THE KILLER, page 18
Farrow said gently, “It feels quite strange.” He couldn't believe it was his own voice, so level and precise. He had a cold stone of fear in his stomach. This was nothing he had foreseen, not man against man, not man against animal—but himself unarmed against a lunatic.
Bocock chuckled, a witless gargling sound. “Everybody's after Mr. Clel Bocock. Nobody gives him a chance but he gets his way, anyhow. I got my way now, haven't I?” He nodded at Farrow and squeezed the trigger. The bullet touched the sleeve at Farrow's elbow, then spanged off a rock somewhere behind him.
Farrow stood motionless, staring into Bocock's eyes. “That's excellent shooting.” To his left, he could see that Stennis had raised his head and was gazing listlessly at the situation.
Bocock slanted his pistol at Stennis warningly, then brought it back to bear on Farrow. “Now I got two shells to spare, two left to play with. You know, I never needed more than one shot at a target in my life. Hell, yes, that's good shooting. When I get down to three shells—three people here. Then there's a box more in the shack in case of more visitors.”
“Clel,” moaned Marget. “You're deathly sick. Let us get a doctor for you.”
Bocock glared at her. The Colt mouth jerked slightly and Farrow's vision blurred. But again the steel barrel swung back to him like a compass needle and he could breathe. He said, “Be quiet, Marget.”
“Sure, don't get me mad,” Bocock slurred. He licked his lips. “I got some blood poison in my legs but I'm not dying, not by far, not at my age. I been fooling you, till I got my chance.” He believed himself, yet death was etched in every line of his face. He sat there inside his swollen poisoned body, a corpse willed to life by only part of his brain. But he was still able to kill, spread the death that had half consumed him.
Farrow looked into the dark luminous eyes and began to speak. He said, “This stalemate is my fault, Bocock. One should never approach fallen game—dangerous game —without making certain it's dead. You're quite right, you're far from dead. I broke a hunting commandment.” He had taken a slow step nearer the girl before Bocock grinned cruelly.
“You're 'up to something,” Bocock said. He fired again. This shot tore the shirt alongside Farrow's waist. He shivered involuntarily at the heat of the bullet. But he took another leisurely step.
“We were discussing hunting,” Farrow heard his own voice say calmly. “You used to do a great deal of hunting, I understand, with Marget. In the swamp.” He stood alongside the girl. “There are a good many rules besides the one I mentioned, all for the protection of the hunter. One slip of the memory and often a hunter is done for.” As he spoke, he wondered how thick was his own body. What depth of human flesh was required to stop a .45-caliber slug hurled by a revolver at ten paces? One step...
“Quit moving,” gritted Bocock. “Quit talking. I only got one shell left to play with, then I'm down to three. All it takes is those three. I don't care about rules. Nobody ever gave me a chance to screw around with rules.” He chuckled again, his hot dark eyes roving over Farrow eagerly. “No, sir. All I got to worry about is who goes first. That's my choice. You with the funny stuck-up voice, or the old boy who shot me up in New York State, or that sneaking female spy who showed you where I was.” His eyes flared at Marget speculatively.
Farrow took the last step. The Colt muzzle followed him once more, but now he stood between it and the girl's body.
Bocock strained forward and hissed, “Mister, I told you to stop. You don't listen to me.”
Farrow said evenly, “The rules—you mustn't forget the rules. They're made to protect you.” He spoke more quickly, the words metallic in the silence. He didn't dare to take his eyes off Bocock to see if Stennis heard. He had drawn the gun point far away from Stennis. He said, “You must distract the beast's attention. You must make the first shot count, for frequently there is no second chance. The hunter who wounds the animal must be the one to finish him off. That's his responsibility—to finish him off. Never wait—”
Bocock swung in his chair as Walter Stennis fell headlong in the sand, grabbing for his snub revolver. The Colt blasted once. Stennis fired until the revolver was empty. The thunder rolled across the valley, rebounded, returned as smaller sounds.
Bocock shuddered convulsively. He slithered to the ground, rolled onto his face, his hands outstretched and empty and curled like dead white spiders.
Mother Bocock said, “Clel,” as if calling him. She sat down by her son and took his head in her lap and gazed on it dumbly. Then she put the cowboy hat aside and began stroking the curly tangle of black hair.
Farrow had dropped to earth, carrying Marget with him, shielding her. He rose slowly and the girl clung against him, sobbing hysterically. He soothed her automatically, having a faint notion that he might be babbling slightly as he collected the Colt and the Jefferies and walked toward Stennis. His ears rang and he kept squeezing her shoulder and repeating. “Thank God. I'll never let the rifle out of my hands again. Thank God it wasn't you.”
Stennis was sitting up, holding his right thigh while he watched the blood soak into the hot sand.
Farrow said, “All right, Walt?”
“Yes. I suppose so. Just my leg. Is he—”
“Bocock's dead. The hunt's over.”
“You gave me plenty of time. He had so far to turn, I should have hit him every . . .” Stennis squinted wearily at where Mother Bocock hunched over her son's body. He didn't speak for a moment. Then he said slowly, “This isn't what I wanted. I wanted something once, but I've forgotten what it was.”
Farrow shook his head. “I'm not judging you, Walt. I counted on you and your long chances a minute ago with Bocock. That's what saved our lives.” He sighed. “Once I saved yours. The debt's settled.”
“The money,” Stennis murmured. “I promised you—for the hunt—”
“No. The debt's settled. I think I'd better go for the police now, and a doctor. I'll let you do the talking, tell them whatever you want told.”
“I hope I can make myself tell everything.” The older man glanced up quickly. “Good-by, Jacob. I won't be hunting with you any more. You wouldn't want to hunt with a man you can't trust. One of your own rules.” He stared down at the red-stained sand. “Something about Bocock—always be between us. Everything he touched he blighted.”
“Not everything,” said Farrow, taking Marget's hand.
She had dried her eyes. “Yes, Jacob, I'm ready.”
They started off across the valley, toward the weathered hills. Their fingers gripped tightly. He said, “It'll be best if we can leave tonight.”
“We,” she repeated softly. “Anywhere you go, Jacob, anywhere you care to take me.”
“I'm taking you home,” he said. “Africa.”
THE END
of a novel by Wade Miller
THIS IS A GOLD MEDAL BOOK
Wade Miller, THE KILLER
