line.
His lungs tried to draw breath in great noisy gulps, but he forced
himself to breathe slowly, easily, rhythmically, quietly.
He wanted to rub his hands and arms, which stung from firing the shotgun
so rapidly and from such unusual positions. But he rubbed nothing, just
endured, knowing the stinging and numbness would subside unattended.
After a while, he heard them talking back there, and then he heard a
door open.
“Damn it, Peake, come on!” Sharp said.
Footsteps.
Ben turned his head to the right, looking out from beneath the station
wagon. He saw Sharp’s black Freeman wing tips appear beside the car.
Ben owned a pair just like them. These were scuffed, and several spiky
burrs clung to the laces.
k On the left, no shoes appeared.
“Now, Peake!” Sharp said in a hoarse whisper that was as good as a
shout.
Another door opened back there, followed by hesitant footsteps, and then
shoes came into view at the left side of the station wagon as well.
Peake’s cheaper black oxfords were in even worse shape than Anson
Sharp’s shoes, mud was smeared over the tops of them and caked along the
soles and heels, and there were twice as many burrs clinging to his
laces.
The two men stood on opposite sides of the station wagon, neither of
them speaking, just listening and looking.
Ben had the crazy idea that they would hear his pounding heart, for to
him it sounded like a timpani.
“Might be ahead, between two of these cars, waiting to sandbag us,”
Peake whispered.
“He’s gone back into the woods,” Sharp said in a voice as soft as
Peake’s, but with scorn. “Prnbabl,y, watching us from cover right now,
trying not to laugh.
The smooth, fist-sized rock that Ben had tucked inside his shin was
pressing into his belly, but he did not shift his position for fear the
slightest sound would give him away.
Finally Sharp and Peake moved together, paralleling each other, stepping
out of sight. They were probably looking warily into all the cars and
between them.
But they were not likely to get down on their knees and look underneath,
because it was insane of Ben to hide there, flat on his belly, nearly
helpless, with no quick way out, where he could be shot as easily as the
proverbial fish in the barrel. If his risk paid off, he would throw
them off his trail, send them sniffing in the wrong direction, and have
a chance to boost one of these cars. However, if they thought he was
dumb enoughr clever enough-to hide under the station wagon, he was a
dead man.
Ben prayed that the owner of the wagon would not return at this
inopportune moment and drive the heap away, leaving him exposed.
Sharp and Peake reached the front of the line of vehicles and, having
found no enemy, returned, still walking on opposite sides of the cars.
They spoke a bit louder now.
“You said he’d never shoot at us,” Peake remarked sourly.
“He didn’t.”
“He shot at me, sure enough,” Peake said, his voice rising.
“He shot at the car.”
“What’s the difference? We were in the car.”
They stopped beside the station wagon once more.
Ben looked left and right at their shoes, hoping he would not have to
sneeze, cough, or fart.
Sharp said, “He shot at the tires. You see? No point Thsabling our
transportation if he was going to kill us.”
“He shot out the windshield,” Peake said.
“Yeah, but we were staying down, out of the way, and he knew he wouldn’t
hit us. I tell you, he’s a damn pussy, a prissy moralist, sees himself
as the guy in the white hat. He’d shoot at us only if he had no choice,
and he’d never shoot at us first. We’ll have to start the action.
Listen, Peake, if he’d wanted to kill us, he could have poked the barrel
of that piece through either one of our side windows, could’ve taken us
both out in two seconds flat. Think about it.”
They were both silent.
Peake was probably thinking about it.
Ben wondered what Sharp was thinking. He hoped Sharp wasn’t thinking