and close the door carefully behind her. Miss Kennicot watched from the shadow of the door, while Margaret Moore, in the moonlight, returned to her own cabin. Then she stepped back, doubling as though punched in the stomach. She shut the door and spun, clutching herself in the middle, making a low strangling sound. Finally she pulled the poem from her dress and ripped it viciously into small bits.

Mrs. Landry, awakening, stumbled out of bed and snapped on the light switch. “My dear, what’s the matter?” She blinked, trying to come awake completely. “My goodness, I heard the most peculiar noise—like somebody had got stabbed or something…”

Allan Garwith had not stopped shaking since Margaret Moore had got away from him and knocked on John Benson’s door. After she had gone inside, after he’d ducked back into the shadows, Harry Wells had come outside.

Garwith had pressed back against the side of Margaret Moore’s cabin. But Wells had walked straight toward him. He thought he would faint when Wells stopped in front of him, looking at him in the moonlight.

Wells said, “Thought I saw you out here. How’re you fixed for cigarettes?”

There had been seconds before Garwith was able to reach inside his shirt pocket and draw out his pack.

Wells took the pack and shook several cigarettes out. “Thanks. I ran out. Mind if I take a few?”

Garwith shook his head silently, swallowing over and over. Wells returned the pack to him. With a shaking hand, Garwith put it back in his pocket. Wells turned and walked slowly back toward his cabin. He stopped in front of his door, lit the cigarette and continued to stand there, looking in Garwith’s direction. Slowly Garwith returned to his own cabin.

Inside, Cicely said, “Did the air make you feel better, Allan?”

“Oh, shut up,” he whispered.

She began to cry, hunched in the bed. She cried softly and steadily. He didn’t care. As long as she was doing that, she couldn’t talk to him. He couldn’t stand any more talk from her. He paced for a while, the sound of Cicely’s sobbing a vague echo in his ears.

What had come over him anyway, he thought, trying that with the Moore woman? He must have been out of his mind. The only thing good about it was that she hadn’t started screaming. That would have really fixed everything.