OCR Text |
Show Flying - 9 and as accurate as the Indian's knowledge of which way the running buffalo will turn next. Sergeant Armstrong is a rational man and a lousy driver. Their progress westward is a series of calculations and corrections, sudden brakings and forward leaps. Where John Henry proceeds smoothly on the edge of disaster, Armstrong oscillates between craven timidity and the taking of hideous chances, pausing to reason where reason avails not, always about half a second behind what's happening. At about eleven-thirty that morning they roll through San Angelo, once more by the grace of God and the agility of some eastbound drivers safely at the head of the convoy. A smiling cop directs them through the town's only major intersection. At the western edge they stop and count the convoy. "One hundred and two," says Wilberforce happily. "Let's go back into town and get something to eat, sergeant. I can't see eating C-rations until we have to," says the lieutenant trying to lower the barriers of rank. This vast westward-bound convoy warrants the effort. At San Angelo's lone diner they drive under a thirty-foot pair of plastic horns and into the parking lot. Inside the diner are four truck drivers, a big forty-year old woman in black levis and a denim jacket who looks like a truck driver, a fat short-order cook dimly visible through greasy smoke, |