doc?”
“Ought to be here any minute! Yes, sir! You can count on Doc. A good man! The best, Doc Stewart!”
“I don’t care what his goddam name is,” Billy said, carefully looking over the counter at Reverend Andrews. “I just want to know where he is.” Reverend Andrews flushed, but he did not get up.
Bob Saywell, in desperate but futile eagerness to produce Dr. Hugh Stewart, looked as though he might have to run to the back of the store to the small lavatory.
Hugh Stewart solved Bob Saywell’s dilemma at that moment by rapping on the front door.
Billy’s fork clattered onto his plate. His gun was again in his hand. He looked at a quivering Bob Saywell.
“Now, listen, jelly roll. This is closed shop today, you hear? I mean to everybody, but that doc. Now you go over and look past that shade. If it’s the doc, let him in. And he’d better come in alone, or I’ll put a hole right through your pink little head, see? I mean that like I never meant anything in my life, chubby. Now, go!”
Bob Saywell went, around the counter, scooting to the door. He peered out, then unlocked the door. Dr. Hugh Stewart stepped inside.
“Now shut the door and lock it!” Billy snapped from behind the counter.
Bob Saywell did just that. Hugh Stewart stared in surprise, first at Billy Quirter and the gun in his hand, then at the faces of the others, sitting silently, staring back at him.
Billy Quirter grinned. “Welcome to the party, Doc. It’s the left arm—busted. I’m real glad you could make it. Come on over here and start working, huh? Jelly roll there’ll get you some breakfast. Hop to it, fatty. How do you like your eggs, Doc? Sunny side up or over one time?”
chapter twelve
The storm was wearing thin with the brightening of morning. Snow had drifted like nicely placed dollops of whipped cream. Traffic had been eased to a thin trickle all around, and would not return to any degree of normalcy until the snow plows had cut through; there was one beginning its slow push from Graintown to Arrow Junction right now.
Still, with a half-ton truck and chains, it was possible to get around fairly easily; and Ted Burley, when he lurched from Greta Blummer’s farmhouse did not think about whether or not he could make the drive back to his own farm without trouble. He simply ground the starter until the engine caught and turned over, the muscles of his jaw standing rigid along his cheeks.
Deep in his stomach Ted Burley felt a nauseous distress. For one thing he was suffering a crushing hangover. The night previous he’d drunk three-quarters of a bottle of whisky all by himself, and Ted Burley did not normally drink. For another thing, he had, in his own opinion, just degraded himself to the bottom of the pit by spending the night with Greta Blummer. Anybody in or around Arrow Junction knew well enough what Greta was.
Yet he’d kept up that drinking—taking one final swig from the bottle as he’d driven the pickup into the drive of her farm. Then he’d lurched on to the house and grabbed Greta, while she giggled and kept asking him what in the world he was doing. She’d known exactly what he was doing and was happy as hell over it.
In the cab now, shuddering as he drove away from that house, Ted Burley remembered where he’d put that bottle of whisky; it was just behind him on the ledge behind the seat.
He got it and took another drink, blinking as the whisky seared down to his empty stomach. He’d tripped the emotional lever again, done it by imagining how it was with Ann and Dr. Hugh Stewart, an image that had built up the previous late afternoon and finally suffused him completely, until he’d vented his rage and building desire on the soft flesh of Greta Blummer.
“Damned dirty whore!” Ted Burley repeated of his wife. He hunched behind the wheel, drunkenness resuming instantly with the first drink. He propped the bottle beside him, driving with instinctive accuracy along the snowy road.
“Ought to be here any minute! Yes, sir! You can count on Doc. A good man! The best, Doc Stewart!”
“I don’t care what his goddam name is,” Billy said, carefully looking over the counter at Reverend Andrews. “I just want to know where he is.” Reverend Andrews flushed, but he did not get up.
Bob Saywell, in desperate but futile eagerness to produce Dr. Hugh Stewart, looked as though he might have to run to the back of the store to the small lavatory.
Hugh Stewart solved Bob Saywell’s dilemma at that moment by rapping on the front door.
Billy’s fork clattered onto his plate. His gun was again in his hand. He looked at a quivering Bob Saywell.
“Now, listen, jelly roll. This is closed shop today, you hear? I mean to everybody, but that doc. Now you go over and look past that shade. If it’s the doc, let him in. And he’d better come in alone, or I’ll put a hole right through your pink little head, see? I mean that like I never meant anything in my life, chubby. Now, go!”
Bob Saywell went, around the counter, scooting to the door. He peered out, then unlocked the door. Dr. Hugh Stewart stepped inside.
“Now shut the door and lock it!” Billy snapped from behind the counter.
Bob Saywell did just that. Hugh Stewart stared in surprise, first at Billy Quirter and the gun in his hand, then at the faces of the others, sitting silently, staring back at him.
Billy Quirter grinned. “Welcome to the party, Doc. It’s the left arm—busted. I’m real glad you could make it. Come on over here and start working, huh? Jelly roll there’ll get you some breakfast. Hop to it, fatty. How do you like your eggs, Doc? Sunny side up or over one time?”
chapter twelve
The storm was wearing thin with the brightening of morning. Snow had drifted like nicely placed dollops of whipped cream. Traffic had been eased to a thin trickle all around, and would not return to any degree of normalcy until the snow plows had cut through; there was one beginning its slow push from Graintown to Arrow Junction right now.
Still, with a half-ton truck and chains, it was possible to get around fairly easily; and Ted Burley, when he lurched from Greta Blummer’s farmhouse did not think about whether or not he could make the drive back to his own farm without trouble. He simply ground the starter until the engine caught and turned over, the muscles of his jaw standing rigid along his cheeks.
Deep in his stomach Ted Burley felt a nauseous distress. For one thing he was suffering a crushing hangover. The night previous he’d drunk three-quarters of a bottle of whisky all by himself, and Ted Burley did not normally drink. For another thing, he had, in his own opinion, just degraded himself to the bottom of the pit by spending the night with Greta Blummer. Anybody in or around Arrow Junction knew well enough what Greta was.
Yet he’d kept up that drinking—taking one final swig from the bottle as he’d driven the pickup into the drive of her farm. Then he’d lurched on to the house and grabbed Greta, while she giggled and kept asking him what in the world he was doing. She’d known exactly what he was doing and was happy as hell over it.
In the cab now, shuddering as he drove away from that house, Ted Burley remembered where he’d put that bottle of whisky; it was just behind him on the ledge behind the seat.
He got it and took another drink, blinking as the whisky seared down to his empty stomach. He’d tripped the emotional lever again, done it by imagining how it was with Ann and Dr. Hugh Stewart, an image that had built up the previous late afternoon and finally suffused him completely, until he’d vented his rage and building desire on the soft flesh of Greta Blummer.
“Damned dirty whore!” Ted Burley repeated of his wife. He hunched behind the wheel, drunkenness resuming instantly with the first drink. He propped the bottle beside him, driving with instinctive accuracy along the snowy road.
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