Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (215 page)
Read Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) Online
Authors: Travelers In Time
Andrews
lowered
his
voice
a
little.
"I'm
beneath
him,"
he
snarled. "I'm
just
anybody.
I'm
a
man
in
a
gray
suit.
'Be
on
your
good
behavior,
my
good
man,'
he
says
to
me,
'or
I
shall
have
one
of
my lackeys
give
you
a
taste
of
the
riding
crop.'"
Mrs.
Andrews
sat
up
in
bed.
"Why
should
he
say
that
to
you?"
she asked.
"He
wasn't
such
a
great
man,
was
he?
I
mean,
didn't
he
try
to sell
Louisiana
to
the
French,
or
something,
behind
Washington's back?"
"He
was
a
scoundrel,"
said
Andrews,
"but
a
very
brilliant
mind."
Mrs.
Andrews
lay
down
again.
"I
was
in
hopes
you
weren't
going
to
dream
about
him
any
more,"
she
said.
"I
thought
if
I
brought
you
up
here
-----
"
"It's
him
or
me,"
said
Andrews
grimly.
"I
can't
stand
this
forever." "Neither
can
I,"
Mrs.
Andrews
said,
and
there
was
a
hint
of
tears
in her
voice.
Andrews
and
his
host
spent
most
of
the
afternoon,
as
Mrs.
Andrews had
expected,
shooting
at
targets
on
the
edge
of
the
wood
behind the
Crowley
studio.
After
the
first
few
rounds,
Andrews
surprised Crowley
by
standing
with
his
back
to
the
huge
hulk
of
dead
tree trunk
on
which
the
targets
were
nailed,
walking
thirty
paces
ahead in
a
stiff-legged,
stem-faced
manner,
with
his
revolver
held
at
arm's length
above
his
head,
then
turning
suddenly
and
firing.
Crowley
dropped
to
the
ground,
uninjured
but
scared.
"What
the hell's
the
big
idea,
Harry?"
he
yelled.
Andrews
didn't
say
anything,
but
started
to
walk
back
to
the
tree again.
Once
more
he
stood
with
his
back
to
the
target
and
began stepping
off
the
thirty
paces.
"I
think
they
kept
their
arm
hanging
straight
down,"
Bob
called to
him.
"I
don't
think
they
stuck
it
up
in
the
air."
Andrews,
still
counting
to
himself,
lowered
his
ann,
and
this
time, as
he
turned
at
the
thirtieth
step,
he
whirled
and
fired
from
his
hip, three
times
in
rapid
succession.
"Hey!"
said
Crowley.
-
Two
of
the
shots
missed
the
tree
but
the
last
one
hit
it,
about two
feet
under
the
target.
Crowley
looked
at
his
house
guest
oddly as
Andrews
began
to
walk
back
to
the
tree
again,
without
a
word, his
lips
tight,
his
eyes
bright,
his
breath
coming
fast.
"What
the
hell?"
Crowley
said
to
himself.
"Look,
it's
my
turn," he
called,
but
Andrews
turned,
then
stalked
ahead,
unheeding.
This time
when
he
wheeled
and
fired,
his
eyes
were
closed.
"Good
God
Almighty,
man!"
said
Crowley
from
the
grass,
where he
lay
flat
on
his
stomach.
"Hey,
give
me
that
gun,
will
you?"
he demanded,
getting
to
his
feet.
Andrews
let
him
take
it.
"I
need
a
lot
more
practice,
I
guess," he
said.
"Not
with
me
standing
around,"
said
Crowley.
"Come
on,
let's go
back
to
the
house
and
shake
up
a
drink.
I've
got
the
jumps." "I
need
a
lot
more
practice,"
said
Andrews
again.
He
got
his
practice
next
morning
just
as
the
sun
came
up
and the
light
was
hard
and
the
air
was
cold.
He
had
crawled
softly
out of
bed,
dressed
silently,
and
crept
out
of
the
room.
He
knew
where Crowley
kept
the
target
pistol
and
the
cartridges.
There
would
be a
target
on
the
tree
trunk,
just
as
high
as
a
man's
heart.
Mrs.
Andrews heard
the
shots
first
and
sat
sharply
upright
in
bed,
crying
"Harry!" almost
before
she
was
awake.
Then
she
heard
more
shots.
She
got up,
put
on
a
dressing
gown,
and
went
to
the
Crowleys'
door.
She heard
them
moving
about
in
their
room.
Alice
opened
the
door
and stepped
out
into
the
hall
when
Mrs.
Andrews
knocked.
"Is
Harry all
right?"
asked
Mrs.
Andrews.
"Where
is
he?
What
is
he
doing?"
"He's
out
shooting
behind
the
studio,
Bob
says,"
Alice
told
hei. "Bob'll
go
out
and
get
him.
Maybe
he
had
a
nightmare,
or
walked in
his
sleep."
"No,"
said
Mrs.
Andrews,
"he
never
walks
in
his
sleep.
He's awake."
"Let's
go
down
and
put
on
some
coffee,"
said
Alice.
"He'll
need some."
Crowley
came
out
of
the
bedroom
and
joined
the
women
in
the hallway.
"I'll
need
some
too,"
he
said.
"Good
morning,
Bess.
I'll bring
him
back.
What
the
hell's
the
matter
with
him,
anyway?" He
was
down
the
stairs
and
gone
before
she
could
answer.
She
was glad
of
that.
