He sat beside the fire and ate as the sun came up and the breeze died down and the world, on the threshold of another day, appeared to hold its breath. The first sunlight came through the grove of cottonwoods and turned some of the leaves into golden coins, and the brook grew hushed as the daytime sounds took up — the bawling of the cattle on the hill above, the hum of cars passing on the road, the distant drone of a cruising plane far up in the sky.
On the road, down by the bridge, a closed panel truck pulled up and stopped. The driver got out and lifted the hood and crawled halfway under it. Then he crawled out again and went back to the cab. Inside of it he hunted until he found what he was looking for, then got out again. He placed a kit of tools on the fender and unwrapped it, and the clinking of the tools as he unwrapped them came clearly up the hill.
It was an ancient truck — gas engine and with wheels, but it had some jet assistance. There were not many such vehicles left, except, perhaps, in junk yards.
An independent operator, Blaine told himself. Getting along the best he could, competing with the big truck lines by cutting down his rates and keeping down his overhead in any way he could.
The truck’s original paint had faded and peeled off in places, but painted over this, in sharp, fresh color, were complicated hex signs, guaranteed, no doubt, to fend off the evil of the world.
The truck, Blaine saw, had an Illinois license.
The driver got his tools laid out, then crawled back beneath the hood. The sound of hammering and the screech of stubborn, rusty bolts floated up the hill.
Blaine finished off his breakfast. There were two steaks left and two potatoes and by now the coals were growing black. He stirred up the coals and put on more wood, speared the two steaks on the stick and broiled them carefully.
The pounding and the screeching kept on beneath the hood. A couple of times the man crept out and rested, then went back to work.
When the steaks were finished, Blaine put the two potatoes in his pocket and went marching down the hill, carrying the two steaks on their stick as another man might take a banner into battle.
At the sound of his footsteps crunching on the road, the driver came out from beneath the hood and turned around to face him.
“Good morning,” said Blaine, being as happy as he could. “I saw you down here while I was getting breakfast.”
The driver regarded him with considerable suspicion.
“I had some food left over,” Blaine told him, “so I cooked it up for you. Although, perhaps, you’ve eaten.”
“No, I haven’t,” said the driver, with a show of interest. “I intended to in the town just down the road, but it was still closed tight.”
“Well, then,” said Blaine and handed him the stick with the two steaks impaled upon it.
The man took the stick and held it as if he feared that it might bite him. Blaine dug in his pockets and pulled out the two potatoes.
“There was some corn,” he said, “but I ate it all. There were only three ears of it.”
“You mean you’re giving this to me?”
“Certainly,” said Blaine. “Although you can throw it back into my face if that’s the way you feel.”
The man grinned uneasily. “I sure could use it,” he declared. “The next town is thirty miles and with this,” he gestured at the truck, “I don’t know when I’ll get there.”
“There isn’t any salt,” said Blaine, “but it’s not so bad without it.”
“Well,” said the man, “since you’ve been so kind . . .”
“Sit down,” said Blaine, “and eat. What’s the matter with the engine?”
“I’m not sure. Could be the carburetor.”
Blaine took off his jacket and folded it. He laid it neatly on the fender. He rolled up his sleeves.
The man found a seat on a rock beside the road and began to eat.
Blaine picked up a wrench and climbed up on the fender.
“Say,” said the man, “where did you get this stuff?”
“Up on the hill,” said Blaine. “The farmer had a lot of it.”
“You mean you stole it?”
“Well, what would you do if you were out of work and had no money and were trying to get home?”
“Whereabouts is home?”
“Up in South Dakota.”
The man took a big bite of steak, and his mouth became so full he could talk no longer.
Blaine ducked underneath the hood and saw that the driver had all but one bolt loose on the carburetor mounting. He put the wrench on it, and the bolt screeched metallic protest.
“Damn thing rusted tight,” said the driver, watching Blaine.
Blaine finally freed the bolt and lifted out the carburetor. He walked over with it and sat down beside the eating man.
“Rig’s about ready to fall apart,” the driver said. “Wasn’t much to start with. Been having trouble with it all the way. My schedule’s shot to hell.”
Blaine found a smaller wrench that fitted the bolts on the carburetor assembly and began to wrestle with the threads.
“Tried driving at night,” said the man, “but not for me. Not after that first time. Too risky!”
“See something?”
“If it hadn’t been for those signs I painted on the truck, I would have been a goner. I have a shotgun with me, but it doesn’t do no good. Can’t drive and handle a gun at the self-same time.”
“Probaby wouldn’t do you any good even if you could.”
“I tell you, mister,” said the driver. “I am set for them. I have a pocket full of shells loaded up with silver shot.”
“Expensive, isn’t it?”
“Sure. But you have to be prepared.”
“Yeah,” said Blaine. “I suppose you do.”
“It’s getting worse,” declared the man, “every blessed year. There is this preacher up north.”
“I hear there are a lot of preachers.”
“Yes, a lot of them. But all they do is talk. This one, he is all set to get some action on it.”
“There she is,” said Blaine, loosening the last bolt. He broke open the carburetor and looked at it.
“There it is,” he said.
The man bent over and looked where Blaine was pointing.
“Damned if it ain’t,” he said.
“Have it fixed and back in place in another fifteen minutes. You got an oil can we can squirt these threads.”
The driver got up and wiped his hands on the seat of his trousers. “I’ll look it up,” he said.
He started for the truck, then turned back. He held out his hand. “My name is Buck,” he said. “Buck Riley.”
“Blaine. You can call me Shep.”
They shook.
Riley stood undecided, shuffling his feet.
“You say you’re heading for Dakota.”
Blaine nodded.
“I’m damn near out of my mind,” said Riley. “I need someone to help me.”
“Anything I can do to help?” asked Blaine.
“Would you drive at night?”
“Hell, yes,” said Blaine.
“You could drive and I could have the shotgun ready.”
“You’ll need to get some sleep.”
“We’ll manage that, the both of us, somehow or other. We have to keep this wagon rolling. I’ve lost too much time for comfort.”
“You’re going South Dakota way?”
Riley nodded. “You’ll go with me, then?”
“Glad to,” said Blaine. “It beats walking any time.”
“There’ll be some money in it for you. Not much . . .”
“Forget about the money. I just want the ride.”
THIRTEEN
Northeastward out of the southwest they traveled, driving day and night — but not driving all the time; driving, more than likely, not more than half the time. For the truck was no better than a rolling junk heap. They fought with the balky engine, they battled with the old and wornout tires, they nursed the shaky chassis — and they made some mileage, but not so very much.
The roads were bad, as all roads now were bad. Dead for many years was the old concept of smooth, hard-surfaced, almost polished highways, for they were no longer needed. The traffic in this day was made up almost entirely of cars and trucks that were half planes; there was no need of good roads for vehicles which in their operation never touched the ground.