She opened them again with a start, feeling a difference in the motion of the coupé. Blinking at her husband, she saw that he was squinting through the windshield intently at something ahead. An unreasoning apprehension drilled her blood. She pressed closer to the solid figure of the man beside her; found herself shivering, though the night was unpleasantly warm.
"Bob, wh-what is it?” she whispered. "A crack-up?”
But his cheery grin by tire dash-light reassured her at once.
"It’s a town,” he announced, relief in his tone. "Must be Evansboro—though I don't see how it could be, this soon. By the map, it’s a good thirty miles from Saltersburg.”
The Scotty stirred, sniffed nervously. Myra Clayton sat erect, patting at her hair.
"Good!” she sighed. "I’m so terribly tired of driving, and I know you are, poor darling! Hope we can smuggle MacTavish up to the room—he howls if I leave him alone.”
She peered out the car window as the coupé slowed down. Against the dark skyline, darker shapes of houses loomed. But there was no light in any of them, no street lights, no illumination at all. A devil’s-fork of lightning, stabbing the sky at intervals, revealed a small "whistle-stop” town of perhaps two thousand population.
“Huh!” Clayton muttered. "They certainly roll up the sidewalks early. It’s only ten-thirty, but everybody seems to have gone to bed.”
He cruised along at a snail’s pace, squinting out through the misted window-glass. Presently the car light picked out a weather-beaten sign, unlighted, hanging close to the roadside.
GUESTS, it invited briefly, and Clayton braked the coupé, trying to make out the dark house beyond. Its vague bulk could be seen but dimly against the sky, Victorian in architecture, set far back from the highway.
Leaping out, head down in the drizzle, he strode up a grass-grown walk and knocked at the door with growing disfavor.
The place was extremely ill-kept. Wind whistled through a broken-out place in the colored glass of the door, and leaves and debris littered the rotting veranda.
NO ONE answered Clayton’s first knock. He was about to turn away, when a woman’s figure appeared abruptly, coming around from the side porch, her footsteps making no sound, Clayton noticed, as did his own. Lightning picked out her ample form, clad in a dark dress of some kind, and her round white face framed by untidy gray hair. She did not offer any greeting; merely stood there, part of the darkness.
"We’d like a room for the night,” Clayton began. "My wife and myself. I noticed your sign—you do take tourists, don’t you?”
There was a long silence. The woman simply stood there, regarding him gravely. She turned her head, taking in the parked coupé, then looked slowly back at Clayton.
"No!” Her voice startled him with its odd quality: high, vibrant, like the sound of wind blowing through a crack, and as toneless as that of a deaf-mute. "No,” she repeated. "I don’t take tourists any more. Not any more, no.” She peered closer at him, eyes only dark holes in that white moon-face. "You’re not—like us, are you?” she asked softly.
Clayton laughed, shook his head. "My Yankee accent, you mean? No, I’m from Chicago. We're just passing through.... Well—you say you don’t take guests. I wonder if you’d direct me to the best hotel? We’ve been traveling since daybreak.”
The woman continued to regard him silently. Then she shook her head.
"You won’t like it at the hotel,” she spoke, still in that hollow toneless voice. “No accommodations anywhere in town, if you’re—not used to things, like us. We don’t take no strangers much here, anyhow.”
Clayton stiffened, compressed his lips. "Indeed?” he snapped. "If it’s a question of money, of course I intended paying in advance.”
Wind stirred his hair, chilly with blown rain. Somewhere a shutter creaked and banged against the house. At the sound of it, the woman shivered and pressed against the wall.
"Pay in advance?” she echoed dully. "Oh—that! We don’t worry about that around here any more.” She laughed, a hollow mirthless sound. “You can stay here if you like, sure. But I’d drive on to the next town if I was you.”
She stopped short, cringing like a whipped animal as another gust of wind shook the eaves. Sidling over to the porch rail, she peered anxiously up at the sky, clinging to a rotting pillar as if for support.
"Yes, yes!” she mumbled. "You’d better drive on, pretty fast! The wind is rising. Toward dawn it’ll be roaring like a freight train.... Hear it? Hear it roaring in the distance?”
