Free The Slickers by L. Ron Hubbard

murder!”
    Bill wasn’t waiting to be an accessory to anything except his car.
    He raced down the steps, skidding on the icy walks now covered with sleet. He leaped into his coupe and thanked God the engine was still warm. He crashed gears and rocketed out into the street, headed for Forest Road.
    The ride was long and he had plenty of time to think. Maybe Joe had gotten out and had gone mad or something. Maybe Hartman had done something to make him mad. Maybe Joe would attack anybody on sight!
    He passed the last of the city filling stations and clattered over a bridge toward a strip of woods. Gradually he slowed down so that he could divide his attention between driving and watching, and was then forced to decrease his speed even further. At this slower pace, the snow did not pile so heavily against his windshield and the wiper started to work with a will.
    A half a mile went slowly by and then Bill saw what he had been looking for. He had turned a corner in the white road and his headlights struck squarely on something which lay sacklike and still on the edge of a drift. Bill pulled cautiously over to the side and stopped.
    When his motor died he sat for some seconds looking at the dark shape. There was no mistaking its identity. It was a corpse. The face lay buried, but there was something about the arms which made Bill’s heart drum against his ribs in rising tempo. Though long a reporter, Bill had always shivered at the sight of a dead man.
    At last he opened the door and got out. The snow covered the low-cut oxfords and found holes in his coat through which to drive. It was cold, and out here where the wind had no other resistance than trees, Bill Lacy had to lean against it to proceed. The leafless branches overhead moaned out a dirge. Stepping carefully without marring the tracks, Bill went to the side of the dead man. He didn’t touch it, for that was a job for the police. He merely stood there and looked down and tried to bring himself to realize that old Joe had had a hand in it.
    The head, though partially covered by the drifting sleet, was bent at an angle which told the story of a broken neck. The hands—hands which would never feel anything again—clutched stiffly at the white ground. The skin was an ugly blue, visible even in this poor light.
    Bill Lacy’s lips were tight when he struggled back to the car. For a moment he was half-minded to jump in and leave the scene before some unforeseen nemesis cut him down. But instead he reached into a side pocket and pulled out a flashlight.
    Back again across the road, Bill didn’t turn his beam on the corpse. He was shivery enough already without looking at that thing again. He picked out marks which looked like barefoot tracks and went ahead into the denseness of the thickets.
    At first he had been certain of one thing—that he and Joe were friends. But now that feeling began to inch away with the warmth of his body. He had had the idea that if he didn’t get out here and save Joe from the cops, he’d curse himself for the rest of his life. He knew they’d shoot Joe on sight, for Joe’s appearance was against him. Long arms, an ugly face. Sure, some rookie would spot him and drill him through the skull in a minute.
    Bill Lacy’s hands lost their warmth to the cold barrel of the flashlight and the snow crept down into his shoes until he could feel the water squish each time he stepped. He wore light, unlined gloves and as the sleet melted upon them, they became wet. The makers of his overcoat had cut the collar too low and he could feel his ears grow chilly pink.
    But the barefoot tracks drifted out ahead of him, deeper and deeper, into the wood. Because he was cold himself, Bill was sympathizing with Joe. It must be tough, walking barefoot through these drifts, and Joe had been born down there near the equator where the sun was hot.
    The tracks went around in a curve and came back. Bill found where the orangutan