Dinah said she would prefer anything to being shot at again. I said it was all right with me, though I would rather have tried to find some path back to the city.
We followed the dirt track cautiously until our headlights settled on a small clapboard building that badly needed the paint it had never got.
“Is this it?” Dinah asked Reno.
“Uh-huh. Stay here till I look it over.”
He left us, appearing soon in the beam of our lights at the shack door. He fumbled with keys at the padlock, got it off, opened the door, and went in. Presently he came to the door and called:
“All right. Come in and make yourselves to home.”
Dinah cut off the engine and got out of the car.
“Is there a flashlight in the car?” I asked.
She said, “Yes,” gave it to me, yawned, “My God, I’m tired. I hope there’s something to drink in the hole.”
I told her I had a flask of Scotch. The news cheered her up.
The shack was a one-room affair that held an army cot covered with brown blankets, a deal table with a deck of cards and some gummy poker chips on it, a brown iron stove, four chairs, an oil lamp, dishes, pots, pans and buckets, three shelves with canned food on them, a pile of firewood and a wheelbarrow.
Reno was lighting the lamp when we came in. He said:
“Not so tough. I’ll hide the heap and then we’ll be all set till daylight.”
Dinah went over to the cot, turned back the covers, and reported: