The Transgressors (14 page)

G
us Pellino slowed his car and turned up the trail to the abandoned drilling well. He had set no definite time for picking Donna up. Obviously, he could not have, since there was no way of knowing whether Lord was away from his shack or how long he might be gone. So he had told her simply to wait for him—either in the shack or its vicinity—implying that he would somehow manage to arrive immediately after her mission was accomplished. Actually, he did not intend to return until well after dark.

He hadn’t got a good look at his surroundings last night. He’d been far too busy watching the road and keeping an eye on Lord. Today, however, he’d quickly seen the danger in the terrain; noted the distance that almost any sizable object could be observed. And he knew he must not loiter in the open for long.

He’d gotten all the breaks thus far, passing no one on the road out from town or on his way back to the well. Except for Lord, then, the only person living in the area, no one could have seen his car. And if Lord had seen it from his shack, it didn’t really matter. For the ex-deputy was as good as dead.

Lord would take no decisive action against the girl. Aside from foolish considerations of chivalry, he couldn’t do it, and the fact that he couldn’t was apparent in his flight out here from Big Sands.

Rough up a woman? Stand up to her in a showdown—the widow of the man you’d killed?

Huh-uh. They’d throw the book at you, no matter how right you were or how wrong she was.

Lord’s only chance had been to run away from her, to hide out until she gave up and quit. That hadn’t worked, and now he was a dead man or soon would be.

Pellino parked his car behind the bunkhouse. He got out, yawned and stretched lazily, and looked around him. There wasn’t much to see. Just more of the same, with minor variations, that he’d been seeing.

The land sloped downward gently, clustered with the usual rock outcroppings, cacti, and sagebrush. Then, as the slope sharpened, it became wooded, gnarled blackjack trees thrusting up from the rocky and shallow soil. And finally the trees became so thick as to obscure all else.

Pellino noted the weathered framework of a building, and he shook his head cynically. McBride’s house, or house-to-be. Virtuously, he’d filed itemized reports of his use of company materials—and he’d been docked plenty for them! And now the stupid sap was dead.

How dumb could you get, anyway, Pellino wondered. Why, a smart guy could have knocked down twenty grand a year on the company, and no one would have been the wiser! Just grab a little here and a little there, and you’d have it made. Yet this cluck McBride hadn’t left his widow a pot to toss it out of.

Well…something brushed against Pellino’s cheek and he slapped at it absently…well, to hell with McBride and his widow, too. She’d be as dead as he was before long. She had to be to complete the picture that someone would discover, weeks or perhaps even months from now.

Lord with his tail shot off…the girl beaten to death.

She’d wounded him mortally, he’d injured her fatally. They’d killed each other, see, and the setup was such that they logically could have done that. There wasn’t a chance of a kickback; no more, at any rate, than the ever-present one-in-a-million chance. By the time someone did get around to stopping by the shack—something which no one had any reason to do—it would be impossible to dope out the approximate time of the two deaths. Impossible to say that the girl had died hours later than the man. Or if such was possible, well, what the hell did it prove? They could have died at widely separate times from injuries incurred at about the same time.

Pellino doubled his heavy fists, flexed the bunched muscles of his arms. It would be good to have a little real action again. There was nothing like heavy work for keeping a man in shape. With a dame, of course, you hardly had a chance to get up a sweat. But there were compensations for the dearth of exercise.

After all, there was more than one kind of exercise, just as there was more than one kind of sweating. And no one knew it better than Gus Pellino.

Thinking of Donna and his plans for her, his thoughts drifted automatically to his wife. And the lewd smile on his face changed to a frown.

He called his wife each night at six o’clock and gave her a seemingly innocuous coded report of the day’s happenings, plus his plans—insofar as he knew them—for the next day. His wife passed the report on to his associates. As long as he reported, all was presumed to be well with him. If he failed to—exactly at six o’clock—an opposite assumption would be made. And it would be far later than six before he could report tonight.

“Goddamn!” Gus scowled. “Now, what the hell…?”

His associates knew of his plans only in the most general way. Necessarily so, since most of them had been made after six last night. And if there should be a foul-up, they would have only the vaguest idea of where he was or what to do about it.

