Mouthpiece by L. Ron Hubbard

to happen. And that something was not long in coming. Carbonelli came
to the window and thrust his head out.
    â€œI guess it’s stopped raining,” said the thug in a
disgruntled voice.
    â€œSure,” Krone’s voice snapped from inside. “You said
that an hour ago.”
    â€œWell, I can’t help it, can I? We’ll have to get that
truck fixed as soon as it’s dry enough to work on. Damn this rain! It must have
shorted all the wires.”
    â€œThat was a bright stunt of yours.” Krone’s voice
growled nastily. “Some guy’ll find that dumb driver and they’ll trace back up
this stream and nail us. I’m for clearing out of here on foot and trying to
swipe a car in the next town.”
    â€œWhy swipe one?” asked Carbonelli. “We can buy one or
take a train. The cops ain’t looking for us in this state now since they got a
tip that we’d left here.”
    â€œAll right, let’s go.”
    Bill’s heart was hammering. He had to keep these two
here somehow. Under his hand lay a rock. He picked it up and heaved it at the
window. The glass crashed out.
    â€œWhat the hell?” shrieked Krone. “What was that?”
    â€œA rock!” said Carbonelli in a high-pitched voice.
“They’ve got us surrounded!”
    Krone evidently regained some of his nerve. “Surrounded,
my hat. They wouldn’t have thrown that rock. They’d have shot you.”
    Neither of the two had quite the courage to go to the
window again. Bill stood up and looked at the truck through the cold gray
light. He gritted his teeth against the pain of his leg and raced across the
clearing. He gained the cab before they heard him.
    A bullet whined off a tree. The report was flat and
dead. Bill shot a hand under the panel and turned the petcock he had closed
earlier in the evening. Then he jammed his foot down on the starter. The Fiat’s
engine roared away, plumes of blue smoke jumping from the exhaust stacks.
Another bullet smashed through the side of the door, came all the way through.
    Bill turned off the switch and turned it on again. The
motor backfired. The sound was identical with that of exploding powder. He knew
that the ruse would not last long. Soon they’d get over their first scare and
they’d charge him.
    Carbonelli threw open the door. His gun jumped. The
windshield went out of the cab. Flying glass gashed Bill’s cheek. He scuttled
back and tried to open the other side of the cab. But a branch held it shut.
Suddenly Bill knew that he was trapped. He could not get out and he had no way
of protecting himself. They might not try to get in the doors for fear he had a
gun, but one could keep him busy from the front while the other came through
the back. He glanced out and saw the dangling chain hoist. A slug ripped
through a wood beam and he ducked.
    Krone approached warily from the front, crouching, ready
to shoot. Carbonelli had disappeared. He would be coming around from the back.
    Krone weaved from side to side. His gun flamed. His eyes
were jets of black fire. Bill heard someone scrambling up the tailgate. That
would be Carbonelli.
    The idling motor sputtered and coughed. Bill stared at
the panel on the level with his face, waiting. A lever came into his line of
vision. The lever which operated the chain hoist. Before he had time fully to
think the plan out, Bill hauled back on the hand clutch.
    The chain which hung over the back rattled. The winch
screamed under the onslaught of the racing motor. A bellow of rage and dismay
blasted through the dripping woods.
    Carbonelli was caught. Caught like a fish on a hook. The
hoist he had used to pull himself up had suddenly gone wild in his hands. The
hook was through his coat collar. His feet danced on thin air.
    Krone dodged. He started to charge and then stopped. A
slow smile came over his twisted face. He lowered the gun and watched
Carbonelli dance.
    â€œGet me off of