The Flesh Of The Orchid Part 3

"Good grief!" he exclaimed, startled. "Take a look at that guy's face."

"Looks like he's been scratched up by a cat, the poor devil," Steve said, hurriedly climbing out of the cab.

Roy lifted one of the girl's hands.

"And here's your cat," he said. "There's blood and skin under her nails. Know what I think? The driver made a pa.s.s at her and she slashed him. She got his eyes and he drove off the road." He studied the girl. "Nice bit of homework, isn't she?" he went on. "I bet that poor punk thought he'd picked up a pushover. Say, she's a real looker, isn't she? I don't blame the punk trying to make her, do you?"

"Let's get her down," Steve said shortly, and together the two men carried the girl from the cab down on to the thick gra.s.s. Steve knelt beside her while Roy stood back and watched.

"She's got a nasty wound at the back of her head," Steve said. "We'll have to get that attended to right away."

"Forget it," Roy said, a sudden snarl in his voice. "Leave her here. She'll be all right. A floozy who b.u.ms rides can take care of herself. We don't want to be cluttered up with a twist, anyway. Some guy'll find her and will be glad of it."

Steve stared at him.

"We're certainly not leaving her here," he said sharply. "The girl's badly hurt."

"Then bring her down to the road and leave her there. Someone'll be along in a while," Roy said, his white face twitching. "I don't want to be mixed up in this."

"She needs medical attention," Steve said quietly. "There's no place between here and my farm where I can leave her. That means I'm taking her home and I'm going to get Doc Fleming over to fix her. Anything to say against that?"

Roy's face was ugly with controlled rage.

"You can't kid me," he sneered. "You're like all the other hicks who live too long in the mountains. One look at a dame who's got something on the ball and you shoot your top."

Steve jumped to his feet. For a moment he looked as if he was going to hit his brother, but he choked down his anger, gave a twisted grin instead.

"You haven't changed much, have you?" he said. "And you're not going to get my rag out. Why don't you grow up? You've still got a mind like a schoolboy." He turned away and bent over the girl. As he moved her limbs, making sure she had no broken bones, she stirred.

"Why don't you undress her," Roy sneered, "instead of just pawing her over?"

Steve ignored him, although the back of his neck turned red. He felt the girl's pulse. It was strong under his fingers and her skin felt feverish.

"You'd better leave her, Steve," Roy went on. "You'll be sorry if you don't."

"Oh, shut up," Steve snapped, lifted the girl.

"O.K., but don't say I didn't warn you," Roy returned, shrugging indifferently. "I've got a hunch she's going to cause a h.e.l.l of a lot of trouble. But why should I care ? It'll be your headache."

Steve pa.s.sed him and began his slow, careful walk to the van.

Silver Fox Farm was set in an enclosed valley of mountain peaks on Blue Mountain Summit, eight thousand feet above sea level. It was reached by a dirt road that branched off the highway and wound for four or five miles through big boulders and pine trees until it terminated at Steve's log cabin by the side of a lake, a pale blue sheet of water packed with mountain trout.

A year back Steve had decided to throw up his job as an insurance salesman and breed foxes. He had saved money, discovered Blue Mountain Summit, bought the deed and moved in. The farm was still in its infancy, but Steve hoped it wouldn't be long before he could afford to hire help. The worst part of the life was the utter loneliness of the place; to have no one but his dog to talk to from one day to the next.

Roy's coming should have solved the problem, but Steve was quick to realize that Roy was likely to be more of a nuisance than a companion. He was already beginning to regret the visit.

Roy had looked the cabin over with sour eyes and then had slouched down to the lakeside without a word, leaving Steve to carry the unconscious girl into the cabin.

But as soon as Steve was out of sight, Roy retraced his steps, ran to the Buick. He looked furtively towards the cabin, then raised the hood and unscrewed the head of the accelerator switch, snapped the leads, pocketed the switch. Closing the hoed, he lounged up to the wide verandah.

He could hear his brother moving about somewhere in the cabin and he sidled into the big living room, took in its rough comfort at a glance, crossed over to the gun-rack, which was equipped with an iron bar on a hinge and a padlock that, when locked, secured the guns in their rack. Roy fastened the padlock, pocketed the key.

Steve came into the room a moment later.