Pellino cursed viciously. There would be no foul-up, of course. The deal was in the bag, and the bag had no holes. But still, a thing like this wasn’t good. It would hurt him, even though he checked in the minute he hit town. By that time, the boys would have gotten jumpy. They might even go to the point of swinging into action. He’d have pulled them out of the soup, naturally, and that was all to the good. But they’d still be irritated with him. Unavoidably or not, he’d ’ve put them on a spot where they could have been left high and dry. And a thing like that you didn’t live down in a hurry.

Pellino brushed at his face again. Another one of those goddamned bugs, or something. They’d been doing it last night, zipping past him and plinking down around him, making him jump and look around in spite of himself. And they were at it full-force today. But they didn’t bother him now. He wouldn’t let them. Had enough on his mind without worrying about a bunch of stinking bugs or grasshoppers…or whatever the hell they were. They’d gotten him kind of jumpy last night, but that was in the dark. Today, when he could see there was no one around, when he knew there couldn’t be anyone—

There was a small sound behind him. Angrily, he ignored it.

Then something jabbed into his spine, a something that could only be a gun, and a drawling voice addressed him:

“Don’t turn around, mister. First time you do, it’ll be the last.”

Pellino nodded jerkily. Guns he didn’t argue with. It was Lord; it had to be. And talking, rather than action, was in order.

“Looks like I stubbed my toe, Lord,” he said, his mouth very dry, “but maybe we’re going the same way. You play along with me, and I’ll give you a deal that—”

“Reckon I’ll do my own dealin’, mister. Kind of come out better that way with me holding the aces.”

“Not all of them, Lord. Let me show you my hand.”

“Show me the way down to that toolhouse,” the voice advised him. “Just follow that big nose of yours, an’ it’ll lead you to it.”

“But, listen, Lord.…”

“Stop talkin’ and start walkin’ ”—the gun, a rifle apparently, jabbed painfully—“just keep followin’ your nose, or you won’t have no head to wear it on.”

Pellino obeyed. The rifleman—Lord, naturally; it had to be Lord—meant what he said.

Hands half-raised, he moved toward the open door of the toolhouse. The rifle continued to press against his back, its owner almost treading on his heels. Yet despite his predicament—the outrageous fate that had placed him here—he was not badly frightened, nor by any means hopeless.

Lord didn’t mean to kill him; not in the immediate future at any rate. If he had meant to, he could’ve done it back there behind the bunkhouse. So seemingly—and at Lord’s convenience—they were destined to have a talk. And when it came to talking, Gus Pellino could…

His heart skipped a beat, a sickish feeling coming into his stomach, as he saw the high-banked oval abutting the well. The slush pit! He knew enough about the oil racket to identify it—a small, man-made lake, filled with the oozing mud from the well.

Was this why he hadn’t been killed immediately? Was Lord marching him down here toward the pit, so that he…?

But, no—he began to breathe again—no, he was continuing on toward the toolhouse. Going straight ahead instead of to the side. And now he was stepping up on the loading platform, approaching the dark doorway.

The rifle suddenly came away from his back. Something smashed against his head, and he pitched forward through the door.

He was out only a few minutes, or what seemed only a few minutes. Head throbbing, he came shakily to his feet, squinted about the toolshed’s shadowy interior. The door was closed tightly—barred, he guessed, after leaning his weight against it. He patted his pockets, and emitted a grunt of surprise.

This didn’t add up. Lord rolling him for his wallet. Lord wouldn’t mess around with mere robbery. So maybe it wasn’t Lord, huh? Maybe…

But, no, it had to be. Had to, because it just couldn’t be anyone else. Lord wasn’t after his dough, of course. He was looking for information—something incriminating. And a hell of a lot of good it would do him. Gus Pellino was no sap, even though he momentarily appeared to be. A few bucks in cash, a few receipts for bills paid, a couple of credit cards—that would be about the size of Lord’s findings.

Pellino listened, holding his ear to the door. He circled the walls, listening, peering through the tiny cracks between the boards.

He could see nothing and hear nothing; nothing, at least, to indicate that Lord was around. But that didn’t mean—Gus remembered grimly—that he
wasn’t.
The guy was like a lousy cat. Sneak right up on you and tease you while he was doing it.

Pellino tested the door again. He braced his shoulder against it, pushing with his legs, and the door bulged slowly outward. A little bit more and he’d snap those bars like matchsticks.

