The shoes were growing heavier; they were like anchors on his feet. With every kick they dragged and sank a little more. He had been near to drowning twice in his life, and he knew the sensation, the unreasoning fear of water that begins to blot out everything and ends in blind and threshing panic. He fought it off grimly. The shore couldn’t be far now. He had to breathe again. His head came clear at last, with a terrible effort, and he gasped. He floundered helplessly on the surface for a moment before he could force himself to submerge again, and this time he heard the bullet’s whupp! And its lethal snarl as it went on.
He had to get back to the surface and its life-giving air. Terror was beginning to drive him up. Better to let the man try with his gun than to strangle here in this endless murky water. His arms and legs were growing weaker and trying to curl inward against him with the cramps of utter exhaustion. He struggled, biting his teeth together savagely to keep from gasping as his feet settled lower and lower. Then he felt his arms and face plow into brush. He felt nothing except the insubstantial and terrifying rake of limbs, and when he tried to raise his head there was something across his neck. He was trapped. He gulped, strangled, and began to black out.
In the dark mist of dying he felt himself threshing futilely against entangling brush and against the endless water. Somehow there was the noise of a gun mixed up in it, and splashing, and strange soft arms about his throat, and a voice pleading.
“Don’t fall. Please, please, please, don’t fall!”
Twelve
Somehow his feet were under him. He had no strength, and lunged forward and fell, choking on the water he had swallowed. He felt hands tugging at him, and heard the same imploring voice at his ear, urging him on. He was up again, clawing at the bank. Something came out of nowhere and slammed into the damp soil, exploding it in a shower all about him. Then he was over the bank. He stumbled and fell again, dimly conscious that somebody else was at his side and falling with him.
He lay for a moment, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed for breath. He opened his eyes and the wildness and the dark mist were going away. His face was against cloth and warmth, and when he turned his head wonderingly he was looking into frightened and anxious brown eyes very close to his own. She had fallen on her side, with his head held against her.
“Are you all right?” she gasped.
He turned and stared incredulously in the other direction. The far shore was invisible beyond the screen of foliage protecting them, but he could see projecting out into the water the old windfall in which he had been entangled. Patricia Lasater had gone out there and pulled him free while the man shot at them.
He sat up and tried to get to his feet. He was still too weak, and his legs were rubbery.
“Are you sure you’re all right? She asked again.
“Yes,” he said. “You haven’t got a gun, have you?” He was vaguely conscious that this was a stupid question to ask.
“No.” She stood up. Her white blouse and the brief shorts were soaked and there was a scratch on one of her legs just above the knee. She caught his arm as he stood up. “This way,” she said breathlessly, pointing down the channel. “Run. I heard a boat—up there.”
The roaring was going out of his head now and he was beginning to think again. He knew what she meant. The other man had crossed over and would be coming down this side with his rifle.
She ran swiftly, and at first he had difficulty keeping up. In a moment he began to get his breath back and came up alongside her, helping her with a hand on her arm. Now and then he looked back over his shoulder as they raced through the timber.
She began to tire. She stumbled once and would have fallen, but he caught her. They stopped at last and sank to the ground in a mass of ferns while they sobbed for breath.
“It’s—not much farther,” she gasped.
“What?”
“My boat. Just below—the bend.”
“The motor on it?”
She nodded, too winded to speak again. Reno came up to his knees and swiftly searched the forest behind them. There was no movement. A jay sat on a limb above them and scolded raucously. Stool pigeon, he thought grimly. Time to move.
“Can you make it now?” he asked gently.
She merely nodded, and started pulling herself up. He helped her. The bend of the bayou was off to their left, then behind them as they approached the channel below it. She ran ahead now, searching for the boat.
It was well hidden, tied up under overhanging limbs. “Get in,” he commanded. “And lie down. I’ll handle the motor.”
She started to protest, but after a glance at his face she obeyed. He took one last look; behind them, untied the anchor rope, swung the bow outward, and climbed on the stern. It’d better catch the first time, he thought. They’ll hear it.
The motor coughed. He pulled again; it caught this time and lifted its popping roar above the stillness. They slid out into the channel, turned sharply, and began to gather speed. He pulled the throttle wide, his back feeling icy. They were out in the open now, sitting ducks if either of the men had made it as far as the bend. Seconds dragged by and there was no shot. They rounded the next bend in the channel and he breathed again, the tension running out of him.
She sat up in the middle seat, facing him, and ran an unsteady hand through her dark curls. Noticing how the blouse was plastered against her, she attempted to pull it away, faintly embarrassed. She had mud on one cheek and on her chin, and traces of bayou scum on her forearms. Reno looked briefly at her and then at the channel ahead, wondering when he had seen a girl as mussed—or as beautiful in spite of it. Neither of them said anything. The motor made too much noise.
A mile of twisting waterway fled astern, and then another. They were beyond the last fork now, almost back to the main arm of the bayou and the camp. They were safe. Abruptly, he cut the motor and let the boat drift to a stop in the shade near overhanging trees along the bank. He caught a limb and held it. The bayou stretched out deserted and quiet ahead of them.
She looked at him questioningly.
“We’re all right now,” he said. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“What is that?”
“Thanks.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t trying to be funny. I’m just not very good with words.”
She looked gravely at his face and then away. “Anyone would have done it.”
“Under fire? Those weren’t blanks they were shooting.”
“Yes. I know. But I tried not to think about them.”
After they made this kid, he thought, they threw away the plans and broke up the molds. Even with swamp on her face she looks like something you’d run into in a dream, and she’s got a system about being shot at. Keep busy and don’t think about it.
“Look,” he said at last, “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but how did you happen to be there?”
She studied the bottom of the boat. “Could we call it just luck?”
He felt the sharp stab of disappointment, but waited a moment before answering. When she looked up again and their eyes met, he said, “Yes. I’ll tell you how it is, Pat. After what’s just happened, we call it anything you say.”
“Thank you. In that case, I’ll amend it. It wasn’t all luck.”
“No?”
“No. I was following you.”’
“Why?”
She answered slowly, “I was looking for something.”
“What?”
This time she waited a long time before replying. “I’d rather not say now, if you don’t mind. Not yet, anyway.”