The Long Ride (5 page)

The station wagon lifted its nose and leaped down the highway. Mrs. Landry removed one hand from the steering wheel and waved it in time to her singing, now joined by Miss Kennicot. The speedometer needle moved to seventy. Mrs. Landry did not remove her foot.

Allan Garwith paled, staring straight ahead at an old truck lumbering ahead of them. In the distance there was the dark form of a car approaching.

“Everybody now!” Mrs. Landry shouted, waving her free hand, as Miss Kennicot, singing lustily, turned toward the front again. Miss Kennicot finally realized the mounting speed. Her voice cracked. She laughed more loudly than before, then started singing again, grabbing the front edge of her seat tightly.

Harry Wells blinked once, then sat motionless, observing the truck ahead and the car they were about to meet. An eyebrow arched faintly above Margaret Moore’s eye, as she watched the speedometer move up to eighty. John Benson rubbed his chin, staring down the highway.

Mrs. Landry suddenly one-handed a slight turn on the steering wheel, singing joyfully with the now-yelling Miss Kennicot. “California,
here
we come…” Miss Kennicot emphasized the word as though hit in the back with ice water, just as Mrs. Landry shot around the ancient truck and snapped back in her own lane inches ahead of smashing head-on into the approaching car, whose angry horn could be heard only for a brief moment. Then they were sailing down the highway, the truck far behind them, the speedometer needle quivering just under ninety.

“Now don’t be bashful!” Mrs. Landry shouted, while Miss Kennicot went into a steady giggling, trying to unloosen her fingers from the seat. “California, here we come…!”

CHAPTER

The Wyoming state line behind them, John Benson checked his watch as they whipped over the last miles approaching Cheyenne. It was 4:20. They would be in Cheyenne by 4:30, and Mrs. Landry, who had gaily waved away offers to relieve her at the wheel, had managed to average an even seventy miles an hour the entire distance.

John shifted in his seat, looking out at the changing countryside. They had swept swiftly over the flat plains, slowing only to observe the speed limits of the small prairie towns spread far apart through the corn and wheat country. Yellow goldenrod and sunflowers had livened the otherwise dry-looking brown fields. They had moved through innumerable weary-faced small agricultural towns with their invariable water towers and grain elevators; the clusters of white frame houses looking lonely to the stranger’s eye as they lay another season beneath the hot, blinding sun; the service stations cluttered and uninviting on the edges of the highway; the ever-present café signs looming large and unmistakable and which, without fail, would advertise a building long closed, its windows boarded with gray lumber, a screen door hanging awry on rusty hinges, as a dog or cat ambled in front of it, semi-numbed from the beating of the white-hot sun.

Now the rolling grazing hills had begun, clear of everything but the brown pasture grass, supporting only the lean western cattle and the Black Hills coyote and rattlesnake. Traversing the Bad Lands, they had risen from the low elevation of Loma City to an altitude of 6,000 feet, as they now moved onto the eastern slope of the Rockies. The air was cooler. The sun seemed less glaring as the bluish dark shadows lengthened along the weathered faces of the yellow buttes.

During the past seven hours Mrs. Landry and Miss Kennicot had led a series of endeavors intended to entertain the occupants of the hurtling station wagon. Mostly the endeavors had been songs, sung primarily by the women. When he could hear over Miss Kennicot’s blasting contralto, John Benson had discovered that Margaret Moore owned a low, husky singing voice that might have, professionally trained, served well in a small supper club. The selection of songs, however (they had sung “Friends” seventeen times), was not a good one for Mrs. Moore. Rather it was Cicely Garwith who had, even beneath the competition of Miss Kennicot’s volume, demonstrated a high, beautiful singing voice notable for its absolute pitch. John had joined with a baritone on a few selections. Neither Harry Wells nor Allan Garwith had made the attempt.

Between songs Miss Kennicot had led in games. They had played Twenty Questions from the edge of the Loess Plains through the Sand Hills to the Bad Land buttes. In this Allan Garwith had participated but once. After two hundred miles, he’d seemed to be able to remove his eyes from the road, finally immune, John thought, to Mrs. Landry’s rampaging speed. He had admitted to the others that he was thinking of a subject. When the twenty questions had been exhausted, failing to reveal the answer, he had announced in a tight, bitter voice that he was thinking of an arthritic bang-tailed Mexican monkey vaccinated against yellow jaundice.

There had been a pause. Then everyone but Harry Wells had laughed. After that Allan Garwith had fallen into an oblique silence, staring grimly out of his window.

They had also played games which involved seeing how many words could be constructed out of the letters in Constantinople (won by Miss Kennicot); who could name all the capitals of the United States (again won by Miss Kennicot), and a version of charades that had been limited by the cramped positions of everyone in the car.

