“Sure there’s enough to last?”
“Plenty,” Madigan assured him. “Probably be a hundred gallons left in the spring.”
The two men went to work clearing the snow away. When they got the door open, Madigan took the shovels and put them back in the trunk. “You grab the money,” he said easily, “I’ll unload the suitcases.”
Hooper nodded and got the sack of money from the front seat. He went on inside and looked around. One corner was piled high with magazines. A table in the middle of the room had decks of cards and other games of amusement on There was a radio on a shelf on the wall. In a little alcove Hooper saw cases of canned goods and other supplies. There were two folding cots, each with three new blankets stacked on it. Between them was a large kerosene stove.
Not bad, thought Hooper, considering that it’s only a four-month stretch that we must hibernate.
The door slammed behind him and he turned to see Madigan putting their luggage on the floor. “Get the binoculars out of the glove compartment, will you, Sam,” the younger man said. “If we leave them out there the lenses will freeze.”
“Sure, kid. Then let’s get a fire going and warm the place up, what say?”
Madigan smiled. “Good deal.”
Hooper went back outside and waded the snow over to the car. Opening the door, he reached inside and got the glasses. Have to get this car around back and get it up on blocks someway, he thought. Got to be sure and start it every day, too, so it won’t freeze up. He closed the car door and made his way back to the cabin. There was a thermometer nailed to the wall just outside the door. Hooper saw it was only fifteen above zero. He shivered and pushed through the door.
Just as he stepped inside, Hooper felt the muzzle of the shotgun jab into his back. He stiffened and held his hands very still.
“That’s the ticket, Sam,” said Madigan evenly. “Don’t even think about moving.” He reached around under Hooper’s coat and lifted the .38 from Sam’s shoulder holster. “Okay, Sam,” he said, pushing him away, “go on over there and sit down at the table and keep still so I don’t have to blast you.”
Hooper sat down, feeling the hardness of the little automatic in his hip pocket, very glad now that he had never mentioned to Madigan that he carried his ‘kicker’, his ‘hole card’. He stared coldly across the room at Madigan. “Double-crossing me, kid?” he asked in a measured tone.
“That’s it, Sam,” Madigan said, smiling.
“So you lied to me,” Hooper accused quietly. “You said there was no way out of here until spring.”
“I said there was no way with the car, Sam,” Madigan corrected. The younger man picked up the sack of money and emptied it on the floor. Kneeling down, watching Hooper closely, he used one hand to stuff the currency into a knapsack. When it was packed, he slipped his arms through the shoulder straps, switching the shotgun from one hand to the other as he did so.
“What are you gonna do, hike down?” Hooper asked sarcastically.
“Little too cold for that, Sam,” said Madigan lightly. He backed over to one of the cots and pushed the blankets off onto the floor. Beneath them lay a pair of shiny skis and matching ski poles.
“So that’s it,” said Hooper. “You’re gonna ski down. A regular all-American boy, aren’t you? Don’t you think the law will be waiting for you when you get back down there?”
Madigan was kneeling on the other side of the cabin again, lacing on heavy ski shoes. He continued to watch Hooper closely, the shotgun lying only inches from his hands.
“I’m not going that way,” he told Hooper. “I’m going down the other side. There’s a ski lodge down there. By tonight there’ll be busloads of skiers up here. Nobody’ll notice one more.” He stood up, gathered his skis and poles under one arm and leveled the shotgun on Hooper. “Outside, Sam,” he ordered.
Hooper went back out into the cold, Madigan following him.
“Just stand over there by the door where I can keep an eye on you,” said Madigan as he moved a few yards away from the cabin. Hooper watched while the younger man laid his skis in position on the level snow and knelt between them, cradling the shotgun first on one knee, then the other, while he fitted the skis onto his shoes. Then he stood up and held the shotgun loosely under one arm.
“You gonna kill me, kid?” Hooper asked, tensing himself for a drop to the ground to try and get the .25 out before Madigan could get him with a load of buckshot.
“What for, Sam?” Madigan said easily. “You never did anything to me.”
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll come after you in the spring, when I get out of here?”
Madigan laughed. “Go ahead, Sam,” he said simply.
Hooper frowned as suspicion flooded his mind. It doesn’t figure, he told himself. The first rule in pulling a double-cross is to make sure the guy you cross won’t ever be able to get even. It’s a trick, he decided. He’s trying to get me off guard for some reason.
“I’ve got to cut out if I’m gonna make the ski lodge by dark,” Madigan said. “You just go on back in the cabin, Sam, and stay put until I get gone. And don’t try following me if you’ve got any sense; you’d never make it on foot. Understand?”
Hooper nodded.
“So long, Sam.”
Hooper backed slowly toward the door, still expecting Madigan to raise the shotgun at any second. But the younger man made no attempt to fire; he just stood waiting while Hooper backed all the way into the cabin and quickly shut the door.
Watching through the window, Hooper saw Madigan swing first one, then the other ski around and move off slowly toward the first slope that would take him down the other side of the mountain. Hooper wet his lips and took out the little .25 automatic, snapping the safety off. He looked back out and decided that Madigan was now about a hundred yards away; too far to chance accuracy with the small bore weapon he had. Got to get closer to him, he thought anxiously.
He hurried to the rear of the cabin and climbed out the back window, dropping nearly waist-deep into a drift. Moving through the snow to the corner, he peered around and saw Madigan still moving smartly along on his skis, now about two hundred yards away. Hooper thought quickly and bolted from behind the cabin, running in a crouch until he reached the line of trees edging the clearing. The snow was not so deep under the trees and Hooper was able to move faster. He began to run through the trees, staying back under their protective covering. He ran until his chest was heaving from the thin air that failed to satisfy his lungs; then he had to rest. He slowed to a walk and moved back toward the clearing. Looking out from behind a tree, he saw Madigan still about fifty yards ahead of him. He leaned up against the tree and counted slowly to thirty, then moved back under cover and started running again.
He ran until he judged himself to be ahead of Madigan, then slowed down and crept quietly back to the edge of the clearing. Madigan was just approaching the place where Hooper stood concealed. They were both almost to the edge of the slope now.
Hooper waited until Madigan went by, then stepped out behind him, the gun leveled. “Hold it, kid!” he said sharply.
Madigan tried to whirl around and raise the shotgun but he got his legs tangled in the skis and his arms in the ski poles, and he dropped the weapon and stumbled into a snowdrift helplessly.
Hooper stood over him laughing, the .25 aimed at his chest. “Outsmarted yourself, didn’t you, punk?”
“Don’t shoot me, Sam!” Madigan begged.
“I’m not,” Hooper told him. “I don’t want somebody finding you with a bullet in you and wondering how you got it. No, I’m going to take care of you in a different way, punk.”