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Show Flying - 171 "Go, baby, go," says O'Connell. "What happens if somebody's coming the other way?" says John Henry. "Ain't nobody on this road but us," says Thompson, flinging then into another corner. There are shallow ditches on either side, and beyond them flat fields of brown grass slowly climbing into the foothills. There are enough small trees and patches of brush along the ditches to make the turns blind and John Henry prays for a vacant road beyond each one and for Thompson's skill to hold out one more tine. Just one nore tine, Lord. The three-quarter ton truck rocks and bounces out of one rut and into another, the skidding rear wheels brush the edge of the ditch and find a grip in the loose earth at the last possible moment, they make it around one more corner, and John Henry whispers a word of thanks and starts working on the next one. The truck is rolling at about fifty-five miles an hour down a short straight stretch. There is a washed-out place in the road ahead and they hit it with a hard bump. A fist-sized tarantula, black and hairy, eyes glittering with hate, drops from the canvas roof where it had been hiding, onto Thompson's lap. He glances down and without any hesitation opens the door and throws himself out of the truck. Around the bend ahead comes a stake truck full of Mexican farn |
