Nightfall by David Goodis

hurry. Press the gun-on him. He looks nervous.”
      “Why should I be nervous?” Vanning said.
      “You shut up,” Pete said. He prodded the gun against Vanning's spine, held it there. A few moments later he said, “How does it look, John?”
      “I think he's done for,” said the man with steel-wool hair. “I think he busted his head. But he's still breathing.”
      “You think he'll last long?”
      “I can't say.”
      “I always told you Sam was a lousy driver. I told you he was no good in a squeeze.”
      “Close your head. I'm trying to think what we should do.”
      “Should we leave him here?”
      “That's why I asked you to close your head. Because every time you open your mouth you prove you were born without brains. How can we leave him here? Look at him. He's still alive.”
      “I know that, John, but you just claimed he won't last long. What's the use of letting him suffer? We'll be doing him a favor if we put a bullet in him. All I got to do is—”
      “Keep that gun where it is,” John said. “And keep your head closed while I figure this out.”
      Just then the man on the ground let out a loud groan and opened his eyes.
      “I don't know, John. We ain't got much time,” Pete said.
      John looked down at the man on the ground. He said, “Sam, you drive like a monkey.”
      Sam let out another groan and closed his eyes.
      “You,” John said, and he pointed at Vanning, “you come over here and lend a hand.”
      “Wait a minute,” Pete said. “What do you figure on doing?”
      “What does it look like?”
      “We can't take Sam with us,” Pete said. “He'll slow us down.”
      “Sure, that's right,” John said. “And if we leave him here and they find him and he's still alive, the first thing he'll think of is that we left him. I don't think he'll appreciate that. You never know. He might even open his mouth.”
      “But if he's dead he won't be able to open his mouth.”
      “What's the matter, Pete? Don't you like Sam?”
      “I get along with Sam. You know that. But why take chances?”
      “We won't shoot him,” John said. “And we won't talk about it any more. We're taking him with us and if we can find a doctor somewhere we'll see if he has a chance.” He glanced up at Vanning. “All right, you. Let's go to work.”
      Vanning and John carried the injured man to the convertible, placed him in the back seat. Then John ran back to the wrecked station wagon, got inside and came out, carrying a black satchel. He brought it back to the convertible, threw it on the floor near the front seat and said to Vanning, “Get in there and put the top down.”
      “What do you want with me?” Vanning said. “Why don't you take the car? Leave me here.”
      “And have you describe the car to the law?” John smiled in appreciation of his own strategy. He shook his head. “Nothing doing. You come with us. And you drive. Pete, you stay in the back seat and look after Sam.”
      “I still think,” Pete said, “it would be better if I put a bullet in Sam.”
      “I think,” John said, “you ought to cut out that line of thought.”
      “It ain't that I have anything against him. It's just that I—”
      “Come on,” John said. “Let's be on our way.”
      They were in the car now, the top was down, the car was rolling. It made a turn onto the other road, it ran down the other road, and the road ran up and out and once more skirted the side of the mountain. Vanning watched the rearview mirror.
      “You keep your eyes on the road,” John said.
      “I'm getting a little nervous,” Vanning said.
      “So am I,” John said, and he brought up the revolver so that Vanning could see it was