I made the turn onto the road with the tires shrieking. Walsh wailed in the trunk as the Olds carried all the way across the road and the left wheels went off onto the shoulder and flung up dust and the rear end fought for traction and here came the truck with its blinding headlights bearing straight at us and then the Olds’ wheels grabbed again and I cut to the right an instant before the truck went by in a whooshing blur, its horn wailing. All I could see in the rearview was a mass of dust.
I floored the accelerator once more and the Olds sped up. The steam streaking from under the hood was thicker now but on this smoother surface we were fast gaining ground. Russell was shoving shells into the shotgun.
We closed to within fifty yards of Scroggins’ truck. Thirty. Fifteen. A pair of headlights showed way behind us. I hoped they were Buck’s. Now the Olds’ engine was knocking. We’d probably torn a hole in the oil pan and were about to throw a rod.
Russell pumped a shell into the chamber and got in position at the window. “Closer!” he yelled.
I brought the Olds to within ten yards of the truck. There was no traffic in sight ahead of us, so I pulled out to the middle of the road to give Russell a better angle. He leaned out the window and took aim on the left rear wheel. The truck’s driver must’ve seen what we were up to—he cut sharply to the left as Russell fired and missed the tire and the buckshot caromed up against the truck’s underside and ricocheted every which way and some of it slung back and busted our headlamp and rang off the fender and Russell yelped.
He swore and shook his left arm, then pumped the slide and the empty shell case flew off into the dark and he set himself again. The engine was knocking louder now and I could smell it beginning to burn. Any minute now it would lose power and seize up and that would be it, we’d lose them. The driver was rocking the truck from one side of the road to the other to try to throw off our aim, but Russell took his time and gauged the truck’s movements just right and the next boom of the shotgun blew the tire apart.
The truck sagged and started fishtailing and the ruined tire flew off the rim and came back and hit the Olds’ windshield, shattering the right side and spraying us with shards and spiderwebbing the glass in front of me. I flinched and hit the brakes instinctively and too hard and the car started to skid sideways but I steered into the slide and managed to stay on the road.
The truck veered away, pitching and bouncing over the rough ground, and then swung into a tight turn and its left wheels left the ground and kept on rising and the truck capsized in a great crashing cloud of dust and skidded to a halt upside down.
And BOOM!—it exploded into an enormous, quivering sphere of orange fire.
I pulled over on the shoulder, the engine clattering like skeletons wrestling in a tin tub, black smoke streaming from the tailpipe. I switched off the ignition and we got out of the car but there was nothing we could do except watch the truck burn. The fire looked like molten gold, it was so thick and richly fueled. It lit up the countryside for a good hundred yards all around. We were thirty yards away but a light wind pressed the heat hard on our faces. Rivulets of flaming whiskey snaked from the truck in all directions over the stony ground. There were no screams, no cry at all except for Walsh’s muffled cries for help from the Oldsmobile trunk. Russell picked up a large rock and flung it against the back of the car and the trunk fell quiet.
Buck arrived and parked the Model A behind the Olds. He left the motor running and got out and came to stand beside us and stare at the fireball wreckage. He looked grieved. So did Russell. Probably so did I. It was ten thousand in cash money plus a valuable load of hooch going up in flames.
Another truck was approaching from the west, slowing down as it drew closer. The driver leaned out the window and we turned back toward the fire to hide our faces from him. “Hey!” he called out. “What the hell happened?” But none of us turned around or answered him, and if he’d been thinking about stopping he changed his mind. His gearbox clashed and the engine wound up and he rolled on by.
And then on top of the odors of burning gasoline and oil and alcohol came a sickening smell unlike any I’d ever known, one I couldn’t begin to describe for the lack of anything to compare it with.
“Jesus,” Buck said. “Been a while since I had a whiff of that.”
“Since France,” Russell said. “Since them flamethrowers.” He’d rolled up his left sleeve and was examining two small bloody spots on his arm where he’d been hit by ricocheting buckshot.
More headlights came in view a long way down the road.
“Well hell, we best get a move on,” Buck said, and we headed back to the Ford.
“What about him?” Russell said, nodding at the Olds.
Buck shrugged. “He don’t know who we are or even what we look like. If you owned that load of hooch, wouldn’t you wonder why he’s the only one still alive? Maybe wonder if he was some kind of inside man? Let him try and talk his way out of it.”
“What if he is the inside man?” I said.
“Tough luck for him,” Buck said. “You drive.”
I went around to the other side of the Model A and slid in behind the wheel. Buck sat in the shotgun seat and Russell got in back. I wheeled the car onto the road and got rolling.
“I got to tell you, kid,” Buck said, “that was some piece of driving. It was all I could do to keep you in sight.”
I smiled my pleasure at the compliment.
He looked back at Russell. “What say, little brother? This boy shake you up some with that hairy ride?”
“Naw,” Russell said. “Not so bad a change of pants and a few drinks won’t fix me right up.”
Well, sir, I’ve been the grease monkey here for six months, and I can tell you for a fact he’d had his suspicions for a while. Couldn’t hardly blame him—you ever seen Eula? Real piece of calico, I’m telling you, and she damn well knows it. Likes to strut it, know what I mean? My daddy always said the worst trouble a man could have was to be married to a goodlooking woman. It’s about the only trouble I ain’t had in this life—just don’t tell my wife I said so.
Like I say, it wasn’t nothing that took him by real big surprise, but still. Happened just last week. He says to me, Weldon, watch the place for me, and off he goes to home in the middle of the morning. S nuck into the house and sure enough there she was—riding the baloney pony with this old boy turned out to be a shipworker. Miller had him a ball bat and from what I hear he really laid it to the bastard. They say it’ll be a while before he gets out of traction and he’ll probably need a wheelchair when he does. Hard price to pay, but that’s the chance you take when you go thieving from another man’s quim, ain’t it? He can thank his lucky stars he ain’t dead. Miller coulda shot him and been within his legal rights except he ain’t a naturally mean sort. As for her, hell, he only punched her up some, knocked out a tooth. Mighta done worse except she took off running while he was still whaling on the shipworker and he had to chase her down the block. He’d only just started in on her when this neighbor runs over and tries to get him to stop. So Miller starts in on him. When the cops got there he had the fella down in the middle of the street and letting him have it with both fists and Eula screaming bloody murder. They said she wasn’t wearing nothing but this little T-shirt—what I wouldn’t’ve give to seen that! But like I say, they were lucky Miller only kicked their asses ruther than give them a load of buckshot. The neighbor’s the only reason he’s in jail. The judge figured he had good reason for what he did to Eula and the shipworker but said beating up on the neighbor was uncalled for. Gave him thirty days in the cooler and promised him sixty more if he didn’t behave while he was in there. I took him some smokes yesterday and he said, Well, buddy, four down and twenty-six to go. I’d say he’s keeping his spirits up real good.