to loosen his collar and tie. “Do you think I’m going to stand for everyone saying I married for money? Not a chance. Now move over, I’ve got to get me some rest before daylight, and when I say rest, I mean rest.”
* * *
Carol gripped the steering-wheel of the Packard, stared through the windshield at the bright blob of light coming from the headlights that raced ahead of her, lighting up the twisty mountain road.
Her heart seemed frozen, her brain numbed with shock and fear. In the light of the dashboard she could see Steve’s white face as he lay crumpled up on the floorboards, his eyes closed. She wanted to stop, but the thought of the Sullivans forced her on. She would stop in a little while, when she was sure that the Sullivans couldn’t reach them, and she prayed it would not be too late; that she would be able to do something for Steve.
The narrow, twisting road made speeding impossible, but she drove as fast as she could, skidding at corners, jolting the big car recklessly over potholes and ruts, her only thought to put as much distance between the Sullivans and herself as she could in the shortest time.
A few more minutes’ driving brought her out on to the State Highway and she sent the Packard hurtling forward. A mile or so farther on she slowed down, looked for a place where she could stop. Ahead she saw a clearing, leading to an abandoned logging camp, and she drove the car off the road, bumped over the rough track which led to a number of half-ruined shacks that had, at some time or other, given shelter to the lumberjacks.
Hidden now from the road, the Packard slid to a standstill and Carol bent over Steve.
“I must keep calm, “she said to herself. “I must control myself.” The thought that he was dead or even badly hurt filled her with such dread that every muscle in her body was trembling and her teeth chattered.
“Steve, darling,” she said, her hand touching his face. “What is it? Tell me. How badly hurt are you?”
Steve made no movement, and when she lifted his head it felt heavy and lifeless.
For a long moment she sat still, her fists clenched, controlling the scream that rose in her throat; then she opened the car door, got out, stood on the pine needles, holding on to the door for support. She thought she was going to faint; her heart was beating so hard she felt suffocated. She stumbled round the car, opened the off-side door, supported Steve as he rolled through the doorway. He was heavy, but she managed to get him from the car and on to the soft pine needles. She adjusted the spot-lamp, switched it on, caught her breath when she saw the blood on his coat. She ran to him, opened his coat, saw the blood-soaked shirt.
She put her hand over his heart, felt the faint, uneven beat, and choked back a sob of relief. He wasn’t dead! But unless she got help he might easily die. He was still bleeding, and that would have to be stopped.
She turned back to the Packard. In the back of the car, on the floor, she found two suitcases. Feverishly she opened one of them, found shirts and handkerchiefs, began ripping the shirts up for bandages.
“Carol!” Steve called faintly.
She gave a little cry, ran to him. He was blinking in the strong light of the spot-lamp, but he didn’t move: his eyes looked dull and lifeless.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, falling on her knees beside him. “What am I going to do? Does it hurt? I’m trying to stop the bleeding.”
“Good kid,” Steve muttered, and his face twisted with pain. “It’s pretty bad, Carol. Somewhere in my chest.”
For a moment she lost control of herself and sobbed wildly, hiding her face in her hands.
“What am I going to do?” she thought hysterically. “He mustn’t die . . . I couldn’t bear him to die . . . and I’m the only one who can save him. . . .”
“Come on, kid,” Steve gasped. “Don’t get scared. I know how you feel. But don’t lose your nerve. See if you can stop the
* * *
Carol gripped the steering-wheel of the Packard, stared through the windshield at the bright blob of light coming from the headlights that raced ahead of her, lighting up the twisty mountain road.
Her heart seemed frozen, her brain numbed with shock and fear. In the light of the dashboard she could see Steve’s white face as he lay crumpled up on the floorboards, his eyes closed. She wanted to stop, but the thought of the Sullivans forced her on. She would stop in a little while, when she was sure that the Sullivans couldn’t reach them, and she prayed it would not be too late; that she would be able to do something for Steve.
The narrow, twisting road made speeding impossible, but she drove as fast as she could, skidding at corners, jolting the big car recklessly over potholes and ruts, her only thought to put as much distance between the Sullivans and herself as she could in the shortest time.
A few more minutes’ driving brought her out on to the State Highway and she sent the Packard hurtling forward. A mile or so farther on she slowed down, looked for a place where she could stop. Ahead she saw a clearing, leading to an abandoned logging camp, and she drove the car off the road, bumped over the rough track which led to a number of half-ruined shacks that had, at some time or other, given shelter to the lumberjacks.
Hidden now from the road, the Packard slid to a standstill and Carol bent over Steve.
“I must keep calm, “she said to herself. “I must control myself.” The thought that he was dead or even badly hurt filled her with such dread that every muscle in her body was trembling and her teeth chattered.
“Steve, darling,” she said, her hand touching his face. “What is it? Tell me. How badly hurt are you?”
Steve made no movement, and when she lifted his head it felt heavy and lifeless.
For a long moment she sat still, her fists clenched, controlling the scream that rose in her throat; then she opened the car door, got out, stood on the pine needles, holding on to the door for support. She thought she was going to faint; her heart was beating so hard she felt suffocated. She stumbled round the car, opened the off-side door, supported Steve as he rolled through the doorway. He was heavy, but she managed to get him from the car and on to the soft pine needles. She adjusted the spot-lamp, switched it on, caught her breath when she saw the blood on his coat. She ran to him, opened his coat, saw the blood-soaked shirt.
She put her hand over his heart, felt the faint, uneven beat, and choked back a sob of relief. He wasn’t dead! But unless she got help he might easily die. He was still bleeding, and that would have to be stopped.
She turned back to the Packard. In the back of the car, on the floor, she found two suitcases. Feverishly she opened one of them, found shirts and handkerchiefs, began ripping the shirts up for bandages.
“Carol!” Steve called faintly.
She gave a little cry, ran to him. He was blinking in the strong light of the spot-lamp, but he didn’t move: his eyes looked dull and lifeless.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, falling on her knees beside him. “What am I going to do? Does it hurt? I’m trying to stop the bleeding.”
“Good kid,” Steve muttered, and his face twisted with pain. “It’s pretty bad, Carol. Somewhere in my chest.”
For a moment she lost control of herself and sobbed wildly, hiding her face in her hands.
“What am I going to do?” she thought hysterically. “He mustn’t die . . . I couldn’t bear him to die . . . and I’m the only one who can save him. . . .”
“Come on, kid,” Steve gasped. “Don’t get scared. I know how you feel. But don’t lose your nerve. See if you can stop the
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