"Put your floozy to bed?" Roy asked jeeringly.

"Cut it out," Steve snapped. "I don't like it, Roy, so park it in, will you?"

Roy eyed him over, grinned.

"That's too bad," he said; took out a cigarette, lit it.

"I don't know what's the matter with you," Steve "You've acted odd ever since we met."

"That's too bad, too," Roy said.

Steve shrugged.

"I'm going over to Doc Fleming," he went on. "It'll take me the best part of two hours. Keep an eye on her, will you ? She's got concussion, I think, but she'll be all right until I return."

"That certainly makes my day," Roy sneered. "What do I do? Hold her hand and fan her with my hat?"

"Come on, Roy," Steve said, keeping his temper with difficulty. "I'll get the Doc to bring his car and we'll get her out of here. But while she is here you might try to be a little helpful."

"Sure," Roy said. "You get off. I'll keep her amused. Dames like me."

Steve gave him a hard look, went out.

Roy watched his brother get into the van, try to start the engine and he grinned to himself.

He was still lounging against the verandah doorway when Steve, hot and furious, came bounding up the steps.

"You've been fooling with the van," Steve snapped, planting himself in front of his brother.

"Sure," Roy grinned. "What of it?"

Steve steadied himself.

"You've taken the accelerator head. Better hand it over, Roy."

""I'm keeping it. I told you to leave the twist, didn't I? Well, you've got her on your hands now. No one's coming here while I'm around, and no one's leaving here until I say so."

Steve clenched his fists.

"Look, Roy, I don't know what's on your mind, but you're not getting away with this. Hand over the switch or I'll take it. I don't want to get tough, but I'm not standing any more nonsense from you."

"Yeah?" Roy said, stepping back. "Then what do you think of this?" A gun suddenly jumped into his hand: an ugly-looking, blunt-nosed .38 automatic. "Still got the same ideas?" he asked, pointing the gun at his brother's chest.

Steve stepped back, his mouth tightening.

"Have you gone crazy?" he demanded. "Put that gun away."

"It's time you got wise," Roy said, speaking in a harsh low voice. "Get this straight: I'd think no more of plugging you than I'd think of treading on a beetle. Nuts to this brother stuff. To me you're just another dumb hick. One move out of turn and you'll get it." He backed away, hoisted himself up on the verandah rail, holding the gun loosely in his hand. "You may as well know it now. I'm in a jam: that's why I'm here. This dump's tailor-made as a hideout. No one would think of looking for me here. And no Doc Fleming is coming out here to tell all his G.o.dd.a.m.n patients he's seen me. That's the way it is, and you're going to like it. You and the twist will stay here until I'm ready to pull out. And don't try any tricks. I'm fast with this rod. Bigger guys than you have found that out."

Steve had recovered from his first startled surprise, but he could still not believe his brother was serious.

"Why, this is crazy, Roy," he said. "I've got to get the Doc to the girl. Now come on, give me the switch and let me get off."

"Still dumb?" Roy sneered. "Listen: I've worked for Little Bernie's mob. Mean anything to you?"

Steve had read of Little Bernie: he was the modern edition of Johnny Dillinger.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Little Bernie's a killer- wanted by the police."

Roy laughed.

"For the last year I've been sticking up banks," he said. "Made a lotta dough. I carried a gun for Bernie. It paid well."

"So that's it," Steve said, shocked and disgusted. "I might have guessed you'd hook up with a gang. You always were a weak fool, Roy."

Roy slid the gun back into his shoulder holster.

"I've done all right," he said. "Maybe I'm in trouble now, but it won't last long and then I'll spend the dough I've put by. I'm not like you, you hick, buried out in the wilds, surrounded by a lot of foxes. I know how to live."

Steve moved slowly towards him.

"You'd better give me that gun," he said quietly.

Roy grinned; his hand suddenly flashed to the holster and there was a spurt of flame. The sharp crack of the gun set up echoes across the lake. Something buzzed past Steve's ear.

"I could pop one through your thick skull just as easy," Roy said, "and I'll do it if you try anything funny. So now you know," and he turned and lounged into the living room, dropped into an easy chair.

Steve stood hesitating in the suns.h.i.+ne. He realized now that Roy meant what he said, but his thoughts were not for himself, but for the girl lying unconscious on his bed. He'd have to do something for her at once now Doc Fleming wasn't to come, and he was thankful he had a first-aid outfit and knew how to use it.