Clayton frowned, looking up at a forked display of lightning. "The wind?” he echoed, and laughed. "You’ve got keener ears than I have. All I can hear is rain on the roof.”
The woman shook her head gravely. "You can hear it,” she whispered dully, "if you really listen. You and your wife better be driving on before it’s too late.”
Clayton eyed her, quizzical. He shrugged, grinned. "Well—good night,
then. Sorry to have disturbed you so late. I suppose well have to drive on anyway, if the accommodations here arc so poor.” He frowned at the sky, clearing now toward the west. "You really think there’s a wind storm coming up? Those clouds don’t look so very------”
Hie woman turned on him swiftly, shaking a gnarled finger. "You can’t tell!” she whispered sharply. "That’s just it! You can’t ever tell what wind is liable to do.... I must close the shutters,” her voice lowered to a mumble, and she scuttled around the side porch again. "Close the shutters, and put the garden chairs inside...
She was gone. Clayton took a step after her, then grinned, shrugged, and returned to his sleepy wife in the coupé.
"No dice, darling,” he reported ruefully. “This Evansboro seems to be the jumping-off place. The old lady here advised me to drive on. Says there’s a bad wind storm coming up—and us with no windshield wiper and only one headlamp! Better get that fixed if there’s an all-night service station.”
His wife sighed. "Well—whatever you say... Oh, do sit still, MacTavish!”
The dog was pressing close to her now, shivering and whining nervously. All at once he lifted his muzzle and gave vent to a mournful howl. Clayton and his wife laughed, trying to quiet him.
"My sentiments exactly, pup!” Myra laughed wearily. "Well—better get some gas, too, darling. Looks like we’re doomed to drive all night!”
THEY inched along between dark canyons of buildings half seen whenever the lightning flared. But the streets, on closer inspection, were not so deserted as they first appeared. Shadows moved here and there—dim human shapes. Faces looked out at them from the storefronts.
"Hmm,” Clayton commented, "a few folks are still up and about after all, though I don’t see how they find their way around. Confound these dark streets! Guess something must have happened to the electric current. Probably cut it off as a storm warning.”
He leaned out the window, scanning the dark storefronts until at last the white shape of a filling-station slid into the radius of car light. Turning in, he pulled up beside a rusty gas pump, sounding his horn. Its raucous blare shattered the silence into a thousand eerie echoes, and abruptly, a lean sallow-faced youth appeared out of the darkness.
“Five gallons of twenty-cent gas,” Clayton ordered. "And fix that headlight, will you?”
The man stared at him without speech, made no move to obey.
Clayton scowled at him. “Hurry up!” he snapped. "Five gallons.”
The filling-station attendant blinked at him, nodded dully, and moved to the rear of the car. Something clanked and Clayton thought he could hear liquid gushing into the gas tank. Presently the lanky youth came around to the front again, shielding his eyes from the headlight’s glare.
He stood there stupidly for a moment, poking at the lamp. Then:
"Mister, you got a short—I don’t think I could fix it.” His voice, like that of the old woman, was high, tremulous, and devoid of tone.
A gust of wind whistled through the car just then, rustling the road map in
Clayton’s hand. The filling-station attendant shuddered as it did so, staring up at the sky.
The rain had stopped, and a few stars were peeping out between the thinning clouds. But there was terror and apprehension. on the youth’s sallow face as he scanned the northwest horizon. His mouth jerked, Clayton saw, and his dull
eyes were like the eyes of a drowning horse.
"Mister,” he whispered, "you better get going! There’s a twister blowing up. Hear it roaring through Logan’s Pass? One minute you don’t suspect a thing— and the next minute, it’s on you! Just sweeps everything flat, and then it’s gone again... Hear it? Listen! It’s coming!”
Clayton frowned, listening intently. There was a roaring sound in the distance, but it was accompanied by the wail of a train whistle. The night sky was clearing rapidly, and the remaining wispy clouds moved not at all as though wind-driven.
But Myra, straining her ears, was growing nervous. Animals, she recalled, are sensitive to weather-signs, and the dog in her lap was shivering violently. It bared its teeth at the service man in a way most unusual to its friendly disposition. Suddenly it gave vent to another howl, and dived for cover under their feet.
