1971 - Want to Stay Alive Read Free

sake!” Chuck stared at the Indian for a long moment. “Hey! Why don’t we three gang up? Suppose we come with you as far as Paradise City . . . what do you say?”
    Listening, Meg marvelled at Chuck’s nerve. He was right, of course. If you didn’t ask, you didn’t get.
    “Why should we join up?” Poke asked after a pause.
    “What have you got to lose? No fun in travelling alone. We’ll keep you company.”
    Poke got to his feet and carrying his rucksack to the far end of the room, away from the other two, he sat down.
    “You deaf?” Chuck said. “What have you got to lose?”
    “I’ll think about it. I’m going to sleep. Blow the candles out . . . they cost money.” and Poke stretched out on the floor.
    Chuck and Meg exchanged glances as they watched the Indian turn over on his side, his back to them, his head on his rucksack.
    Meg leaned forward and blew out the candles. Darkness closed in on them. It was several minutes before their eyes grew accustomed to the moonlight. By that time, Poke seemed to be sleeping. His breathing was slow and steady.
    Chuck and Meg settled down.
    Her hunger satisfied, her body tired, Meg slid into sleep, but not Chuck.
    He lay still, his mind active.
    Was this Indian bluffing? he asked himself. Could he really be planning to buy a car? If he meant what he said he must have the money either on him or in his rucksack.
    Chuck began to sweat. He must have at least two hundred dollars! A goddam Redskin with two hundred dollars!
    His thick, short fingers closed around the handle of his knife. It would be easy. He had only to creep across the room and one slash with the knife would finish it.
    Chuck was no stranger to murder. It was always the first one that counted and he had two behind him. What was one more?
    Then he remembered Meg and he grimaced. He should never have picked her up. He was sure she wouldn’t stand for him killing the Indian. His fingers tightened their grip on his knife. Two hundred dollars! Well, if she didn’t go along, then she would have to go the same way. He would be miles from here before the bodies were found—if they were ever found.
    He wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand.
    Yes, he would do it! But not yet. The Indian was sleeping lightly. Later, the light sleep would turn heavy . . . that would be the time.
    “Chuck?”
    The sound of the Indian’s voice made Chuck stiffen.
    “I sleep light and I have a gun.” There was a pause, then Poke went on, “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
    A gun!
    Chuck’s fingers relaxed on the handle of the knife. It was as if this bastard had read his thoughts.
    “Oh, shut up,” he growled. “I’m trying to sleep.”
    “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
    Eventually, Chuck did fall asleep.
     
    ***
     
    For breakfast Poke supplied more ham, some stale bread and a bottle of coke.
    They ate in silence, but again Meg was aware that Poke kept looking at Chuck, his black eyes glittering as if he were trying to make up his mind about him.
    When they had finished, Chuck said abruptly, “When you buy that car, are you giving us a ride?”
    Poke went over to his rucksack and produced a cordless electric razor and a pocket mirror. Propping the mirror against the window frame, he began to shave.
    Chuck clenched his fists and blood rushed into his face.
    “Did you hear what I said?” he snarled.
    Poke glanced at him, then went on shaving. When he had finished, he said, “I’m still thinking.” He cleaned the razor and put it away, then took out a towel and a piece of soap. “The canal is just across the way. You coming?”
    Chuck’s heart skipped a beat. Here was his chance! Away from Meg! He could kill this Indian, come back, and tell her he had drowned. She mightn’t believe it, but at least she wouldn’t be a witness.
    “Sure.”
    He followed Poke out of the room. At the foot of the stairs, he said, “Hell! I’ve forgotten my towel.”
    His brown face wooden, Poke stared at him.
    “Tell her not to bother. I