Girl on a Slay Ride by Louis Trimble

jawline a knife edge. His nostrils were flared out in anger. The wagon began to buck, and he lifted his foot from the throttle, then kicked it down again viciously. The pitch was too steep. The road surface spun loosely under the wheels. Graef thrust his leg down hard, holding the throttle to the floor. Drops of sweat beaded on his forehead and dripped off his nose.
    Suddenly there was the shriek of metal on rock. The wagon paused in its forward progress, its rear wheels spinning viciously. Then it lurched ahead for a few feet and came to a full stop.
    A deadhead rock under the grass, Mallory thought bitterly. Graef still had the throttle to the floor. The rear wheels were digging futilely in the soft dirt of the ruts. The car did not move. A smell of hot metal began to fill the air.
    Graef stopped trying to force the car forward. The rear wheels began to slow down. He opened his door and looked back. “Find out what we hit, Mallory!”
    Mallory climbed out and knelt in front of the wagon. He parted the long grass that covered the crown of the road. He looked and then got up. “You hit a deadhead rock. You rode the axle over it and cut a hundred-dollar hole in the pan.”
    Graef slammed his door. His olive skin was mottled and liverish-looking. He slammed the wagon into reverse and gunned the motor. The rear wheels spewed rock and dirt underneath the chassis. Metal snapped. The wagon bounced backward, jounced up, and dropped its front wheels into the ruts with a violent thump.
    Graef paid no attention. Mallory stood helplessly by as the wagon bounced backward, leaving a trail of oil on the grass. The front wheels rose and dropped again. A front tire blew. Graef swung the wheel sharply. The wagon backed out of the ruts and began to hammer its way through the brush and timber lining the road. A wiry fir branch whipped in the window and stung Graef across the face. He began to curse in a high, shrill voice again. Even a tree could not touch Graef with impunity. Mallory wondered bleakly if he’d order it cut down.
    The motor began to hammer. The acrid stench of scorched metal filled the sharp, clear air. Mallory did not move as he watched the wagon buck and grind into the trees and out of sight. Branches snapped forward, filling the hole Graef had bored into the forest.
    There was nothing left but crushed fern and grass and a line of oil smoking in the cool, bright sunshine.

Chapter XI
    M ALLORY realized that he could run. Graef and Thoms were still in the wagon. By the time they came back to the road, he could be hidden in the timber and heading back for the highway.
    Only Graef had Denise, and he had the forty thousand dollars in securities.
    Mallory stood and waited by the spot where the wagon had disappeared. Thoms came noisily out of the brush, carrying a load of camping gear. He said, “Miles wants you.”
    Mallory followed the trail of oil drippings toward the wagon. He met Denise. She was carrying her make-up kit and suitcase. Mallory moved in front of her, blocking her path.
    He said, “What got into you?”
    Her eyes met his and then slid to one side. She said in a low voice, “I told you how I felt, Cliff. As long as I ’m up here, at least I’m safe from Rick.”
    “Safe with a murderer and a rapist?”
    She flushed. She said defiantly, “Safe as long as you don’t try any more fool stunts like that one with the coffee. Stop using your head for a battering-ram.”
    She moved to one side and walked around Mallory. He let her go and walked on toward the wagon.
    Graef was as calm as if nothing had happened. He was waving his gun as he directed Blalock in the unloading of the wagon.
    He said, “Mallory, get that folding shovel of yours and cover those oil spots and tire tracks.”
    Silently, Mallory got the shovel. Graef watched as he worked from the wagon toward the road. By the time he was done, Thoms and Blalock had the wagon emptied and the gear carried somewhere up the road. Mallory tried to recall this