Bob Clayton fumbled for his billfold rather hurriedly, and extracted a dollar; held it out. The youth took it, hardly glancing at him, cavernous eyes fixed on the horizon. His face in the headlight’s glow was pasty-white and distorted with terror, blind animal-terror that made Clayton’s flesh crawl.
"Coming through Logan’s Pass!” the youth mumbled. “It’s headed this way; we’re right in the path of it... Mister, you better drive like the devil! Maybe you can outrun it—and maybe not.”
Myra clutched at her husband’s arm, trembling.
"Bob!” she whimpered. "This is tornado country! I—I’m scared! Hadn’t we better leave the car and hunt a cyclone cellar?”
Clayton shook his head, stamped on the starter. "No, no, darling—we’d better run for it! Didn’t you hear what this fellow said? This cursed town is directly in the path of a twister coming through Logan’s Pass... But what are you folks going to do?” he demanded, facing the terrified youth again. "Have you got cyclone cellars? Why don’t you just evacuate the town?”
The thin-faced attendant stared at him dazedly, like a child in the path of an oncoming truck. "We can’t do that—this is our home,” he said dully. "And running Away won’t help, anyhow. A twister moves too fast. If it—if it wants you, it gets you, and that’s all there is to it. There’s no escape—no escape for anybody.”
Clayton snorted. Under his hand, the gears clashed and the coupé swung into the highway again. Sweat beaded his forehead, but he smiled reassurance at his young bride.
"Don’t worry, darling,” he laughed. "We’ll be miles away before any wind storm blows up around here. Even if— if it catches us, we can drive the car into a deep ditch and have perfect protection.”
Stepping hard on the gas, he drove off with a haste that belied his calm exterior. The shapes of buildings straggled out, then merged swiftly into treetops as they left the little town behind.
CLAYTON crouched over the steering-wheel, gas feed jammed to the floor. The coupé lunged, skidded, rocked crazily, held to the road only by the skill of its driver.
Myra Clayton huddled in her seat corner, wide-eyed and hugging the terrier in her arms. Now and then she glanced fearfully at the sky, almost clear now and studded with stars. Her ears ached from listening for an ominous roaring above the purr of the engine. But no such terrifying sound broke the peaceful stillness of the countryside.
Her husband was listening for it, too, neck muscles tense with apprehension. Destruction, doom, from out of the sky! Flattening everything in its path. If they could not outrun it...
The coupé sputtered without warning. Clayton pulled at the choke, stared at the gas gage in horror. It measured "Empty.” With a second cough the car jerked to a halt, and tire engine died.
"Out of gas!” Clayton exploded. "Why, we can’t be! I just got five gallons back there in Evansboro. Oh, Lord!” he groaned. "Miles from nowhere, a tornado coming—and this had to happen! Darling, we’ll have to push it.into that ditch, and—just pray.”
He leaped out, cursing. Myra Clayton, clinging to the Scotty, climbed out after him.
"Oh, Bob,” she whimpered, "what are we going to—oh!”
She screamed suddenly, flinging herself into her husband’s arms as, unheralded, a tall gaunt figure looked out of the darkness, blinding them with a powerful flashlight.
Clayton’s blood froze. He cursed himself for leaving his gun in the glove compartment; wondered wildly if he dared make a dive for it, when:
"Howdy, folks,” the man with the torch greeted pleasantly, in the mountain twang of the area. "Y’all know you only got one light?”
Clayton breathed out in a gust}’ laugh of relief as the man came closer, revealing the glint of a deputy sheriff’s badge on his overall front.
"Thank heavens!” he burst out. "Listen, sheriff—you’ve got to help us get away from here! There’s a twister headed this way! They just told us about it when we drove through Evansboro.”
The lawman leaned against the car deliberately, unshaved face calm and humorous in the reflected light.
"Young feller,” he drawled, ‘T got my orders to run in every drunk driver I come across. I smell liquor on your breath —and you’re sure talking wild enough. Evansboro is fourteen mile on up the road from here. And if there’d been any storm warnin’ in this county, I’d a-been the first to hear of it.”
Clayton’s jaw dropped, then shut with a snap.