This last had been dominated by Mrs. Landry’s performance. At a speed of seventy-nine miles an hour, she had lifted her hands from the steering wheel and pressed her elbows against it to maintain control. She had put a finger outside either eye, stretching the skin outward and upward, speaking in high Oriental-sounding gibberish. John Benson had instantly guessed that she was a World War II Jap pilot committing hara-kiri in a dive bomber. The guess was absolutely correct, and it fortunately got Mrs. Landry’s hands back on the wheel. Everyone, including Harry Wells, agreed that it was a dramatic performance.

Now they were approaching the outskirts of Cheyenne, the breadth of Wyoming ahead of them with its two ranges of the Rocky Mountains lifting on either side of the blue-purple sagebrush flat of the Great Divide Basin.

Mrs. Landry seemed not even faintly weary from the long drive. But Miss Kennicot had, at the ceasing of the games and songs, instantly dropped her head back and fallen soundly asleep, her mouth dropping open, issuing slight snoring sounds. During this period John Benson had talked to Margaret Moore of the countryside. Cicely Garwith had nestled her head against the side of her silent, withdrawn husband. Harry Wells had remained equally silent, sitting very straight on his portion of the rear seat.

But now, as they approached Cheyenne, there was a faint stirring. Miss Kennicot had awakened, startled that she had fallen asleep; she began rearranging her hair, laughing. John Benson carefully noted that Allan Garwith seemed to tense again, straightening in his seat, forcing his wife’s head away from him by shifting his shoulder almost rudely. He’s nervous, all right, John Benson thought—really nervous.

And as Allan Garwith straightened, Harry Wells, John noted, also stiffened, sitting at even more rigid attention, his eyes staring steadily at the back of Allan Garwith’s head. John had talked to him only sparingly during the trip, because of the economy of Wells’s responses; but he decided to try again:

“You say you’re going to look around the San Francisco area for a job, Sergeant?” He noted Wells’s quick swing of head, the wary look going into his eyes. “It’s all right if I call you Sergeant, isn’t it? Even if you’ve retired?”

“Yeah, that’s all right, Benson.” He nodded faintly. “Look around for something to do. They don’t retire sergeants on generals’ pay, you know.”

“I guess not,” John said. “You like it out there?”

“I like it out there.”

“Were you stationed around San Francisco?”

“Close as I got was Camp Roberts, down the coast. But I was through San Francisco when I went out, then came back from Japan.”

The facts were right, according to Ray Hannah’s report. And that was what was going to be tough about this, John thought. Harry Wells was simply playing himself. He had to hide only one deviation from the norm—killing one kid with his hands, getting another killed by talking him into that robbery, gunning down a guard, and trying to get away with a hundred thousand dollars.

That was one hell of a deviation, John thought, but that still was all Wells had to cover—one day of wanton destruction. If he were a con with a history, it would be far more simple. His habits would be formed, and they would know them. You could trip him somewhere along the way. But Harry Wells was a one-shot artist. It was going to be very tough to find a weakness.

“Ever been in Cheyenne?” he asked.

“Through it on a train, but that’s all.”

They were inside the city limits. The town was small, old and undistinguished looking, despite the grandeur of the surrounding countryside.

“It doesn’t look like I’ve missed anything,” Wells said and turned his head away. John gave up the conversation.

In a moment Mrs. Landry was driving the station wagon down the center of the business section. John watched Allan Garwith remain very alertly straight. That muscle beside the corner of his mouth was working again.

Mrs. Landry said, “Well, I’m just so surprised! I thought Cheyenne was a much bigger city. I don’t even see any cowboys, does anybody else?”

Miss Kennicot, fully awake now, said, “‘Appearances are very deceitful.’ Le Sage, of course. I looked up Cheyenne in our historical section at the museum just two days ago. At the last printed census it had a population of thirty-one thousand, nine hundred and thirty-five. It is, of course, the capital of Wyoming. It was selected as the Union Pacific Railroad division point in eighteen sixty-seven. Cattle ranching and gold started its growth in the eighteen seventies. And it’s a center for sheep and cattle. So there ought to be some cowboys around somewhere. Isn’t that terribly interesting?”

“Listen,” Allan Garwith said, speaking for the first time since he’d revealed his monkey subject during the Twenty-Questions game, “where are we going to stay in this town?”

“Well,” Miss Kennicot said, digging into her very large white purse, “now just a minute. I took the trouble of asking the three A’s to give me their catalogue on hotels and motels before we left. The three A’s are very good to get recommendations from, doesn’t everybody think? I can read you the whole list.”

Allan Garwith, John saw, looked annoyed, almost desperate. Mrs. Landry had stopped the car now, near the center of the downtown section. There was a billiard parlor ahead. A trio of young men in wash-bleached Levis and faded cotton plaid shirts strolled by, their eyes stopping on Margaret Moore. One of them paused to put a brown cigarette between his lips, his eyes never leaving her.

“Any place is all right with me,” Allan Garwith said. The man with the brown cigarette moved on. “How about that hotel over there?”

The hotel he indicated was visible over the tops of the low business buildings. There was a sign across its top that read,
Hotel Plateau.