But hell—he stood back from it suddenly—that wouldn’t do. He’d be
expected
to crash out the door. That side of the building would be watched, if there was anyone around to watch. Any getting out would have to be done on the other side, and with a minimum of noise.

His eyes were becoming adjusted to the dimness now, and he could see reasonably well. The heavy planking of the walls (
need a sledge-hammer to smash through them
). The grimy floors, splintered here and there where some heavy object had been dropped. Some greasy work clothes, piled in a corner. Pellino raked the pile with his foot, and uncovered a rusted object with a hook at one end. He snatched it up, chuckling in ugly triumph.

A crowbar! Now, wasn’t that nice? Wasn’t that thoughtful of Lord to leave him a crowbar?

He went down on his knees, jammed the flattened end of the bar between two floorboards, and pried cautiously but firmly upward. He loosened them quickly, then loosened two others. Using his bare hands, working in virtual silence, he pulled them free of the floor. For this was the best way out, the only logical way. The shed sat up on a high foundation, so that its floor was high, to facilitate the loading and unloading of trucks. There was plenty of room for a man to crawl under it—even a man like Gus Pellino—and on out from beneath the rear of the building. At least, there appeared to be plenty of room. Any native of the area would have known that there might not be, that any covered-over place—even the space beneath a fallen tree—was apt to have other tenants: Golden-skinned creatures with sinuous, diamond-patterned bodies.

It was not an extraordinarily populous den for this region. During the periodic rattlesnake drives, some dens of two and three hundred had been found; and the one that Gus Pellino crawled into held only a few dozen. But that was still a great many—even one can be a great many. And the majority of these were young, their venom at its deadliest.

Pellino struggled back through the floorboards, eyes fixed and bulging, teeth bared in the hideously insensible grin of absolute shock. A huge bull, jaws locked in a death grip, dangled from his nose. Others swung from his ears and throat and shoulders. Little ones—infants and youngsters—swarmed up his pants legs and under his shirt; raced over his body in squirming, angry tangles.

Pellino clawed and struck at them. He flailed at them with numbing arms, and his grin widened, almost stretching from ear to ear; and a bubbling scream vomited from his mouth.

“Eeeeeeeee-Yah! Eeeeee-YAHH-ah-ah-a-hhhh…”

It was over almost as soon as it began. In a bare two minutes, he was dead, his body already swelling with poison.

D
onna McBride awakened about mid-morning, yawned and stretched lazily; and then sat up with a sudden start. Then, remembering, she sank back down on the bunk; glanced doubtfully at the knocked-together bolster which divided the bed.

She hadn’t approved of this arrangement at all. But the bolster did make it all right, she supposed. Or almost all right. She’d kept her clothes on. He’d kept his on, or most of them, she guessed. So everything was probably proper enough; and, anyway, she’d had no choice but to accept.

“Now, looky,” Lord had drawled. “You’re satisfied I ain’t a murderer, right? Maybe I acted pretty stupid. Maybe I was looking for trouble. But I sure didn’t commit murder.”

“Oh, yes. I know you didn’t,” she said eagerly. “I’m so ashamed of myself, and I’m so grateful to you for—”

“No trouble at all. Just a matter of unloadin’ your gun while you slept, taking the lead out of the bullets, and reloadin’ it. Y’might say,” he grinned, “that I was more than glad to do it.”

“And I’m glad you did! But, Mr. Lord, I don’t see what—”

“No, I reckon you don’t. You wouldn’t see it. A fella doctors you up, puts you on your feet, an’ you try to kill him. He straightens you out, keeps you from bein’ a murderer, and doctors you again. Then he gives you the best meal you ever had in your life, an’—”

“I’m well aware of your kindness! I’ve tried to express my gratitude.”

“I don’t want it. All I want is half of my own bed. Now, do I get it or do you get the whole thing?”

“Well. I suppose if you put it that way…”

“Now, you’re talkin’,” said Lord. “Nothin’ I like better than a appreciative and considerate guest.”

Well, that was the way it happened. But it would not happen again. He had left the shack while she slept, taking his rifle with him. Presumably he was off shooting snakes, as he had been yesterday (“My only vice, ma’am”). But as soon as he returned, she would leave.

She had to. He’d doubtless be glad to drive her into town, or to do anything else, if it meant getting rid of her.

