The Car (16 page)

Wayne shook his head and smiled at Waylon. “I wonder who writes for these guys? ‘When you feel froggy'?”

Terry couldn't believe how relaxed the two men were. The cowboy was tense, drunk, mean, but Waylon and Wayne were just sitting loose.

“Maybe I have to start the dance,” the cowboy said. “Maybe I need to do a little jumping.”

“It would be a mistake,” Waylon said, looking up finally.

“I'm worried,” the cowboy said. “Couple of old farts like you might tear me to pieces.”

“I believe that was it,” Waylon said.

Wayne nodded. “I was even going to let the
boy
go by 'cause he's drunk. But that
old fart
hurt me.”

“So do something about it,” the cowboy said, stepping back and raising his fists.

Wayne's left arm flicked. That's all Terry could see of it. A blur. The arm whipped away from the table and came back and Wayne was looking up to the owner. “Could we get onion rings?”

For a long second the cowboy stood, then his hands went to his groin and he grunted—deeply, a soul grunt—and he settled slowly to his knees. As his face came down, level with the table, Wayne's arm flicked again, and where the cowboy's nose had been there was suddenly a huge splash of red—
like a strawberry,
Terry thought,
had been crushed in the center of his face.
The cowboy's eyes crossed—he seemed to be trying to see where his nose had been—and he settled back on his rear end, then back against the counter, his eyes still crossed.

Waylon shook his head. “You could have killed him.”

“I know. I'm out of practice—haven't been like this since the last time I saw you. You do bring out the worst in me.”

The owner stepped over the cowboy—completely ignored him—and went to cook their orders.

“What did you do to him?” Terry asked.

Wayne shrugged. “Nothing much. Just a tap.”

“His eyes are still crossed.”

“Like I said—I hit him a little hard. I'm out of practice. He might be all right in an hour or so.”

“Might?”

Wayne shrugged. “You never know. Some are tougher than others.”

All this time the other cowboys had been relatively quiet, watching, but now two of them stood and came over.

“You didn't have to hit Carly that way—he was just funnin'.”

“The hell he was. He was being insulting and teaching the kid here bad language. Like how to say
boy.
”

“Still and all, you hurt him bad.”

“Not as bad as he deserves.”

“He'll come at you later, when he gets back on his feet. Carly is one to come back at you that way. He don't like to quit.”

Waylon cut in. “He comes back he'll get hurt worse.”

“We might have to help him next time.” There were some nods and Terry thought that they all looked tough. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, strong arms.

“Well, like the man said,”—Wayne nodded at the cowboy sitting on the floor—“when you feel froggy . . .”

For a second Terry thought the young man might do it, jump on Wayne. But he hesitated and then nodded at the others. “Come on, help me get Carly out of here.” And they all picked Carly up and headed for the door where they stopped and the man who had last spoken turned.

“This ain't over.”

“Yes,” Waylon said, “it is. Please.”

“Nope. We'll have to finish her. Carly will figure on it when he comes around.”

And they left without speaking more. The cook came with their food, set it down without speaking, and they ate in silence.

Later they went to the motel, still without speaking, and they were unlocking the door when Wayne asked softly, “How many were there?”

Waylon stopped with his hand on the knob of the motel door. “Eight. Why?”

“Because there are three truckloads of cowboys sitting across the street. Must be eight or nine of them.”

“They looking at us?”

“Yes.”

“Ahhh . . .”

“They're going to wait and trash the car and Baby when we go to sleep.”

“I expect so.”

“Now wait a minute.” Terry had been standing with his back to the street as well and he turned to see the cowboys. “This isn't fair. We'll have to call the cops.”

“Think,” Waylon said, “about what you said.”

“Oh. Yeah.” If they called the cops there would be questions. They would find out about Terry. “We can't call them.”

“This is the wrong terrain,” Wayne cut in. “They've got us cornered here.”

“Agreed.” Waylon nodded.

“I can't have them screwing Baby up.”

“Nor the car,” Waylon added. “Right.”

“So I guess we don't spend the night”—Waylon sighed—“in a dry room.”

“Right.”

“We run. . . .” Waylon offered.

“No.” Wayne looked over his shoulder at the cowboys one more time. “We seek a more defensible terrain.”

Terry caught him out of the corner of his eye and was surprised to see he was smiling and that Waylon was smiling as well. There were eight men in the trucks, openly staring at them now, eight against two—
or two and a half,
Terry thought,
if we count me
—and these guys were
smiling?

“Is the gas tank on the car full?” Waylon asked.

Terry nodded. “Close. Three quarters or better.”

“Good.” He opened the door and pretended to start in, then stopped and turned. “Here's how it will play. You go back to the car and get in like you forgot something, start the engine. Wayne will start Baby at the same time, and I will drop into the passenger side. We won't have a lot of time because they'll be on us.”

“Where are we going to go?”

Wayne shrugged. “We need high ground. Just follow me and stay close. We'll head up into the mountains where we can find a position to defend.”

“Why don't we run away?” Terry asked. “I mean wouldn't that be best?”

And again the look, the quiet look between them, and Terry realized with a shock that they didn't
want
to run away.

“But there are eight of them.”

Wayne nodded and smiled at Waylon. “About right, wouldn't you say?”

Across the street the truck motors started and Waylon looked at Terry. “They're coming. I think it is time to execute the maneuver.”

“But . . .”

“Now.”

Terry turned and went to the Cat and thought all the way:
I get into this car and get her moving and I'm not stopping to fight, no matter what they say.

He slid into the seat, turned the key, and the pipes jumped into life with a roar. At the same time he heard Baby fire off—the two vehicles deafening in the small confines of the motel parking lot—and in an instant Waylon was in the seat beside him.

“Drive.” Waylon was looking out the side window.

“I think we ought to talk to them,” Terry said, “or at least try to run. I mean, don't you really think it would be better?”

“Drive.” Waylon pointed over Terry's shoulder and he turned in horror to see the front end of a three-quarter ton Dodge Cummins Diesel coming straight at him from the side. “Now.”

Terry had the Cat in reverse and he pounded the accelerator and popped the clutch at the same time, slewed the Cat back and around just as the truck roared through where they had been parked.

He snapped the car into low, half floored it—worried that if he gave it all the gas the rear end would break loose—and the Cat snarled as they powered out of the parking lot and into the street.

“Right,” Waylon said, his voice even. “Right and out of town . . .”

Terry nodded but didn't say anything. The rear end broke loose when he cut right—amazed that Wayne was already out ahead of him, the big Harley barfing so loudly he could hear it over the roar of the Cat—and he backed off a touch, shifted to third, then pounded his foot down.

The Cat leapt forward. The speedometer—he stole a quick look—seemed to jump from thirty to sixty and he caught fourth, watched it snap to seventy, then eighty, ninety, nudge a hundred, and would have climbed forever, fed by the turbo.

Oh, man,
he thought—
Oh, man
—and he couldn't help smiling because in his mind he sounded just like Wayne. The Cat had come alive.

“A little more,” Waylon said quietly. “Wayne is leaving us. . . .”

Terry couldn't believe the Harley. Wayne was pulling away from them, or was until Terry gave the Cat more gas. The car leapt again, 110, then 115.

“Good,” Waylon said, looking back over his shoulder. “We're staying ahead of them.”

Terry stole a quick glance in the rearview mirror and could see the pickups. They had turned out onto the street and were heading out of town but were clearly dropping back as the Cat picked up speed.

“A little more,” Waylon said, again softly. “Wayne is pouring the coal to Baby.”

The Harley was pulling away once more, but slowly, and Terry pushed another quarter inch on the accelerator, started nosing up on Wayne.

“One eighteen,” Waylon said. “Hold it there.”

Terry took his eyes off the road for a tenth of a second, saw the speedometer nearly pegged, then looked back to the highway. Out of town it went straight for a short time, then started climbing in gradual curves up into the Bighorns, and it seemed to be coming at them with an almost vicious speed. The dotted lines blurred into a streak.

“They'll never catch us now,” Terry said. “Once we get into the curves we'll leave them like we hit warp speed.”

“No,” Waylon said. “We won't. The bike won't.”

Terry took a curve to the right, powered out of it, centered the car. “What do you mean? We can't catch Baby the way it is now.”

“A bike can't corner with a car. As soon as it starts to get more curvy Wayne will have to slow down. . . . Ahh, see. There he is.”

And he was right. Terry saw Wayne start into a curve, the bike leaning more and more until it could lean no more without dragging and he had to slow.

Terry backed off to match him and found the speed dropping below a hundred, then ninety, eighty. In the mirror he saw the trucks gaining. They were closer now, so that he could make out the figures sitting in the seats, lighted by the evening sun showing over the mountains.

“They're catching up.” Terry pushed the gas but had to back off as they ran up on the Harley.

“Yes. We'll have to stop soon.”

“Stop?”

Waylon nodded. “As soon as Wayne can find a place that he likes. I would think up on that rise to the right, where that small track turns off the highway—oh, good, he's seen it, too.”

Wayne turned off the highway onto the small dirt path going up to a rolling rise of grass.

“Well, then,” Waylon said, sighing. “There it is—as good a place as any.”

“For what?” Terry asked.

“To stand. A person always needs a place to stand, and that's as good as any.”

Terry shook his head but slowed and turned off, followed Wayne up the track until he saw the Harley stop at the top and Wayne drop the kickstand and get off carefully to move away from the bike and wait, his arms loose at his sides.

“Next to the bike. Slow there and then turn and leave.”

“Leave—me? Why?”

“They aren't after you. They want us. You get out of this. Head west, keep trucking.”

“I'm not going.”

“Of course you are. Why would you stay?”

Terry stopped next to the Harley. “Because . . .”

Waylon smiled, jutted his chin at Wayne. “We're doing this because it is the way we are, have always been. It is our nature. Maybe because we want to do it. You don't have that problem. Now you leave.”

Waylon slid out of the Cat, took his guitar and backpack, and nodded at Terry. “Go. Now.”

“No.”

“Now. You'll be in the way.”

“I will like hell. . . .”

“Just go. Before you get caught up here. . . .”

And it was, suddenly, too late. They had spoken too much, taken too long. In a cloud of noisy dust the three pickups arrived and the young cowboys boiled out of them.

Terry had one fleeting moment of what he thought later was insanity—the thought that maybe they could talk it out. He could get out of the still-running Cat and talk to them and stop what was going to happen.

But the men had not come to talk. Waylon put his guitar and pack down near Baby and moved to stand next to Wayne, slightly to his left and rear, and set one foot in back slightly. Wayne did the same thing, one foot back, and then the men were on them.

Terry tried to watch, tried to break things down in some order, but it looked more like slow motion dancing than fighting. Four of the eight men were slightly ahead and came in with fists clubbed, like they were trying to chop Wayne and Waylon down.

Wayne seemed to bend, push back on his rear leg, and when he came back up one of the men was down, holding his throat. Waylon swiveled at the hips, turned on his rear leg, and his arm floated out and another of the young men went down, his face a mass of blood and his hands hanging at his sides.

The other two hit Wayne and Waylon. Terry saw Waylon take the blow high on the right side of his head and rock with it, then come up with both hands in front, somehow swinging back and forth slowly and there was a meat-chunk sound and the man went down on top of the first.

Wayne was hit hard, low, in the groin, and even over the sound of the Cat's engine Terry heard him grunt. He started down on one knee but as his leg bent his arm came up and the man who had hit him seemed to lift a foot in the air, hang there, and then drop unconscious.

All this in seconds, two, not more. Terry raised in the seat and had opened the door—he thought to help, to stop it—and there were four men on the ground and Wayne and Waylon were still standing.