Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 7, No. 9, September 1962

“I said there was no way with the car, Sam,” Madigan corrected. The younger man picked up the sack of money and emptied it on the floor. Kneeling down, watching Hooper closely, he used one hand to stuff the currency into a knapsack. When it was packed, he slipped his arms through the shoulder straps, switching the shotgun from one hand to the other as he did so.

“What are you gonna do, hike down?” Hooper asked sarcastically.

“Little too cold for that, Sam,” said Madigan lightly. He backed over to one of the cots and pushed the blankets off onto the floor. Beneath them lay a pair of shiny skis and matching ski poles.

“So that’s it,” said Hooper. “You’re gonna ski down. A regular all-American boy, aren’t you? Don’t you think the law will be waiting for you when you get back down there?”

Madigan was kneeling on the other side of the cabin again, lacing on heavy ski shoes. He continued to watch Hooper closely, the shotgun lying only inches from his hands.

“I’m not going that way,” he told Hooper. “I’m going down the other side. There’s a ski lodge down there. By tonight there’ll be busloads of skiers up here. Nobody’ll notice one more.” He stood up, gathered his skis and poles under one arm and leveled the shotgun on Hooper. “Outside, Sam,” he ordered.

Hooper went back out into the cold, Madigan following him.

“Just stand over there by the door where I can keep an eye on you,” said Madigan as he moved a few yards away from the cabin. Hooper watched while the younger man laid his skis in position on the level snow and knelt between them, cradling the shotgun first on one knee, then the other, while he fitted the skis onto his shoes. Then he stood up and held the shotgun loosely under one arm.

“You gonna kill me, kid?” Hooper asked, tensing himself for a drop to the ground to try and get the .25 out before Madigan could get him with a load of buckshot.

“What for, Sam?” Madigan said easily. “You never did anything to me.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll come after you in the spring, when I get out of here?”

Madigan laughed. “Go ahead, Sam,” he said simply.

Hooper frowned as suspicion flooded his mind. It doesn’t figure, he told himself. The first rule in pulling a double-cross is to make sure the guy you cross won’t ever be able to get even. It’s a trick, he decided. He’s trying to get me off guard for some reason.

“I’ve got to cut out if I’m gonna make the ski lodge by dark,” Madigan said. “You just go on back in the cabin, Sam, and stay put until I get gone. And don’t try following me if you’ve got any sense; you’d never make it on foot. Understand?”

Hooper nodded.

“So long, Sam.”

Hooper backed slowly toward the door, still expecting Madigan to raise the shotgun at any second. But the younger man made no attempt to fire; he just stood waiting while Hooper backed all the way into the cabin and quickly shut the door.

Watching through the window, Hooper saw Madigan swing first one, then the other ski around and move off slowly toward the first slope that would take him down the other side of the mountain. Hooper wet his lips and took out the little .25 automatic, snapping the safety off. He looked back out and decided that Madigan was now about a hundred yards away; too far to chance accuracy with the small bore weapon he had. Got to get closer to him, he thought anxiously.

He hurried to the rear of the cabin and climbed out the back window, dropping nearly waist-deep into a drift. Moving through the snow to the corner, he peered around and saw Madigan still moving smartly along on his skis, now about two hundred yards away. Hooper thought quickly and bolted from behind the cabin, running in a crouch until he reached the line of trees edging the clearing. The snow was not so deep under the trees and Hooper was able to move faster. He began to run through the trees, staying back under their protective covering. He ran until his chest was heaving from the thin air that failed to satisfy his lungs; then he had to rest. He slowed to a walk and moved back toward the clearing. Looking out from behind a tree, he saw Madigan still about fifty yards ahead of him. He leaned up against the tree and counted slowly to thirty, then moved back under cover and started running again.

He ran until he judged himself to be ahead of Madigan, then slowed down and crept quietly back to the edge of the clearing. Madigan was just approaching the place where Hooper stood concealed. They were both almost to the edge of the slope now.

Hooper waited until Madigan went by, then stepped out behind him, the gun leveled. “Hold it, kid!” he said sharply.

Madigan tried to whirl around and raise the shotgun but he got his legs tangled in the skis and his arms in the ski poles, and he dropped the weapon and stumbled into a snowdrift helplessly.

Hooper stood over him laughing, the .25 aimed at his chest. “Outsmarted yourself, didn’t you, punk?”

“Don’t shoot me, Sam!” Madigan begged.