She climbed out of the bunk, ruefully examining her slept-in clothes. She saw the piece of paper propped up on the table, and apprehensively she picked it up. But it was nothing like his first message to her. She read it, fighting back a smile, telling herself that it was really rather vulgar and therefore not to be smiled at:

Donna made her face prim. She left the shack, taking the paper with her. She returned without it, after a few minutes, and set the coffee on to warm. She washed in the enamel basin, again frowningly examined her dress.

It would have to hang out, she decided; she’d have to get rid of at least a few of the wrinkles. And these underthings—they’d simply have to have a quick rinse.

She got out of the garments hastily. She grabbed a pair of Lord’s jeans and a shirt down from a wall peg, and quickly clambered into them. They were far too big of course, despite her tuckings and turnings, but they made her feel much less of a mess. During the brief time she would spend with Lord, she would feel much more comfortable.

She spread the dress over some bushes. Having rinsed out the underthings, she similarly disposed of them. Her hair needed a lot done to it, and there was little that she could do, and she would have welcomed a bath. But, well, how could a woman keep herself fixed up in a place like this? Lord somehow seemed to be immaculate. She had never seen anyone so utterly clean. His nails; his hair, the scrubbed scalp showing at the part; his teeth—everything about him gleamed and glistened with cleanliness. And doubtless he thought she was a frump, and a soiled one at that. But she just couldn’t help it.

Aaron—poor, poor Aaron—had been a little careless about his person. He had cited the almost primitive conditions under which he lived in the oil fields; pointed out that he could hardly change the habits acquired there on his visits home. But Lord was surrounded by the same conditions—they were even more primitive here—and yet he…

She heard his car in the distance. Jumping up from the table, she ran to the wavy mirror again; gave herself some frantic last-minute pats and pushes and pullings. The results, in her own mind, were wholly unsatisfactory. She looked worse than she had before. She started to redo the redoings, and her fingers fumbled and got in one another’s way. And, angrily, hearing the car door slam, she gave up. So all right! She looked like h-e-double-1. She just didn’t give a darn, and to heck with what Tom Lord thought of her!

He came in. He nodded politely and gave her hand a cordial shake. Addressing her as “mister” (he was plumb glad to make her acquaintance), he asked if she had seen anything of a big pile of clothes with a little gal in the middle of ’em.

Donna smirked nervously, suddenly laughed out loud. Lord grinned, his eyes approving as they moved over her.

“Look real sassy, ma’am. How’d you sleep last night?”

“Very well, thank you. All things considered, that is. I mean, I would have slept well if, uh—”

“Uh-huh,” said Lord sympathetically. “I bet I woke you up with all that huggin’ and kissin’.”

“Hugging and kiss—!” Donna caught herself. “Mr. Lord, I’ll have to ask a favor of you.”

Lord nodded absently and opened the refrigerator. Donna hesitated, decided to delay her request to be driven into town. Lord obviously wanted his lunch. Also, her clothes had not yet dried.

He emerged from the refrigerator with prepared biscuits and a cardboard tray of chicken. He accepted Donna’s offer of assistance, directing her to make fresh coffee and set the table.

She got busy. They brushed together occasionally as they worked, and Donna felt a fearful tingling at each contact. She fled from it, tried to dispel the too-companionable silence with a flurry of talk.

Wasn’t there quite a lot of wild game in this area? Didn’t he ever shoot any of it?

Lord said that he would much prefer to shoot people, there being quite a lot of them, too, and their meat being wholly unavailable in the local markets.

Donna said that didn’t sound very nice. Lord said that shooting helpless animals didn’t sound very nice to him. Then, seeing her expression, he sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Look,” he said. “That was a j-o-a-k, joke. Do you really think I go around huntin’ people?”

“Oh, no. No, of course not. I—what do you suppose happened to Mr. How—to Pellino?”

“I didn’t shoot him, if that’s what you mean.”

“I just wondered. The way you talked yesterday, about what his plans probably were, why I—”

“Must’ve had to change ’em,” Lord said. “Or maybe someone changed them for him. Fella like that probably ain’t real popular.”

“Y-you—you think someone may have killed him?”

“Or scared him into runnin’. Anyway, he didn’t pay us a visit yesterday, so he ain’t likely to.” Lord opened the oven door, looked in at the browning biscuits. “Don’t you worry about him or anyone else. I keep an eye on the road when I’m off shootin’. Can’t no one come this way without me seein’ ’em.”

