Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
tly to me. Susan took the groceries we'd bought at the truck stop. She would find us a spot and
get us settled. The simple act of keeping my rucksack with me reflected the vagaries of the day.
I wanted to stay by the springs, where many young females soaked naked. Why would I
want to go help with the groceries with such groceries at hand? Besides, Susan was looking
better, and I knew she wanted to peel and soak. But the code of the times called for pitching in
for the greater good, and when Snake Who Runs jumped over the passenger door and walked
across the front seat in his muddy Dingos, I felt his urgency. I felt foolish opening the door
and getting in, but a few home habits hung on.
We hightailed it across the plains lickety split, thumpety thump, fuck a bunch o' roads 'n
shit. I wanted to say something, like this seemed an odd place for a grocery store, or this must
be the shortcut, or I love Mom 'n Pops that are way out of the way, but I wasn't that dumb
by nature and hadn't graduated Ivy League. I knew Snake Who Runs had something in mind,
like groceries without the grocer or the store, and I was afraid I knew what it was. Bouncing
like a jumping bean and holding on with both hands, I would've had to yell anyway. Besides
that, Snake Who Runs yelled first, “I love this car! Picked her up in Denver! I'd never buy one,
though. Fucking piece o' shit! It's gonna fall apart before you know it! Just you watch!”
We'd been pounding sagebrush and tumbleweed at forty to fifty mph along the base of a
steep hillside and deep arroyo when Snake Who Runs hung a right hard enough to peel the
tires off the rims. The tires stayed on, and when I glanced over, I thought I saw him nod in
admiration, till he winced when we pulled a hit and run on an old saguaro, her arms raised
in futile surrender against the onslaught, who was us. I braced both hands against the cushy
dashboard briefly for the crash and splatter. The impact nailed me to the cushy seatback, and
I glanced to see the Snake man grimacing in sheer gratification. We sure as fuck wouldn't take
no shit from no fucking cactus. And uphill we roared, spewing contrails of dust and debris,
our hood hardly dented and not too schmutzed and lumpy with blood and gore from the old
saguaro's innards.
We slowed to cruising speed about halfway up, but I soon realized it was more stalking
speed, till we turned left to run parallel with the tree line below some grazing cattle who
stopped grazing and looked up with grave concern that was well founded.
Cattle here and there vocalized, “Mmmuuhh!”
Snake Who Runs eased us in as close as he dared before jamming the shifter into park
and leaning over my way to reach under the seat for a handgun, a big sumbitch. I didn't think
he was queer and going for my crotch, and when he bolted back out and pointed his gun at
my head I didn't think he actually aimed to shoot me. But he would have shot me had I not
ducked under.
Two shots slammed overhead, and I sat up to see a big steer felled just uphill as the others
loped away. Snake Who Runs was up and out, jumping over me and drawing his fifteen-inch,
calf-strapped Bowie knife on the way. Like a seasoned field butcher he sliced out about a forty-