“Let’s see,” Miss Kennicot said, running her finger down the list of hotels. “Now a friend of mine, Alice Gregson—she runs a little book store out on the west edge of Loma City—told me about a darling motel in Laramie, simply darling, where the rates are just unbelievably low for how nice it is. But of course Laramie is around another sixty miles, I think, and here we are in Cheyenne.” She frowned studiedly, as she searched for the listing of the Hotel Plateau. Then she said, “Oh, here it is! Isn’t that nice? It’s approved by the three A’s. Of course it is. Oh, but heavens! Look at those rates! Oh, I just don’t know about that!”

John Benson studied Allan Garwith’s reaction. Garwith twisted in his seat angrily. “It doesn’t make any difference to me. I’m just getting tired of riding.”

“Well, but those rates are
very
strong,” Miss Kennicot said. “Why, I believe that place in Laramie Alice mentioned—the Sleep Tight Motel—is down at least three or four dollars over this one. Of course, that looks like a very nice and new hotel over there. But—”

“Well, now,” Mrs. Landry said brightly, “I’m just feeling fit as could be. If Laramie’s only another sixty miles or so, maybe we could just shoot on and stay in that nice motel there. What does everybody think about that? Mrs. Moore?”

Mrs. Moore shrugged pleasantly. “Whatever you like, Mrs. Landry. It’s quite all right with me.”

John Benson was certain Allan Garwith’s face had paled. Harry Wells, he noticed, continued to watch Garwith carefully.

“Whatever everybody else wants to do,” Cicely Garwith said politely, “that’s what Allan and I want to do.”

Garwith turned his head, looking at her with angry eyes, that muscle shivering beside his mouth.

“Mr. Benson?” Mrs. Landry said.

John Benson spread his hands. “Anything’s all right with me. If we go on to Laramie, though, we’ve cut that much more off the journey. I wouldn’t mind going on.” He watched Allan Garwith intently.

Allan Garwith suddenly bent forward, hugging his one arm to his middle. He made a short gasping sound, then started moaning. Cicely at once put her arms around him, fright going into her eyes.

“Oh, goodness!” Mrs. Landry said. “What’s the matter?”

Garwith shook his head back and forth. “Pain—just a sudden pain…”

Mrs. Moore moved out of her seat swiftly, saying to Cicely, “Let him stretch out, Mrs. Garwith.”

In a moment Allan Garwith was lying along the second seat, Cicely hovering worriedly above him. Mrs. Moore put her hand on his forehead, looking at him carefully.

“I’ll just bet it’s appendicitis!” Miss Kennicot yelled.

“Is the pain severe?” Mrs. Moore asked.

“Yeah,” Garwith managed.

“Where you’ve got your hand?”

“Where I’ve got my hand.” He gasped again.

“We’d better get him to a doctor,” Mrs. Moore said.

“I’ll ask somebody where the closest hospital is,” John Benson said, and started to open a back door.

“Just a minute,” Allan Garwith said. “It’s easing up.”

John Benson paused, looking at him. Then he looked at Harry Wells, whose eyes had narrowed faintly as he studied Garwith.

“It’s going away,” Allan Garwith managed. “I don’t know—just tired, I guess. I’ll be all right.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Moore asked.

“Yeah. But I’m still kind of weak.”

“I’d better find out about a doctor anyway,” John Benson said.

“No, it’s all right now,” Garwith insisted. “Just a little weak, that’s all. I’ll be all right.”

“Well,” Mrs. Landry said, “I guess we surely shouldn’t drive any more today. We’d just better stay right here in Cheyenne. Maybe we can find something besides that hotel over there. But I think that poor boy ought to get into bed and rest.”

“Maybe,” Cicely Garwith said worriedly, “we should just go to the nearest place.” She blinked. “Quickly.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Landry said definitely, and drove directly to the large, new Hotel Plateau, while Miss Kennicot looked at the rates again. Miss Kennicot looked back at Allan Garwith, worriedly, then stuffed the AAA listing into her purse in a pronounced motion, obviously forcing away thoughts of what the Plateau was going to do to her budget. The lobby of the Hotel Plateau was light, cheerful and air-conditioned. Checking in was far smoother than John Benson had expected. Miss Kennicot’s worries about higher rates seemed to dissolve when she and Mrs. Landry decided to take a room together. Mrs. Moore preferred a room of her own, as did Harry Wells. Mrs. Landry explained to the desk clerk in her familiar chatting fashion that Allan Garwith had suffered an attack of something or other, and the clerk had instantly suggested that it had been the altitude. Allan Garwith had quickly nodded, as though relieved to find the source of his trouble. Cicely had also looked relieved. Mrs. Landry, apparently overjoyed with the simplicity of the explanation, had gone on to explain to the room clerk that the Garwiths were newly married. The clerk registered the Garwiths first, so that they could retire quickly to their room, while Cicely blushed and Miss Kennicot went into a peal of laughter, looking at John Benson coyly.