to happen. And that something was not long in coming. Carbonelli came to the window and thrust his head out. âI guess itâs stopped raining,â said the thug in a disgruntled voice. âSure,â Kroneâs voice snapped from inside. âYou said that an hour ago.â âWell, I canât help it, can I? Weâll have to get that truck fixed as soon as itâs dry enough to work on. Damn this rain! It must have shorted all the wires.â âThat was a bright stunt of yours.â Kroneâs voice growled nastily. âSome guyâll find that dumb driver and theyâll trace back up this stream and nail us. Iâm for clearing out of here on foot and trying to swipe a car in the next town.â âWhy swipe one?â asked Carbonelli. âWe can buy one or take a train. The cops ainât looking for us in this state now since they got a tip that weâd left here.â âAll right, letâs go.â Billâs 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. âWhat the hell?â shrieked Krone. âWhat was that?â âA rock!â said Carbonelli in a high-pitched voice. âTheyâve got us surrounded!â Krone evidently regained some of his nerve. âSurrounded, my hat. They wouldnât have thrown that rock. Theyâd have shot you.â 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 Fiatâs 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 theyâd get over their first scare and theyâd charge him. Carbonelli threw open the door. His gun jumped. The windshield went out of the cab. Flying glass gashed Billâs 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. âGet me off of