The man was saying, “Oh, my beauties, my pets. Ah, my poor beauties. Six, seven of them, gone, gone.”
From the east a motorcycle came into view, its engine audible over the bleating of the surviving sheep, which were milling about in terror, filling the road. The motorcycle screeched to a stop. A rural policeman, his uniform a rich forest green, the visor of his cap shining brilliantly, stepped down from the cycle.
And far off to the west she heard, or thought she heard, the engines of approaching cars. Farrell and the Koenigs, coming their way.
Seventeen
The policeman was very understanding, very sympathetic, and very efficient. He comforted the shepherd, who had by now become somewhat more resigned to the fate of the unfortunate animals. And he spoke easily to David, first reminding him of the dangers of driving too fast over unfamiliar roads, then explaining that since they were tourists in a strange land, and since the government of the Republic of Ireland wished to make life as simple as possible for tourists, they might resolve the affair with a minimum of red tape.
“I’ll need a look at your driving licenses and vehicular registration,” he said. “And your passports, too, if you’ve them with you. And then if Mr. Mahoney can estimate the value of the slain animals, and if the sum’s one you won’t object to paying out of pocket, then we’ll be after fixing this up with no trouble. There’s a garage in the next town over that can make repairs to your auto. I see it’s an Irish registration — is it a rented car? For perhaps you can call the rental agency and they’ll arrange another car for you, though you’ll no doubt be staying overnight. You needn’t worry about the car, they all carry insurance on them...”
But they had a great deal to worry about. They did not have registration papers for the automobile, nor did they have enough money to pay for the sheep. How much, she wondered, was a sheep worth? What was adequate compensation for a half dozen dumb animals torn to pieces by a car?
She shuddered. Their car was crippled, immobile. A policeman had them at hand and would not allow them to escape. And a car was after them, one car and probably two, and with every passing second their lead was being reduced. At any moment the large American car might come into view. She knew what would happen then. The policeman would be no protection for them. Koenig’s first shots would fell the sturdy garda in his tracks. Another bullet would leave the heartsick shepherd as dead as his lamented sheep. And other bullets would tear into her and David.
David was saying, “You’d better get your purse, dear. You have the registration papers.”
“But I don’t—”
His eyes locked with hers; one closed briefly in a conspiratorial wink. “The papers,” he said. “In your purse.”
He wanted her to get her purse from the car. But why? She didn’t bother searching for an answer to the question. There was no time. Cars in the distance, behind them — yes, it would be Koenig, Koenig and Farrell, and they would come hurtling round the curve...
She opened the door on the passenger side of the car and picked up her purse from the seat. David was talking to the policeman. She could not hear what they were saying. Her eyes took in the entire scene. The shepherd and his dogs leading the last of the frightened sheep over to the side of the road and through the gap in the fence to the field beyond. The policeman talking with David. The motorcycle, resting on its standard, neat and trim and efficient in appearance as the man who rode it. And the bodies of the seven dead sheep, all white wool and red blood.
When she approached the men, her purse in her hand, David looked at her. “Mr. Mahoney says that he’ll be satisfied with seven pounds ten each for the sheep, Ellen. There were seven of them, so that comes to, let me see, fifty-two pounds and ten, which is what? Fifty pounds is one hundred forty dollars, plus two pounds is another five-sixty, and ten shillings is a dollar-forty. That comes to what?”
The policeman shook his head.
David said, “One hundred forty-seven dollars, so if you’ll give Mr. Mahoney an even hundred and fifty that should be good all around. And we’ll need the registration papers for the car. Check your purse and see if you can find everything, if you’re not too nervous.”
Bewildered, she made a show of opening her purse and checking its contents. The pistol, which she had momentarily forgotten, lay wickedly in her purse. Was that what he wanted?
“Having trouble, dear?”
The cars were coming closer; she could hear them clearly now, two of them, with the powerful rumble characteristic of American engines and instantly identifiable on a quiet Irish lane. “See if you can find everything, if you’re not too nervous,” he had said. Was that her cue? And he was walking to her side now to join her....
She raised her head apologetically. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “but I’m such a muddle, I can’t see straight. I’m so shaken. David, will you look for me?”
He took the purse from her. The shepherd, anxious now to be paid for his dead sheep, was at David’s side. In a flash David had an arm around the little old man. His free hand held the gun pointed at the policeman.
“Nobody move,” he snapped. To the garda he said, “Raise your hands and keep them high. Don’t make a move.”
“You’re after making a mistake, lad,” the garda said. “You’ll save fifty pounds and buy a world of trouble. Put the gun down.”
“Ellen, move over by the motorcycle.”
“First be thinking, girl.”
“Ellen—”
The cars. She went to the motorcycle.
David released the shepherd and told him to run off with his sheep. The man was plainly terrified.
David waved the gun at him. “Run!”
The shepherd ran.
David said, “There’s no time. You — get over by the side of the road. Stand out of the way. Ellen, keep this pointed at him.” She took the gun and aimed it at the policeman, knowing that she could do nothing if he tried to take it away from her, that she could not bring herself to shoot him in a million years. It was all bluff — but as long as the policeman didn’t know it was bluff, it didn’t matter.
And the policeman wasn’t sure enough to make his move. He stood at the roadside, his hands in the air, waiting.
Ellen was terrified, and she was ashamed of what she and David had to do, but she was at this moment grateful that policemen in Ireland, like those in England, carried no guns.
David was astride the cycle. He kicked off the stand, got the engine started. “Give me the gun.” She gave it to him, and he jammed it down beneath the waistband of his trousers. “Now get on behind me. Lock your arms around my waist. And take hold of the purse, you’ve got to hang on to it, because I have to drive. Hold on as tight as you can....”
The cars. She heard the lead auto now, Koenig’s, coming around the bend. She heard the squeal of brakes as the heavy car pulled to a jolting stop inches from the torn bodies of the dead sheep.
Then the motorcycle leaped forward, shaking and bucking like an unbroken stallion, and she held on to David for dear life.
Eighteen
It was a shaking, bone-jolting ride. The motorcycle’s top speed was slightly higher than that of the Triumph but seemed to Ellen at least three times as fast. She rode with her arms locked tightly around David’s middle and her face pressed up against the back of his bulky sweater. The wind, cold and rain-laden, played furiously with her hair. Rain was everywhere, soaking into her clothes and wetting her to the skin, splashing up at her from puddles in the road.