As he pa.s.sed through the sitting room, Roy drawled: "And I've locked up your pop-guns. I'll do all the shooting around here from now on."

Steve ignored him, went into his bedroom where the girl was lying. He examined the cut at the back of her head, then fetched his medical chest, a bowl of water and towels.

He was just fixing the last safety pin when the girl gave a little sigh, opened her eyes.

"h.e.l.lo," he said, smiling at her. "Feeling better?"

She stared at him, her hand going to her head.

"My head hurts," she said. "What happened? Where am I?"

"I found you on the mountain road. You were in a truck accident. There's nothing to worry about. You have a cut head, but it's not bad."

"Truck?" she murmured, her eyes blank. "What truck? I can't remember. . . ." Suddenly she struggled to sit up, but Steve gently pressed her back. "I can't remember anything. I can't think. Something's happened to my head!"

"It's all right," Steve said soothingly. "It'll come back. Just try and sleep. You'll be all right after a little sleep."

"But I don't know what's happened to me," the girl cried, catching his hand in hers. "I'm frightened. I don't know who I am."

"But it'll be all right," Steve said. "You must relax and not worry. When you wake up again you'll remember and you'll be all right."

She closed her eyes.

"You're kind," she said softly. "Stay with me. Please don't leave me."

"I'll be right here," Steve said. "Just take it easy."

She lay still for a few moments, then went limp, drifting once more into unconsciousness.

In the other room Roy sat in the armchair, a thoughtful expression on his face. If it hadn't been for the twist he could have stayed here and kept his brother in the dark, but now he'd have to watch out. Steve was a tough egg, and if he caught him off guard he wouldn't stand a chance. A sudden movement in the doorway made him jump round, his hand flying to his gun. A big mongrel dog came in, wagging his tail.

"You punk," Roy said, grinning sheepishly. "You scared me silly."

He shoved the dog away impatiently with his foot, watched it amble down the pa.s.sage in search of its master.

Steve was grappling with a new problem as the dog peered round the door. He had just decided that he couldn't leave the girl lying on the bed like that, but he hesitated to undress her. But there seemed nothing else for it. The nearest woman was thirty miles down the other side of the mountain and he couldn't fetch her, anyway.

The dog entering the room relaxed his embarra.s.sed tension.

"h.e.l.lo, Spot," he said. "You've arrived at the tricky moment."

But the dog whined, backed to the door, its hair bristling.

"What's biting you, you old fool?" Steve asked, bewildered.

The dog had only eyes for the girl on the bed. It slowly backed out of the room, then with a low whining howl it bolted down the pa.s.sage into the open.

"I guess we're all going screwy," Steve thought, crossed the room to his chest of drawers and hunted for his best pyjamas, a suit of white silk. He cut the sleeves down, tacked around the edges, performed on the trouser legs. He measured the finished effort against the girl, decided they'd do.

"Well, here goes," he thought, and hoped she wouldn't recover consciousness. He began to unhook the fastening on the girl's dress. In one of the sleeves he found a handkerchief; embroidered in a corner was the name Carol. He turned the handkerchief over in his fingers. Carol. Carol who? Who was she? Where did she come from? Was it possible that she had lost her memory, that she didn't know what had happened to her? Didn't know who she was? He looked down at her. She was lovely, he thought. Not the kind of girl who'd thumb a truck ride. There was some mystery behind all this.

He removed her shoes, then, raising her gently, slid her dress up her body, worked it carefully over her head. Under the dress she had on a simple, tailored one-piece garment, and he could see the lovely lines of her body as if she were naked.

For a brief moment he stared down at her. There was a tightness in his throat. Her beauty and helplessness filled him with pity and wonder. Seeing her like that, he lost his sense of embarra.s.sment; it was like looking at a work of art and not at a living woman.

He did not hear Roy come in, nor was he aware that Roy, too, was staring with intent, hard eyes at the half-naked girl as she lay on the bed.

Steve lifted the girl to slip on the pyjama coat.

"Not so fast," Roy said. "I want to look some more. What a stack-up! Why, d.a.m.n it, she's even better than I thought."

Steve laid the girl down quickly, turned.