CHAPTER THREE
IN THE MOUNTAINS
ONCE more he looked up and down the road. Still no sign of any one. Now was the moment.
He sprang to the little green car and spun the handle. Would it start or not? The motor breathed gently. Exultation flamed in him. A good car and a good road ... the devil himself could not stop him now. He leapt to the seat, jerking off the brake and giving her gas at the same moment. Then he heard a shout from behind, and turned his head sharply. About a hundred yards behind him Gamba had come out of the maquis.
There was no time to lose. The little man was running like a deer. How about the gears? Hugh looked down at the gate in which they worked, a four-speed gear box. They must go the usual way,—front, back, cross and front, back. Quick, Gamba was getting closer! He jammed in the first speed, and the car moved slowly forward. Second speed! He was going faster now, but Gamba was still gaining. Third speed! He heard close behind him the hard, panting breath of his pursuer. Gamba was running like the wind. Quickly he shot into high; and at the same instant he heard a heavy thump on the back of the car. Gamba had jumped and was hanging on behind.
The car was going at a fair speed now. If he only could get rid of that grinning little devil behind all would be well. Gamba was hoisting himself up. Soon he would be in the car, and then.... Hugh looked back once more. The man was waist-high above the hood. In another moment it would be too late. Ha! there on the floor by his feet was a spare can of petrol. That might do. He reached for it and with all his strength flung it over his shoulder. It must have caught Gamba square on the face, for he heard a crash and a howl. When he looked again Gamba was gone. He had a brief glimpse of him sprawling on the road. Then on and on at increasing speed.
Suddenly from the maquis he heard a shout like the hoarse bellow of a bull. Before him, on a snag of rock, was the burly figure of Golaz. The man shook huge fists at him in impotent rage. The rock was about twenty yards away from the road and Hugh knew he could pass it before Golaz had time to descend. He put on a burst of speed. The car leapt forward.
What was Golaz after? He had bent down and was wrenching furiously at the rock. He detached a great fragment of it and stood with it poised above his head. What a ferocious figure he made against that savage background, his dark face distorted with rage!
Instinctively Hugh slowed up. He knew what was coming. A car is a hard object to miss, and that great rock crashing down on any part of it, would hopelessly wreck him. There was no way of avoiding it; the road was narrow with thick brush on either hand. Nothing but to dash forward and take his chance.
He opened the throttle to the full, and the little car answered like a living thing. It seemed to pause for an astonished moment, then bounded forward so swiftly that it almost seemed to leave the ground. At the same instant the great stone came crashing down.
Would it hit him? He heard a snarl of rage from Golaz and a dull thump on the road behind him. Yes, that admirable response of his engine, that sudden spurt of speed had deceived the man. The great stone had missed by a hand’s breadth.
“Oh, you gallant little beast!” breathed Hugh to the car. “You’re a thoroughbred. You’ll save me yet.”
Behind him Golaz continued to roar and wave his arms. Hugh had a flash of intuition that his danger was not yet over. He was right. From the maquis about a hundred yards ahead, darted the figure of another man ... Castelli. He stood in the centre of the road with his automatic pistol, and waited. Hugh was reckless. He must pass that man. A wave of hate surged through him; Castelli was trying to kill him; well, then, he would try to kill Castelli. He would run him down.
The car was going at full speed, rocking and bounding in its leaps. Castelli drew a little to one side and with a quick twist of the wheel Hugh swerved and bore down on him. The man saw his intention and sprang away. That leap saved Hugh; a bullet struck and starred his windshield; another whistled past his head; a third punched a harmless hole in one of his rear mud-guards. Then he passed out of range. He was free ... free.
Once more exultation flamed in him. The road, ever climbing higher, followed the folds of the mountains. Sometimes, as he looked ahead, it would seem to come to an end and the careening car be about to leap into the vast void of the valley. But as he drew near, it hooked sharply round, and with a wrench of the wheel he was safe on a new stretch. Below him, far, far below, he could see the white bed of the Tavignano, the river like a blue ribband tangled amid the boulders. He seemed to be in the clouds, and rising, rising to the top of the world. He stopped the car for a moment to consult his map.
Good! It was only three o’clock, and not more than some eighty kilometres to Agaccio. If nothing happened he could make it by nightfall. True, they might telegraph to the police, and have him stopped at some wayside village. No, that was not likely. They did not want to have any dealings with the police. Once at Agaccio he was safe.
He was about to start again, when he heard a sound that checked him. With a hand on the wheel he listened intently. From far down the valley it came, the faint tick-tock of a straining motor. He ran his eye along the sinuous curve of road that was like a white tape-line tacked to the mountain. Yes, there it was, about two miles away, the long grey auto racing in pursuit.
“If they want to catch me, they’ll have to do some giddy going,” he muttered, as once more he slammed on his speeds.
