helped her out.
Armstrong came next, having made his own way to the cockpit. He said, ‘It’s a bloody shambles back there. I think the old man in the back seat is dead and his wife is pretty badly hurt. I don’t think it’s safe to move her.’
‘What about Peabody?’
‘The luggage was thrown forward on to both of us. He’s half buried under it. I tried to get him free but I couldn’t.’
O’Hara passed this on to Forester. Rohde was kneeling by Montes, trying to bring him round. Forester hesitated, then said, ‘Now we’ve got some weight at this end it might be safe for me to go back.’
O’Hara said, ‘Tread lightly.’
Forester gave a mirthless grin and went back through the door. He looked at Miss Ponsky. She was sitting rigid, her arms clutched tightly about her, her eyes staring unblinkingly at nothing. He ignored her and began to heave suitcases from the top of Peabody, being careful to stow them in the front seats. Peabody stirred and Forester shook him into consciousness, and as soon as he seemed to be able to understand, said, ‘Go into the cockpit – the cockpit, you understand,’
Peabody nodded blearily and Forester stepped a little farther aft. ‘Christ Almighty!’ he whispered, shocked at what he saw.
Coughlin was a bloody pulp. The cargo had shifted in the smash and had come forward, crushing the two back seats. Mrs Coughlin was still alive but both her legs had been cut off just below the knee. It was only because she had been leaning forward to comfort Miss Ponsky that she hadn’t been killed like her husband.
Forester felt something touch his back and turned. It was Peabody moving aft. ‘I said the cockpit, you damned fool,’ shouted Forester.
‘I wanna get outa here,’ mumbled Peabody. ‘I wanna get out. The door’s back there.’
Forester wasted no time in argument. Abruptly he jabbed at Peabody’s stomach and then brought his clenched fists down at the nape of his neck as he bent over gasping, knocking him cold. He dragged him forward to the door and said to Rohde, ‘Take care of this fool. If he causes trouble, knock him on the head.’
He went back and took Miss Ponsky by the arm. ‘Come,’ he said gently.
She rose and followed him like a somnambulist and he led her right into the cockpit and delivered her to O’Hara. Montes was now conscious and would be ready to move soon.
As soon as O’Hara reappeared Forester said, ‘I don’t think the old lady back there will make it.’
‘Get her out,’ said O’Hara tightly. ‘For God’s sake, get her out.’
So Forester went back. He didn’t know whether Mrs Coughlin was alive or dead; her body was still warm, however, so he picked her up in his arms. Blood was still spurting from her shattered shins, and when he stepped into the cockpit Rohde drew in his breath with a hiss. ‘On the seat,’ he said. ‘She needs tourniquets now – immediately.’
He took off his jacket and then his shirt and began to rip the shirt into strips, saying to Forester curtly, ‘Get the old man out.’
Forester and O’Hara helped Montes through the windscreen and then Forester turned and regarded Rohde, noting the goose-pimples on his back. ‘Clothing,’ he said to O’Hara. ‘We’ll need warm clothing. It’ll be bad up here by nightfall.’
‘Hell!’ said O’Hara. ‘That’s adding to the risk. I don’t – ’
‘He is right,’ said Rohde without turning his head. ‘If we do not have clothing we will all be dead by morning.’
‘All right,’ said O’Hara. ‘Are you willing to take the risk?’
‘I’ll chance it,’ said Forester.
‘I’ll get these people on the ground first,’ said O’Hara. ‘But while you’re at it get the maps. There are some air charts of the area in the pocket next to my seat.’
Rohde grunted. ‘I’ll get those.’
O’Hara got the people from the top of the fuselage to the ground and Forester began to bring suitcases into the cockpit. Unceremoniously he heaved Peabody through the windscreen and equally carelessly O’Hara dropped him to the ground, where he lay sprawling. Then Rohde handed through the unconscious Mrs Coughlin and O’Hara was surprised at her lightness. Rohde climbed out and, taking her in his arms, jumped to the ground, cushioning the shock for her.
Forester began to hand out suitcases and O’Hara tossed them indiscriminately. Some burst open, but most survived the fall intact.
The Dakota lurched.
‘Forester,’ yelled O’Hara. ‘Come out.’
‘There’s still some more.’
‘Get out, you idiot,’ O’Hara bawled. ‘She’s going.’
He grabbed Forester’s arms and hauled him out bodily and let him go thumping to the ground. Then he jumped himself and, as he did so, the nose rose straight into the air and the plane slid over the edge of the cliff with a grinding noise and in a cloud of dust. It crashed down two hundred feet and there was a long dying rumble and then silence.
O’Hara looked at the silent people about him, then turned his eyes to the harsh and savage mountains which surrounded them. He shivered with cold as he felt the keen wind which blew from the snowfields, and then shivered for a different reason as he locked eyes with Forester. They both knew that the odds against survival were heavy and that it was probable that the escape from the Dakota was merely the prelude to a more protracted death.
VIII
‘Now, let’s hear all this from the beginning,’ said Forester.
They had moved into the nearest of the cabins. It proved bare but weatherproof, and there was a fireplace in which Armstrong had made a fire, using wood which Willis had brought from another cabin. Montes was lying in a corner being looked after by his niece, and Peabody was nursing a hangover and looking daggers at Forester.
Miss Ponsky had recovered remarkably from the rigidity of fright. When she had been dropped to the ground she had collapsed, digging her fingers into the frozen gravel in an ecstasy of relief. O’Hara judged she would never have the guts to enter an aeroplane ever again in her life. But now she was showing remarkable aptitude for sick nursing, helping Rohde to care for Mrs Coughlin.
Now there was a character, thought O’Hara; Rohde was a man of unsuspected depths. Although he was not a medical man, he had a good working knowledge of practical medicine which was now invaluable. O’Hara had immediately turned to Willis for help with Mrs Coughlin, but Willis had said, ‘Sorry, I’m a physicist – not a physician.’
‘Dr Armstrong?’ O’Hara had appealed.
Regretfully Armstrong had also shaken his head. ‘I’m a historian.’
So Rohde had taken over – the non-doctor with the medical background – and the man with the gun.
O’Hara
