Part 8 (1/2)

”Just where do they live?”

I eyed her carefully, hoping my glance did not look like a wolf eyeing a lamb. ”Well, they gave me some crude directions. Said I was to turn at the main highway onto this road and come about twenty miles and stop on the left side when I came upon one of those new road signs where someone had shot one of the spokes out.”

”Spokes? Left side--” She mumbled the words and was apparently mulling the idea around in her mind. She was not more than about seventeen, sun-tanned and animal-alive from living in the open. I wondered about her. As far as I was concerned, she was part and parcel of this whole mysterious affair. No matter what she said or did, it was an obvious fact that the hidden road sign directions pointed to this farm. And since no one at seventeen can be kept in complete ignorance of the business of the parents, she must be aware of some of the ramifications.

After some thought she said, ”No, I don't know of any Harrisons.”

I grunted. I was really making the least of this, now that I'd arrived.

”Your folks at home?” I asked.

”Yes,” she replied.

”I think I'll drop in and ask them, too.”

She shrugged. ”Go ahead,” she said with the noncommittal att.i.tude of youth. ”You didn't happen to notice whether the mailbox flag was up, did you?”

I hadn't, but I espied back quickly and said, ”No, it isn't.”

”Then the mailman hasn't been to deliver,” she said. ”Mind if I ride back to the house with you, mister?”

”Hop in.”

She smiled brightly and got in quickly. I took off down the road toward the house at an easy pace. She seemed interested in the car, and finally said, ”I've never been in a car like this before. New?”

”Few weeks,” I responded.

”Fast?”

”If you want to make it go fast. She'll take this rocky road at fifty, if anyone wants to be so foolish.”

”Let's see.”

I laughed. ”n.o.body but an idiot would tackle a road like this at fifty.”

”I like to go fast. My brother takes it at sixty.”

That, so far as I was concerned, was youthful exaggeration. I was busy telling her all the perils of fast driving when a rabbit came barrelling out of the bushes along one side and streaked across in front of me.

I twitched the wheel. The car went out of the narrow road and up on the shoulder, tilting quite a bit. Beyond the rabbit I swung back into the road, but not before the youngster had grabbed my arm to keep from being tossed all over the front seat.

Her grip was like a hydraulic vise. My arm went numb and my fingers went limp on the wheel. I struggled with my left hand to spin the wheel to keep on the narrow, winding road and my foot hit the brake to bring the car down, but fast.

Taking a deep breath as we stopped, I shook my right hand by holding it in my left at the wrist. I was a ma.s.s of tingling pins and needles because she had grabbed me just above the elbow. It felt as though it would have taken only a trifle more to pinch my arm off and leave me with a b.l.o.o.d.y stump.

”Sorry, mister,” she said breathlessly, her eyes wide open. Her face was white around the corners of the mouth and at the edges of her nose. The whiteness of the flesh under the deep tan gave her a completely frightened look, far more than the shake-up could have produced.

I reached over and took her hand. ”That's a mighty powerful grip you--”

The flesh of her hand was hard and solid. Not the meaty solidity of good tone, fine training and excellent health. It was the solidity of a--all I could think of at the time was a green cuc.u.mber. I squeezed a bit and the flesh gave way only a trifle. I rubbed my thumb over her palm and found it solid-hard instead of soft and yielding.