No one was on the road but ourselves.
Though it was only four o’clock in the afternoon, the leaden sky closed in a little more, and David turned on the headlights. The sudden beam revealed a railroad cross-arm, quite near, and David braked a little, looked right and left, and picked up again. But the crossing was in disrepair, and we banged and bucked across the tracks with a considerable jolt.
The young man lurched out of his sleep shouting, “What’s the matter with you! Can’t you drive? I’d kill a man for less than that.”
Without turning my head I felt David stiffen, and my own pulse began to pound. When you’ve been married for a number of years, things need less and less to be put into words; I centered in to what was, and probably had been for quite some time, in his mind.
The morning paper, delivered with our coffee at the hotel, had carried screaming headlines about the particularly brutal murder of a service station attendant. The garage boy had identified the single gunman from pictures, so that the police knew who it was they were looking for. The man had fled in a stolen car, with a considerable amount of stolen money, and had not, so far, been apprehended. The article had ended, “The bandit is about twenty-two, has light hair, blue eyes, and is dressed in grey trousers and a black leather jacket.”
I said to myself in dismay, “But that was in South Dakota. We’re in North Dakota.” With a chill on my spine I realized that we too had been in South Dakota in the morning. Moreover the car in the ditch had carried a South Dakota license plate. Anybody in a car could have covered the distance with ease.
“Sorry,” David said easily, even though a little late. And then, “But that sounds a rather severe penalty for giving a boy a jolt.”
The young man said nothing, and subsided into resentful silence. After a while his head drooped, and he was asleep again.
I looked back three times to be sure his sleep was real before I turned to David, put my hand on his knee, and gave him a look of inquiry. He leaned over to look at the young man in the rear-view mirror, then pursed his lips in gesture of “Sh!”, nodded his head and squeezed my hand.
That was all I wanted to know. He was aware of everything and he had a plan.
I sat back and sighed. The poor young man! He didn’t know what he was in for. Though David is a round-faced, mild-appearing middle-aged man, a little too soft and too corpulent to have muscles to match those the youth could display, and though his hair is greying and his eyes are gentle, and though he may look altogether like a benevolent school-master, he has other and sterner qualities which are not so readily apparent.
As we drove along in silence I tried to turn my diamond ring under my glove, so that the stone would not make a bulge. It was impossible.
Then I began to notice that every time we passed one of the infrequent, isolated farmhouses, David slowed the ear almost imperceptibly and looked toward it thoughtfully. After each scrutiny he gradually picked up speed again.
When it was almost too dark to see, another farmhouse loomed out of the dusk on our left and David slowed, observed it critically, and turned quickly to enter the yard.
The wary young man woke immediately, lurched forward, and leaned between us over the back of our seat. “What’s the idea? Why you stopping?”
David halted the car a little away from the house, turned off the motor, and swung ’round to face him.
“Boy,” he said, “it strikes me you are a bit jumpy. I don’t know whether your car has a radio, or whether you listened to it, but there is a blizzard brewing west of here. If it is coming fast, we take shelter; if not, we go on to Winnipeg. I’m going in here to find out what the weather reports are.” He opened the door and stepped out.
The boy still sat forward, suspicious, poised lightly for instant motion. He blurted, “You got a radio. Whyn’t you listen to that?”
With a gesture of exasperated severity David leaned in and turned on the radio knob. We waited for a moment, the boy listening intently. Nothing happened.
“Does that make it clear?” David asked sharply.
“Yeah.” And a look of cunning satisfaction came into his eyes. I suppose he thought that if we didn’t know about the weather, we were ignorant of other news as well.
“And if you don’t like the way I conduct things,” David was going on, “you can step out of my car and be on your way.”
He didn’t move.
I watched David as he went to the door and knocked, his hat in his hand. A matronly farm wife appeared. The young man put down his window in order to hear.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but our car radio doesn’t work. Do you have a report on the state of the blizzard? We’re hoping to get to Winnipeg.”
Since the changing weather is a matter of life and death in a North Dakota winter, the woman did what anybody there would do. She unhooked the storm door and swung it open, invited David in, and said she would turn on the radio to get the last report.
My heart beat wildly at the thought that David would leave me in the car alone with this creature. Then my glance dropped to the ignition, and I saw that there was no key. I would not permit myself to turn toward the young man, but I had a prickly sensation at the back of my neck that made me suspect that his hard little blue eyes were focused on the same spot. Not a word passed between the two of us until David emerged, thanking the farmer’s wife.
When he was at the bottom of the porch steps she called after him, “Have you had your dinner yet? There won’t be anything fit to eat between here and Winnipeg.”
David hesitated. “Well, no, we haven’t. But if we roll right along we’ll be in Winnipeg before too late.”
The woman shook her head. “Nine o’clock, if the storm doesn’t veer suddenly and catch you. In this country we never go anywhere in blizzard weather without a full gas tank and a full stomach. Bring your family in, and I’ll give you a ham sandwich and a glass of milk to tide you over.” She looked toward the car and beckoned, smiling. “Come in,” she called. “The storm is not moving fast. I’ll make you some coffee.”
David turned to me questioningly.
I remembered that we had been looking, admittedly with a minimum of expectancy, for a place to get a snack at the time we picked up our passenger. I knew that David was hungry.
I called back, “Thank you,” and opened my door.
“Come along,” I said to the boy. “A little food will do us all good.”
He hesitated, obviously tortured between suspicion and a gnawing stomach.
“Come on,” I repeated. “And put your window up to keep the car warm while we’re inside.”
He sat for a moment more. Then he put up the window and came.
As we were almost at the steps the farmer himself came around the corner of the house. He was a heavy man, grey-haired and past middle age. He wore a parka, high, thick boots, and a fur cap with the ear flaps turned down.
“Lars,” his wife said, still holding open the screen door, “these people are going on to Winnipeg, and I’ve invited them in for a sandwich.”
The farmer stepped forward, slipped off his right glove and stretched out his hand. “Hansen,” he said heartily. “We’re pleased to have you.” Then to his wife, “Go along, Clara, and start the coffee. I’ll take care of them.” She went.
“We’re the O’Neills,” David said. “You’re more than kind.”
“We get to talk to so few strangers in these parts, it’s a pleasure. They go by at seventy miles an hour and all we see of them is their tail lights. I’ve finished feeding the cows and my chores are done, so I can enjoy you. Come in, come in.
As we went up the steps Mr. Hansen put his arm over the boy s shoulder. “Well, young O’Neill, he said, “I’ve got two sons about your age.”