Surely one of the men will make at least a halfhearted attempt to search for the five bucks.
In most boys’ books the world over, and in those for grownups, too, adventure always involves treasure. This globe rotates on a spindle of gold. A peglegged, parrot-petting pirate said exactly that, in one tale or another.
Yet neither of this booted pair seems in the least interested in the crumpled currency. Still without speaking a word to each other, they move on, away from the truck.
The possibility that neither of them noticed the money is slim. By I heir disinterest in the five dollars, they have revealed their true nature. They are engaged in an urgent search for something more important than treasure, and they won’t be distracted.
The two men walk westward from the back of the semi — in the general direction of the automobile transport.
The boy and his companion crawl forward, farther under the trailer, toward the cab, and then they slip out of shelter, into the open space between this rig and the next, where they had first glimpsed the cowboy boots.
Evidently having snatched a small treasure from the teeth of the desert breeze, the dog holds the five-dollar bill in his mouth.
“Good pup.”
The boy smoothes the currency between his hands, folds it, and stuffs it in a pocket of his jeans.
Their meager financial resources won’t carry them far, and they can’t expect to find money in the wind whenever they need it. For the time being, however, they are spared the humiliation of committing another larceny.
Maybe dogs aren’t capable of feeling humiliated. The boy’s never had a dog before. He knows their nature only from movies, books, and a few casual encounters.
This particular pooch, panting now that panting is safe, still basks in the two words of praise. He is a scamp, a rascally fun-loving creature that lives by the simple rules of wild things.
In becoming brothers, they will change each other. The dog might become as easily humiliated and as fearfully aware of ever-looming death as his master is, which would be sad. And the boy figures that during their desperate, lonely, and probably long flight for freedom, he himself will have to guard against becoming too much like a dog, wild and given to rash action.
Without shame, the mutt squats and urinates on the blacktop.
The boy promises himself that public toileting is a behavior he will never adopt, regardless of how wild the dog might otherwise inspire him to be.
Better move.
The two silent men who had headed toward the auto transport won’t be the only searchers prowling the night.
Skulking among the trucks, staying as much as possible out of the open lanes of the parking lot, the alert dog ever at his side, he chooses an indirect route, as if making his way through a maze, toward the promise of the red neon.
Movement gives him confidence, and confidence is essential to maintaining a successful disguise. Besides, motion is commotion, which has value as camouflage. More of his mother’s wisdom.
Being among people is helpful, too. A crowd distracts the enemy — not much but sometimes enough to matter — and provides a screening effect behind which a fugitive can, with luck, pass undetected.
The truck lot adjoins a separate parking area for cars. Here, the boy is more exposed than he was among the big rigs.
He moves faster and more boldly, striking out directly toward the “full range of services,” which are provided in a complex of structures farther back from the highway than the service islands and fuel pumps.
Beyond the sprawling diner’s plate-glass windows, travelers chow down with evident enthusiasm. The sight of them reminds the boy how much time has passed since he ate a cold cheeseburger in the Explorer.
The dog whines with hunger.
Out of the warm night into the pleasantly cool restaurant, into eddying tides of appetizing aromas that instantly render him ravenous, the boy realizes he is grinning as widely as the dog.
The dog, not the grin, draws the attention of a uniformed woman standing at a lectern labeled HOSTESS. She’s petite, pretty, speaks with A comic drawl, but is as formidable as a prison-camp guard when she assumes a blocking stance directly in his path. “Honeylamb, I’ll admit this here’s not a five-star establishment, but we still say no to barefoot bozos and all four-legged kind, regardless of how cute they are.”
The boy is neither barefoot nor a clown, and so after a brief confusion, he realizes she’s talking about the dog. By bursting into the restaurant with the animal at his side, he’s drawn attention to himself when he can least afford to do so.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he apologizes.
Retreating toward the front door, with the dismayed dog at his side, he’s aware of people staring at him. A smiling waitress. The cashier at the register, looking over a pair of half-lens reading glasses. A customer paying his check.
None of these people appears to be suspicious of him, and none seems likely to be one of the relentless trackers on his trail. Fortunately, this blunder will not be the death of him.
Outside once more, he tells the dog to sit. The pooch settles obediently beside the diner door. The boy hunkers in front of the mutt, pets him, scratches behind his ears, and says, “You wait right here. I’ll be back. With food.”
A man looms over them — tall, with a glossy black beard, wearing a green cap with the words DRIVING MACHINE in yellow letters above the bill — not the customer who was at the cash register, but another who’s on his way into the restaurant. “That’s sure a fine tailwagger you have there,” the driving machine says, and the dog obligingly swishes his tail, sweeping the pavement on which he sits. “Got a name?
“Curtis Hammond,” he replies without hesitation, using the name of the boy whose clothes he wears, but at once wonders if this is a wise choice.
Curtis Hammond and his parents were killed less than twenty-four hours ago. If by now the Colorado authorities have realized that the fire at the farmhouse was arson, and if autopsies have revealed that the three victims were savagely assaulted, perhaps tortured, all dead before the fire was set, then the names of the murdered have surely been heard widely on news broadcasts.
With no apparent recognition of the name, the bearded trucker, who may be only what he appears to be, but who may also be Death with facial hair, says, “Curtis Hammond. That’s a powerfully peculiar name for a dog.”
“Oh. Yeah. My dog,” the boy says, feeling stupid and dismally incompetent at this passing-for-nobody-special business. He hasn’t given a thought to naming his four-legged companion, because he’s known that eventually, when he bonds better with the animal, he’ll arrive at not just any name, but at the exactly right one. With no time to wait for better bonding, scratching the dog under the chin, he takes inspiration from a movie: “The name’s Old Yeller.”
Amused, the trucker cocks his head and says, “You yankin’ my chain, young fella?”
“No, sir. Why would I?”
“And what’s the logic, callin’ this beauty Old Yeller, when there’s not one yellow hair from nose to tail tip?”
Abashed at his nervous bumbling in the face of this man’s easy and nonthreatening conversation, the boy tries to recover from his foolish gaff. “Well, sir, color doesn’t have anything to do with it. We like the name just because this here is the best old dog in the world, just exactly like Old Yeller in the movie.”
“Not exactly like,” the driving machine disagrees. “Old Yeller was a male. This lovely black-and-white lady here must get a mite confused from time to time, bein’ called a male name and a color she isn’t.”
The boy hasn’t previously given much thought to the gender of the dog. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He remembers his mother’s counsel that in order to pass for someone you’re not, you must have confidence, confidence above all else, because self-consciousness and self-doubt fade the disguise. He must not allow himself to be rattled by the trucker’s latest observation.