Donna nodded. She started to say that she would not be worried, in any case, since her stay was about to end. But again the time seemed inappropriate.

Lord dished up the food. Donna said she really wasn’t hungry—after all, she’d just finished breakfast. And Lord said he sympathized with her, but he never ate by himself and he had no intention of beginning now.

He seemed very serious about it (although, of course, he couldn’t be). So Donna, who
was
hungry, strangely enough, did away with half of a fried chicken and a half-pan of biscuits.

Then they were through, the dishes washed and put away. Donna rehearsed her request, opened her mouth to speak. Lord reached down for his medicine kit and nodded to the bunk.

“Reckon I better take a look at you now. Stretch out here, and put a sheet over you.”

“I—that won’t be necessary,” Donna said. “I have to be leaving, anyway. I’ll see a doctor when I get to town.”

“Wouldn’t be very smart,” Lord said, adding that the doc in town chawed tobacco. “Dropped his cud spang inside a woman’s bloomers one day.”

“Mr. Lord! Will you please!”

“Gave her husband some plumb funny notions about her, not to mention the doc. Just couldn’t figger out no innocent way for the chaw to’ve got there.”

“Mr. Lord!” Donna snapped. “I am leaving here at once! If you won’t take me, I’ll simply have to walk!”

“It’s a long walk. Reckon I better pack you up a lunch.”

“
I don’t want any lunch!
I d-don’t want you looking at me! I—I—”

“Just doin’ my perfessional duty, ma’am. Got to take good care of my lady patients.”

“I’ll just bet you do! It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if…”

“If I raped ’em?” Lord shook his head. “Not the surgical cases, ma’am. Always afraid I might snag on a pair of scissors or somethin’.”

Donna choked, stammered incoherently, and gave up. There was nothing else to do. The only way to stop him was to give him his own way.

She stretched out on the bunk. Lord examined her, changed the bandages, and gave her two antibiotic pills.

She was coming along fine, he announced. A little more rest wouldn’t hurt anything, but it wouldn’t kill her if she didn’t get it.

“In other words, you think I should stay over another day. Well, I’m not going to do it!”

“That’s strictly up to you, ma’am. Now, are you okay for money, or did I figure your husband right?”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Doctorin’ family sees a lot of widows. Lawman sees a lot. Funny how so many fellas are worried more about a second husband than they are about their wives.”

Donna bit her lip, averted her eyes. He had no right to talk that way! As though Aaron had been mean and selfish instead of simply trying to protect her. She said so angrily, adding that her financial circumstances were her own business and that she was well able to look out for herself.

Lord nodded agreement. “Prob’ly land a job teaching good manners,” he said. “Ought to get rich takin’ your own lessons.”

He started to rise. Impulsively, Donna put out her hand.

“I’m terribly sorry, Tom—I mean, Mr. Lord.”

“Tom’s all right. Might break your jaw on that misterin’.”

“Well, I don’t have any money, Tom. I’m not trained for any job. I doubt if I could even get unskilled work, anyone so sort of old-timey and stand-offish as I am. But—but how would it help if I stayed over until tomorrow? I’d still have the same problems.”

“Why, no, you wouldn’t,” said Lord, apparently amazed at her statement. “Danged if I ever heard of such nonsense in my life!”

“But…why?”

“Because tomorrow’s another day! Didn’t no one ever tell you that?”

She nodded; studied him uncertainly as he took the rifle from its pegs.

“But, Tom. Just how—why—”

“Why? Because, that’s why! How can you have today’s problems tomorrow when tomorrow’s always another day? Just don’t stand to reason!”

He shook his head crossly, then announced he’d have to go give the rattlers a lesson, since he could teach her nothing.

“Tom”—Donna smiled at him with unconscious tenderness—“you’re not just being nice, are you? You really want me to stay?”

“Want you to stay!” Lord slapped his forehead. “Why, if I had me a wet rope, I’d whip you off’n this place right now!”

“I’ll fix dinner for us, Tom. What would you like?”

“Well, let’s see. A Donna Special ought to go pretty good.”

“A—what’s a Donna Special?”

“Now, how would I know?” Lord demanded. “It’s your special, ain’t it?”

He slammed out of the house.

Donna laughed softly, in strange contentment, and fell into peaceful, dreamless sleep.