The feeling grew that he would have to move.
The longer he lay here the more numb his body would become, so that when he did call on his muscles he would be slow to react. He might have waited too long already.
If he could get rid of the rattler in front of him first and take his chances on the one alongside his leg—
Drake held his breath, knowing that if the snake chose to strike it would be too fast for the eye to follow, with no way to dodge or avoid it.
His cramped muscles screaming in protest, he suddenly snapped the rifle barrel to his left, batting away the rattler before it could move while he hurled himself backward, thrusting the butt of the rifle hard toward where he felt the snake along his leg would be.
He felt nothing as the butt of the rifle thrust the snake away and he rolled and smashed down at the head frantically, one blow flattening it against the dry earth.
Dragging the rifle, he scrambled out of the pit for a few yards and knelt, shuddering, his chest heaving, gulping great draughts of air through his open mouth.
The snake he had batted away had disappeared. The one he had killed still writhed slowly.
Kneeling at the edge of the pit, clutching his rifle for support, Drake felt a weakness wash over him as the tension within him faded.
Below, Gruber was packing away his propane stove.
Still time, thought Drake.
He took a deep breath and lifted the rifle, the crosshairs centered on Gruber’s chest. Even after his experience with the snakes, they held steady.
His finger took up the slack of the trigger.
It might have been nothing more than the harsh clarity of the morning light, but through the scope Gruber emerged as not just a target but a man, a weary-looking middle-aged man with a coarse face and a protuberant stomach who meant nothing to Drake, and it seemed to Drake that killing him would be a waste of time and ammunition. It would accomplish nothing, and the world would go on as it always had.
He lowered the rifle. To hell with Shelbrook, he thought. Let him get someone else.
Gruber picked up a fishing rod and disappeared downstream.
Drake watched him go almost with relief, aware suddenly of a burning and stinging in the calf of his right leg and the tension and fear came back, accompanied now by a despair and a sickness in the pit of his stomach. Since he had felt nothing immediately, he had assumed he had been faster than the snake.
He raised his pant leg carefully.
The side of his calf was a reddish patch of fine scratches and his eye fell on the smashed and crushed center of the greyish green cluster of nettles before him. He had rolled right through them.
Nettles, he thought. He felt a desire to throw his head back and laugh, to let his relief echo from the walls of the little valley. He shook his head. Nettles.
He started back toward his car, walking quickly.
His leg began to throb. He stopped several times and rubbed it gently. By the time he reached the car his leg felt so heavy he could hardly move it, and as he stowed the rifle in the trunk a sudden weakness made him clutch the car for support.
Tenderly he rubbed his leg. Damned nettles, he thought. Must have some kind of poison to them.
He drove, headed back for the motel, light-headed now, a nausea riding in his stomach as he followed the road down toward the creek. The car wove erratically. Several times he brought it back to the road with great effort.
When the road reached the foot of the hillside, it turned almost at a right angle across the low stone bridge. Drake didn’t make it. The car continued straight, plunging through the underbrush and teetering for a moment on the edge of the bank before plunging into the shallow water.
Several hundred yards away, Gruber heard the crash, dropped his fishing rod, and ran toward the sound. When he reached the wreck, Drake had pulled himself clear and was lying on the steep bank, his clothing soaked and one pant leg riding high. He was pale, his breathing quick and shallow, and as Gruber ran toward him the first thing he noticed was Drake’s bare leg. He stared. He was no doctor but he didn’t have to be. He had been an outdoorsman all his life and he recognized what he saw.
No longer concealed by the multitudinous nettle scratches on Drake’s leg, the marks of twin fangs were centered in a purple swelling.
Gruber swore and fumbled for the snake-bite kit he had learned to carry long ago, his fingers trembling as he injected the antivenin, sliced open the fang marks, and applied the suction cup.
To do what he could was something he owed any man, but as he worked he couldn’t escape the feeling that he somehow owed this one something more.
A Casual Crime
by Dan Marlowe
The blonde had made a small fortune in phony insurance claims...
The snapshot was of a blonde whose hair was long and casual-looking. She was wearing shorts and a halter, showing that she liked to dress casually too. “Nice,” I said, handing the photograph back to Burk Larson, chief investigator for the Argo Insurance Company.
“Nice!” Larson snorted. “I want her in prison, understand? She’s cost Argo a fortune in the past five years.”
“She must’ve started young.”
“She did, but she’s never been anything less than a professional.” There was a note of respect in Larson’s voice. “Last week was the first time we ever had enough on her to take her to court, even, and then she walked away with a big smile.”
“She must be a wonder to have you calling for help, Burk,” I remarked lightly.
“I’ll tell you just how much of a wonder,” he said grimly. “Five years ago she fell in the lobby of a Chicago theater and threatened to sue. Eventually, she signed a release and settled out of court. A year later her husband of ten days drowned at Atlantic City and she collected ten thousand dollars on a new policy on his life. The following year, a fancy dress shop she was running in Los Angeles went up in flames and we were holding the bag for another fifteen thousand. Early this year we had to make good for an expensive diamond necklace she reported stolen.”
I had been doing some figuring. “It averages out to twelve or thirteen thousand a year, Burk. With her looks, she could make more as a model. Sure it isn’t legitimate?”
“That’s only what she’s cost Argo,” he emphasized. “She’s into half a dozen other companies too.”
“What did you have her up before the judge on?”
“Check cashing. She cashed thirty thousand dollars’ worth of bad checks we’re stuck with.”
“The bad check, the evidence to prove the crime, is always right there to convict the passer,” I said. “How did she get off the hook?”
“She passed all the checks in supermarkets belonging to the Silver Star chain, which we insure against loss.” Larson shook his head. “I thought their system was foolproof. They won’t accept a check unless they have a Silver Star identification card, and the cards don’t come easily. The applicant has to fill out a detailed questionnaire, give bank references, have a photograph taken, and give a thumbprint. Then the chain takes a couple of weeks to check everything out before issuing the card.”
“And she beat the system? The only way she could have done that was to make a phony identity stand up under the credit investigation.”
“No. She used her own name and her own signature.”
“And she walked away?” I said incredulously.
“It was my fault,” Larson said sheepishly. “With her past record, I thought we had her cold. I even offered to put in a word for her with the judge if she’d return the money, but she just laughed in my face.”