sick in the head so you enjoyed it, or you had to be completely without imagination, or fanatic. I failed on all three counts.
So there was nothing to do but go on looking. I did. A little before sunset I gave it up for the present and went back to where I’d hidden the boat. Nunn was on the float when I got to camp.
“Well, where’s all the fish?” he asked.
“Still up there,” I said. I unclamped the motor.
“Didn’t you get nothing at all?”
“A few,” I said indifferently. ”Was I supposed to kill them?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he replied. “I’m not a big-time sport.”
“Well, cheer up,” I said. “It takes all kinds.” I was getting little sick of him.
I packed my gear in the station wagon and settled with him for the cabin and boat. There was no pressing invitation to hurry back and sample his overflowing hospitality again, which was fine because when I did come back it would be in through that road to the upper lake and I wouldn’t be bringing a brass band. I didn’t see her until I was turning the station wagon to leave. She was standing behind the screen door looking out. I thought I saw her hand move, as if she had waved good-bye. I waved, and went on.
It was dark before I got out of the bottom. I went back the same way I’d come, northward on State 41. When I slowed for the S-bend I saw the white crosses again in my headlights and tried once more to put a finger on the thing that kept nagging me about the place. Wasn’t it something about the last accident? I knew the people involved—or rather Barbara Renfrew did. That was it. They were friends of her grandfather’s, a couple around sixty years of age who’d lived on a farm just north of Wardlow. Their car had gone off the road one night in a heavy rain and they were killed instantly when it crashed into the trees out there. Barbara had taken time off to go to the funeral, but that wasn’t all of it. It was something she’d said. I frowned, trying to remember. Wait. . . . Something about the wreck itself. She said she couldn’t understand what they were doing on this road because it was out of their way. They were returning from Sanport.
So? But just when? I couldn’t remember, except that it was winter before last. It could have been in February. I whistled softly.
I arrived in Wardlow at eight thirty. When I pulled into the drive I saw lights were on in the living-room and upstairs, so she was home. Let’s see, where had we left off? I’d counterattacked along the left and my flank was holding, but there was no telling what she was moving up, or where. A great fighting animal, the female, I thought—tenacious and tricky as hell.
I carried the stuff in through the living-room. We apparently didn’t have any company. That was nice; non-combatants and refugees were always a hazard. It took two trips. I was down in the den drying the fly-rod before putting it away when I heard her footsteps on the basement stairs. She appeared in the doorway. Over her nightgown she was wearing a robe of peach-colored mist, and she looked like the Sultan’s favorite on the way in. She gave me a tentative smile.
“Did you catch any fish, Barney?”
“A few,” I said. “You look nice. I like that austere touch; reminds me of John Calvin.”
She grinned. She had a hell of a grin when she unsnapped the leash and turned it loose. “I was lying in bed reading when I heard you come in.”
Likely story, I thought. The calculated swirl of that platinum mop hadn’t been near a pillow. “Books,” I sneered. “You egg-heads are all alike.”
Her face softened reflectively. “I’m sorry about the fight. I missed you, Barney.”
I put down the rod. “I missed you, too.” Then it occurred to me, strangely enough, that I wasn’t even lying. I had missed her.
I moved, and she moved, and my arms had that ache in them as I tightened them around her. The big, vital, blonde face was under mine, tilted back, surrendering and
So there was nothing to do but go on looking. I did. A little before sunset I gave it up for the present and went back to where I’d hidden the boat. Nunn was on the float when I got to camp.
“Well, where’s all the fish?” he asked.
“Still up there,” I said. I unclamped the motor.
“Didn’t you get nothing at all?”
“A few,” I said indifferently. ”Was I supposed to kill them?”
“I wouldn’t know,” he replied. “I’m not a big-time sport.”
“Well, cheer up,” I said. “It takes all kinds.” I was getting little sick of him.
I packed my gear in the station wagon and settled with him for the cabin and boat. There was no pressing invitation to hurry back and sample his overflowing hospitality again, which was fine because when I did come back it would be in through that road to the upper lake and I wouldn’t be bringing a brass band. I didn’t see her until I was turning the station wagon to leave. She was standing behind the screen door looking out. I thought I saw her hand move, as if she had waved good-bye. I waved, and went on.
It was dark before I got out of the bottom. I went back the same way I’d come, northward on State 41. When I slowed for the S-bend I saw the white crosses again in my headlights and tried once more to put a finger on the thing that kept nagging me about the place. Wasn’t it something about the last accident? I knew the people involved—or rather Barbara Renfrew did. That was it. They were friends of her grandfather’s, a couple around sixty years of age who’d lived on a farm just north of Wardlow. Their car had gone off the road one night in a heavy rain and they were killed instantly when it crashed into the trees out there. Barbara had taken time off to go to the funeral, but that wasn’t all of it. It was something she’d said. I frowned, trying to remember. Wait. . . . Something about the wreck itself. She said she couldn’t understand what they were doing on this road because it was out of their way. They were returning from Sanport.
So? But just when? I couldn’t remember, except that it was winter before last. It could have been in February. I whistled softly.
I arrived in Wardlow at eight thirty. When I pulled into the drive I saw lights were on in the living-room and upstairs, so she was home. Let’s see, where had we left off? I’d counterattacked along the left and my flank was holding, but there was no telling what she was moving up, or where. A great fighting animal, the female, I thought—tenacious and tricky as hell.
I carried the stuff in through the living-room. We apparently didn’t have any company. That was nice; non-combatants and refugees were always a hazard. It took two trips. I was down in the den drying the fly-rod before putting it away when I heard her footsteps on the basement stairs. She appeared in the doorway. Over her nightgown she was wearing a robe of peach-colored mist, and she looked like the Sultan’s favorite on the way in. She gave me a tentative smile.
“Did you catch any fish, Barney?”
“A few,” I said. “You look nice. I like that austere touch; reminds me of John Calvin.”
She grinned. She had a hell of a grin when she unsnapped the leash and turned it loose. “I was lying in bed reading when I heard you come in.”
Likely story, I thought. The calculated swirl of that platinum mop hadn’t been near a pillow. “Books,” I sneered. “You egg-heads are all alike.”
Her face softened reflectively. “I’m sorry about the fight. I missed you, Barney.”
I put down the rod. “I missed you, too.” Then it occurred to me, strangely enough, that I wasn’t even lying. I had missed her.
I moved, and she moved, and my arms had that ache in them as I tightened them around her. The big, vital, blonde face was under mine, tilted back, surrendering and
Similar Books