"Now, see here,” he clipped out "I had one drink—yes, one!—right after dinner in Silver City four hours ago. As for the twister, two people in Evansboro— or whatever town we just came through— warned us it was coming through Logan’s Pass.”
The sheriff chuckled, jerking a thumb at the stars. "Out o’ that clear sky?” He snorted. "Young feller, the last bad wind we had through here was in ’34. And February and March is the months for ’em, not July. If you ain’t drunk, you’re crazy —because the last town you strike before you get to Evansboro on this highway is Saltersburg, twenty-odd mile back where you come from.”
Myra moved close to her husband, mouth open in indignation.
"That’s ridiculous!” she exploded. “We stopped in Saltersburg for cigarettes almost an hour ago. Don’t you stand there and try to tell us we didn’t come through another little town just a few miles back! I-------”
The deputy eyed her and spat carefully. He looked over his glasses at Clayton, then rather sadly shook his head.
“I got to lock you both up,” he announced apologetically. “The way you was hellin’... pardon, Ma’m... cornin’ down the highway! Then you stop right sudden and start gabbin’ about a twister and a town that don’t exist. Y’all ain’t in no fit state for night-drivin’, Ma’m, for a fact.”
Clayton was bristling now. Weariness and the harrowing events just past had frayed his temper to the snapping-point.
He took a step forward, fist clenched. But his wife caught his arm.
"Wait, dear,” she said evenly. "This gentleman seems to doubt our word, but I’m sure we can convince him. Officer, if you’ll let us have some gas, we’ll be glad to drive you back and show you the town we went through. But—tomorrow, please, after the tornado strikes. I have no desire to be blown through a tree tonight— even if we were drunk, which we’re not.”
The deputy stood erect again, sweeping off his greasy hat with some embarrassment. Clayton grinned. The fellow was evidently a moron of the lowest order, and Myra was handling him the only way possible. Now he gave her an apologetic bob of contrition.
"Sorry, Ma’m; you can’t alluz tell, you know.” He coughed. "As to the gas, I’ll sell you some, right enough; there’s a can up at the house. But—honest, there ain’t no town between Saltersburg and Evansboro. Not even a tourist camp. You look on your road map whilst I go after your gas.”
&
nbsp; HE TURNED and vanished into the night again. Clayton glowered after him, then deliberately pulled a stack of road maps from the glove compartment. There was among them, he recalled, a special state map. Almost every ant-hill along the highway was marked on it, and a town as big as the one they had just left would surely be included.
But, frowning over the local map a moment later, he shook his head, puzzled and chagrined. There was no sign of a town marked along the route between the two cities.
"This beats me,” he murmured, then scanned the sky apprehensively. "No wind storm yet. They couldn’t have been kidding us, could they? No, no, two separate people—and they both looked terrified, saying they could hear the wind roaring in the distance. But look at that sky; there’s certainly no sign of a twister around here.”
A few minutes later, when the mountain sheriff had filled their tank with gas. Clayton faced him sheepishly.
"Look,” he said. "I paid a dollar for gas at that town back there; I’ll prove it to you if you’ll ride back with us. It can’t have been more than five miles. Besides, I have a few words to say to that filling-station attendant. They’ll gyp you a gallon or two sometimes if you don’t watch— but we wouldn’t have given out of gas if he’d put in any at all! Probably some vagrant pulling a fast one on me with a locked pump.” He grinned. "Maybe you’ll make your arrest tonight after all, Sheriff.”
The deputy spat again, and rested one foot on the running-board.
"Won’t tomorrow do?” he drawled. "Your wife here looks mighty sleepy; and we got a extry room. You can sleep there tonight, and we’ll drive back and nab your gas-chiseling feller right after breakfast.”
Clayton smiled, and nodded at once.
"Sounds wonderful,” he laughed. “I’m so tired, I don’t know my own name, and my wife is worn out, I know. Mind our having the pup with us?”
"Nope, not a bit,” their benefactor assured them. "House is up the hill a piece; I’ll show you. But say, young feller; that stuff about a twister coming through Logan’s Pass—why, who’d a-told you that? Must have been an old-timer funnin’ with you. Since the Government blasted for water-power ten years ago, one side of the Pass has been leveled out flat. Don’t hardly anybody remember it was ever there.”
Half in Shadow Page 21
