OCR Text |
Show Flying - 86 Eloy, Casa Grande, and Gila Bend, names magic to John Henry even when read off the map by Armstrong in a flat Massachusetts accent. They drive fast, for the convoy must reach Yuma before the day is done, and will not stop to wait for them. On they go, sinking deeper and deeper into the great southwestern desert, taking the long swoop down toward sea-level and the intolerable heat of the Mojave. 'Wilberforce peers with botanical curiosity at the strange vegetation: ocotillo, sage, saguaro-shapes that look threatening and alien to John Henry, accustomed to trees, grass, ferns, moss. On toward the West they roll, the Lieutenant, the Sergeant and the Private, the convoy rolling slowly somewhere ahead of them, the heat of the desert making the distant mountains dance and waver at the very edge of their perception. "According to my calculations, we should catch up with the convoy somewhere between Casa Grande and Gila Bend," says Wilberforce, looking at his map. "If Black Gert doesn't get us first, that is." And he laughs. John Henry, frightened, looks quickly in the rear-view mirror, but there is no black Ford hanging there behind him, only the orange sand and black asphalt shimmering in the heat. "There they are," says Armstrong half an hour later, pointing to the road far ahead. "There's the convoy, sir." But when they catch up, it's not the convoy, but only a group of seven open trucks loaded with Mexican migrant |