The little car, panting with eagerness, ate up the road. If only it had been a straight road he could have launched forward, but the hair-pin bends baffled him. As he swung around them, a swerve of a few inches would have shot him a thousand feet into the valley below. Ahead of him the mountains rose like a solid wall, gaunt and stupendous. They seemed to crowd around him, to close him in, to block his way. Clouds cloaked their higher summits and the drizzling rain had grown chill and dispiriting. The increasing stickiness of the way made careful driving more and more necessary. Dizzily on his right rose the mountain; on his left sheerly dropped the valley. A skid would be fatal.
Nervously he slackened speed, but even as he did so his heart seemed to contract. On the bend of the hill below he saw the grey car. It swung madly round a corner and strained on with relentless energy. That chauffeur must be a demon. The four men were urging him to greater speed, bending forward with fierce excited gestures. They were not more than half a mile behind and every second the distance was lessening. Once more Hugh gave the car gas and she leaped forward.
They should not capture him. That would mean torture, death. He knew them. They were exasperated now beyond all reason. They would show him no mercy. And they were gaining on him, gaining relentlessly, inch by inch.
It was getting gloomier, he noticed,—and more chilly. Yet in spite of the increasing cold, great drops of sweat beaded his brow. With hands tensely clutching the driving wheel he glared at the glistening road ahead. His motor was going with a steady roar; and the car was bucking and plunging in a maddened frenzy of speed. He was near the top of the long valley, and soon would be dashing into the dark defiles of the mountains. But before he could reach them he would have to pass over a long bit of straight road. It was on this, he feared, the final tussle would come.
He had not gone more than a third of a mile when he heard the grey car come around the corner behind him. They were now on the same stretch, running for every last ounce of power in their motors. The grey car roared down on him like the wind. It must be doing eighty miles an hour to his forty. With his foot jammed hard on the gas-pedal, he clutched the bucking wheel. The car bounded and rocked beneath him. It was all he could do to keep it on the road. The hillside was a blur, the wind screamed in his ears.
With every spin of its great engine the grey car was gaining. He dared not look around, but he felt sure that the four men were reaching forward, revolvers in hands, tense, grim, implacable. The giant panting of their motor drowned the roar of his own. He could do no more, ... he was at his full burst of speed.
He watched the road rise sharply before him. It was on that long slope he would be caught. He knew it. As he struck the rise, his speed dropped. Not so that of the grey car, it seemed to come on faster than ever. It roared like an angry monster; its panting deafened him....
What was that? A bullet. They were near enough to shoot; they had him! He crouched low as another bullet sung past his ears. In a moment more he would jam in his brakes, stop the car brutally, leap into the maquis. He had a revolver; he would sell his life for a grim price. At least two of these devils should pay!
Then he heard another report, and his heart gave a leap of joy. Could it be the bursting of a tire? Yes, he was right. There were shouts, curses, furious exclamations, then silence. On he hurtled, hardly believing in his luck. He could no longer hear them, and at the head of the valley, he slowed up and looked round. The grey car had come to a standstill. The men had gotten out and were busy fitting on a new tire. That would take them ten minutes at least. He had already gained nearly a mile. In ten minutes he could do another five. Let him only have six miles between them, and, with luck, he would beat them yet. He put on speed again.
How marvellously the road was mounting! Great craggy peaks soared up on every side. Dark ravines yawned beneath him. Ahead was a cloud-mass, heavy as a sponge. The rainy drizzle had thickened to a downpour. The car now splashed through pools of water, now slithered over stretches of mud. Then the forests began to close in on both sides of the road and give him a sense of security. The country had completely changed. The road descended into dripping oakgroves, and spanned dark gulleys, down which brawled angry torrents.
Then it began to climb again, and the oaks gave way to pines. He had been travelling for nearly an hour, and had heard no sound of his pursuers. What had happened to them? Perhaps something worse than a damaged tire. He must be far ahead of them by now. He was rapidly mounting to the Col of Vizzavona. According to his map, when he had crossed the divide, he would drop down into Agaccio. Only let him surmount the Col and he could coast downhill for the rest of the way. He should make Agaccio by dark. For the third time that day he glowed with exultation.
It was getting very cold. The pines were chill and gloomy. The rain seemed to sting.... What was that just ahead, that patch of white? Surely it could not be snow? Yes. It was a short stretch, quite shallow. The car bounded through it easily. But look, another, broader, deeper! The car slid a little this time, and his heart sank. Then he saw the road was clear, and his hopes rose again. He mounted a ridge. He must be in the very heart of the mountains now. The mist rolled and dipped, cloaking the stark peaks that ringed him round. Surely he could not go much higher.
Again the road dropped swiftly. At the bottom of the dip, his car plunged into a great drift of snow, a foot deep and half melted. For a few yards it struggled on, them slackened speed and came almost to a standstill. Desperately he strove to force his way through; his wheels were whirring and slipping in the rain-rotted snow. He could not budge. He realized that it was useless.
Jumping out he reconnoitred the road ahead. It was filled with drifts, snow without a break. He never could get through. Stalled! Hopelessly stuck! Going back he tried once again. The car struggled gallantly, but to no use. He looked at it ruefully.
“Bless you, you gallant little beast,” he said. “You’ve served me more than nobly. Now it’s got to be good-bye.”
Then he left the road and plunged into the forest.