He tucked his glasses away, working back through the train car after car. Varden could have gotten off at Dixon, fifty miles back. Groaning aloud at his stupidity, he made his way through the last car, fumbling at the door leading out onto the observation platform.
Wind and cinders swirled into his face. He struggled outside, closing the door after him, turned, grabbing at his hat.
It was that unforseen, instinctive act that, saved him. The descending blackjack smashed against his wrist instead of his skull.
He threw out his arms, grappling wildly. He saw Varden’s eyes, black slits, staring between small mounds of puffy flesh. Varden had wedged his hat down over his ears to keep it from blowing away. His full, red lips beneath the eye-brow mustache drew back in maniacal fury. “You interfering pup!” He lunged, one knee ramming Lark’s stomach. The blackjack cut down viciously once more.
Lark had him by one arm, whirling him around. They crashed into the railing, momentum carrying them half over. He tried to tear at Varden’s face, but one hand was pinned, his spine grating against the brass. He felt a hand gripping his ankle, lifting. Varden’s mouth was wide open as he strained, finding the purchase he needed.
“You won’t get the redhead now, Anderson!” The man braced himself — heaved...
A sickening sense of flying off. Then something like a thousand tons of dirt fell on Lark’s body. He was in a gigantic cement mixer, rolling over and over with white hot, blazing lights shattering to bits inside his skull. Varden had won, he kept telling himself. Varden had won so easily...
And then, just as suddenly, he was staring at a hot, blue sky with a hawk floating on outstretched wings. No sound — just floating. And then there was sound — the distant grind of a receding train!
He sat up, fell back weakly, and sat up again. A high, grassy slope led up toward the tracks. There was a long, level stretch of weeds before that slope began — a matted path leading straight to him.
He shivered. How a man could live and hurtle eighty or ninety feet from a speeding train?
A figure was running toward him. A short, rotund individual, hat in hand, eyes wide and staring. He came from the direction of a highway where a car was drawn up. The man leaped a log, veered around a boulder, and stopped, horrified, as Lark staggered upright.
“You... you alive?”
“I’m able to navigate,” Lark said, “if you’ll give me a lift.” Only he didn’t say it all at one time. He spat out a tooth, and said it in easy stages.
“I saw you fall off the rear of that train! It’s a miracle!”
Lark felt blood running down his wrist. He took a few experimental steps, fumbled for his handkerchief, touched it to the right side of his face. It came away red. His glasses were ground to bits in an inner pocket.
“Here!” The man took hold of him gingerly. “Let me get you in the car. I’ll take you to Deerfield to a doctor. I never saw such a thing in my life. I almost drove off the road!”
Lark gritted his teeth as a leg buckled, but he kept moving. The knee began to loosen up by the time he crawled into the front seat of the car. His eyes — that was the miracle. No hard blows, Mac had said. But somehow Lark could still see.
The salesman drove fast, casting anxious glances. “Don’t pass out on me, mister.”
“I’m okay. Does that train stop in Deerfield?”
“I think it takes on water there. You better rest — not talk.”
“Could you catch that train?” Lark asked grimly.
The other looked at him blankly. “I’m doing seventy now. You’ve got to get to a doctor. How did you ever fall off that observation car? I saw someone trying to help you.”
Lark smiled grimly, reached for his wallet and discovered his coat was minus a sleeve, but the wallet was intact. He took out two twenties. “Here. Put this crate into high gear, will you? What’s your name?”
“Jones.” The other shook his head, pushing harder on the gas. “I don’t want your money.”
Lark sat back, staring at the road. “I’ll remember you for the rest of my life, Jones. You’re okay.”
Chapter Three
Too Many Brides
They rolled to a stop in the public square. Deerfield seemed lively enough, overflowing with farmers at the noon hour. Trucks lined the curb. A small depot was plainly visible, squatting beside the double line of tracks, but there was no sign of the train.
“I’ll help you find a doctor,” Jones offered.
“Never mind. A druggist will do. And — thanks.” He climbed out, limping off with a wave of his hand, leaving Jones with his mouth open.
His coat he left on a bench. A friendly prescription clerk took him in hand, rendering first aid on several deep cuts. The drugstore smelled of soap and anticeptic. He bought new glasses, ordered a coke, found out that the town contained two hotels. He drew a blank at the Emporia, went directly across the street to the Alcazar and hit the jackpot.
The diminutive bell-hop sized him up from shrewd blue eyes and grinned crookedly. “A guy wearing gray? I might a seen him.”
Lark parted with five dollars.
“I saw him.” The blue eyes brightened. “I took his grip up to 24 on the second floor. He registered about a half hour ago. His name’s Simpson. I don’t know where he is now. He left.”
“Been here before?”
“Lemme see... Yeah. Last month, about this same time. You a dick or something?”
“Uh-uh. Salesman. He’s been cutting in on my prospects. Don’t tip him off that I’m wise.” Lark wadded another five into the other’s hand, getting a sharp salute in return, and a wink.
On the way out of the lobby he drifted past the desk. The last name on the fly-specked registry book was in a bold scrawl. A. T. Simpson, Buffalo, N. Y.
A clerk without any teeth started ambling toward him. Lark waved cheerily and walked out.
He bought a hat, shirt, sport-coat and a cheap grip. Back at the Emporia he took a room on the second floor front, ordered beer, and settled down to watch the entrance across the street. The sun was blistering, curtains rustling in the steamy breeze. This was a better hotel than the Alcazar. He thought with longing of the cool cocktail lounge downstairs just off the lobby, and here he was, aching in every joint, plastered grimly in a rocking chair with shirt and tie hanging on a bedpost!
He put a long distance call through to Jeri, propped the dresser mirror just right so he could recline on the bed and still see across the street, and waited, chain-smoking one cigarette after another. The phone failed to ring. The fan on the small table droned monotonously. He nodded, jerked upright.
At 5 p.m. he finally got connected with someone or other, probably a maid, who informed him that Mrs. Varden had gone out, and would he care to leave a message? He hung up, feeling a bit easier. Then he called the room clerk and ordered his dinner sent up.
Darkness found him still waiting. Ten p.m. Varden could have pulled the oldest gag in the world; simply gone on his way, leaving his grip in an empty room. He might be hundreds of miles away by now. But then again — he might walk into sight any moment. Doggedly, Lark determined to stick it out...
He woke up at eight a.m. the following morning, still in the rocking chair, a bunch of painful knots cramping his lean body. What a hell of a flop he was! He staggered stiffly, getting into his new shirt, hobbled down the stairs as fast as he could make it, jolting through the lobby out into the sunlit street. It gave promise of being another sizzling day.
He dodged between traffic and eased into the Alcazar. A blast of sluggish air met him head on. There was no one behind the desk; only one man seated in the lobby buried behind a newspaper. The key of room 24 was in the box. Moving fast, he walked behind the desk, plucked up the key and continued casually, mounting the stairs.