Snowball in Hell - lanyon Josh (читать книги без TXT) 📗

«Shut up, you!»

«I knew a guy died from getting hit on the head just like that. Walked around talking and played a hand of cards and then went to sleep and never woke up. Mike Murphy. Used to run with-«

«He's just playing possum,» Lawdie said. He bent over the cot, breathing heavily. Nathan continued to breathe slowly and evenly.

Lawdie slapped him.

He'd pretty well figured that was coming. Nathan groaned and fluttered his eyelashes, then curled over on his side and pretended to go back to sleep.

«Yep,» Hammer said with grim satisfaction. «Just like Mike Murphy. Scrawny little guy like that can't take it. Probably got pneumonia too. I told you. The boss didn't want him killed.»

«Will you shut your goddamned mouth up?» Lawdie cried. «He ain't dead. His breathing's fine.»

«Look how white his feet are.»

«You look at his feet! I'm going to hike up to the hotel.»

«You're not going to leave me with a stiff!»

«He's still breathing, fer crissake! I'll call the boss and see how long we got to hang on to this geezer.»

«What's happening with the car?»

«How the hell should I know? I been sitting here with you. I'll find out once I'm up there.»

«We got to get outta here before this guy croaks.»

«You're planning to walk back to Los Angeles? Just stay here and watch him. I'll be back in an hour.»

They continued to bicker back and forth for a time, and then finally Lawdie took himself out, the door opening and slamming shut on a gust of frosty air. Nathan couldn't help the shudder that rippled through his body.

His feet felt like ice. His body felt flushed and feverish. Another shiver shook him.

A few minutes passed. Hammer shuffled and cut cards. Then he muttered, «Christ. Leave me here with a croaker.»

Nathan heard the scrape of a chair, footsteps, and Hammer bent over the bed. He touched Nathan's left eye– apparently planning to check his pupils-and Nathan bounded up, head-butting him.

Half-stunned, Hammer crashed back on his tailbone, and Nathan sprang on him. He delivered a couple of fast efficient chops to Hammer's head, and the big man sagged back and lay still.

Staggering to his feet, Nathan searched quickly for his shoes, but was unable to find them anywhere. He sat down for a minute on the chair, feeling sick and faint. His head had hurt like hell before he tried head-butting that moose. He straightened up, eyeing Hammer warily, picked up a chair and approached him.

The big man was breathing in stentorian tones. Nathan nudged him, and his head lolled. Nathan knelt, patting him

over and finding his gun, a big old Colt .45, which he appropriated. He scooted around, keeping the Colt trained on Hammer, using his free hand to slip his shoes off, one at a time, and put them on his own feet. They were too big, but they were better than nothing.

He went to the window and stared out. Dusk or dawn? Either way there was no sign of Lawdie in the blur of shadows from the close clustered pines. He checked his watch. Six-thirty. It was either early in the morning or the evening of the following day. He figured it was morning.

Easing open the cabin door, he listened. The wind through the pines made a sound like rushing water. The air was cold and clear. Frost powdered the ground. He stepped outside, shutting the door, and sprinted for the shelter of the trees.

He had no idea where he was, but heading back to the hotel seemed like the only option. He couldn't walk all the way to Indian Falls, and Spain and his boys must surely be at the hotel by now.

Hopefully Pearl was in custody already, and Lawdie would have an unpleasant surprise waiting for him when he arrived.

Sticking to the shelter of trees and bushes, Nathan followed the dirt track that led from the cabin to-he hoped– the main highway. He moved quietly and carefully. Lawdie didn't have much of a head start, and Nathan didn't want to run into him.

Every so often he paused and listened. Every sound in the pristine silence was as loud as a shot. Some distance ahead he heard a scrabble of stones or the snap of a twig. That would be Lawdie, he knew.

A bush smacked him across the face and he had to stop. The pain in his head was getting worse. He dropped to his knees, and quietly threw up at the base of a pine tree. He felt a little better then, and, grabbing for the tree trunk, he pulled himself back to his feet. He rested for a moment, listening, trying to place Lawdie ahead of him.

It was getting lighter now.

He walked on and the road opened up onto the highway. A deer stood on the opposite side of the road, motionless.

Nathan bent over, bracing his hands on his thighs and tried to catch his breath. His side throbbed. He had no idea which way to walk. Nothing indicated the direction in which the lodge lay.

The deer crossed the road, hooves clopping, passed Nathan close enough to brush him, and then suddenly sprang away into the darkness.

From down the road Nathan spotted a pair of headlights.

Christ. Did he take a chance on this? Lawdie and Hammer had at least one ally at the lodge, and it wasn't necessarily Pearl. With their own car out of commission, someone had given them a lift to the cabin in the woods. He didn't believe they had carried him to it, and someone had to have provided the cabin in the first place.

The car was speeding toward him, headlights sweeping the darkness. A solid black Buick bearing down fast.

Nathan stepped out from cover, and raised his hands.

Tires and pads squealing, the car braked sharply, swerved, corrected, and skidded to a halt a few yards ahead of him.

Nathan walked toward it slowly. The front passenger door opened and Lt. Mathew Spain stepped out.

«Well, that was a hell of a chance,» he said.

Someone turned a powerful flashlight on Nathan as he shuffled in his oversize shoes towards the car. «Who dares, wins,» he quoted breathlessly.

«What the hell happened to you?» Spain was peering at him in the white glare of the flashlight. «You're bleeding.»

Nathan touched a hand to the top of his head. Gummy. He spared a glance for his fingers. That was blood all right. «It's a long story.» He reached Spain, who had walked a few steps to meet him, and a weird thing happened. His knees gave out and he buckled.

Spain grabbed him, two powerful hands closing on Nathan's biceps. Nathan leaned into Spain's broad chest and closed his eyes.

* * * *

The next time he came around someone's hands were on him, trying to pull his clothes off, and he made himself start fighting. It wasn't much of a fight, struggling as he was against the extreme lassitude that gripped him, but he made the effort anyway, and a deep, unexpected voice said, «Take it easy, Doyle. We're trying to help you.»

His hands were forced to his chest by someone a lot stronger than he was at the moment, and he opened his eyes against a painfully bright light.

Bewilderingly, he was lying in a room with pink flowered wallpaper, and two men were leaning over him, holding him

onto a bed. One was a big, rawboned man with a shock of iron-gray hair reminding him painfully of Sergeant Yorkie, who had bought it at El Alamein. The other man was Lt. Mathew Spain.

Spain was watching him with those amber-brown eyes– and Spain's big warm hands were covering his own, holding them still.

Nathan mumbled, «What the hell…?»

Spain nodded to the other man, and they let go of him.

«You pack a wallop for a skinny guy,» the older man said ruefully, rubbing his jaw. Nathan blinked at him, tried to sit up, but it wasn't going well, so it was kind of a relief when Spain pushed him flat again.

«Just relax,» Spain said. «You're okay. We're at the lodge. There's a doctor staying here and he says you're supposed to take it easy. You've got concussion.»