OCR Text |
Show Flying - 105 in the gentle breezes, vines dragged almost to the ground by swollen grapes. So they say. John Henry wants to run away into the h i l l s , build a simple cabin, eat olives from his own groves and bread baked by his own hands, live alone a clean and simple life at one with this wild and beautiful land. He wants to pick up a b i t of s o i l and crumble i t between his fingers, but there is only the grey gravel of the road shoulders and beyond that a chain-link fence to keep animals off the highway. "That h i l l ' s a k i l l e r , " says Tucson John, coming up behind John Henry and putting a hand on his shoulder. "It probably takes care of a dozen fools a year." "Truckers?" says John Henry. The old cowboy nods. "They figure they can make it without s h i f t i n g down because i t don't look so steep, but i t ' s seven miles long. Pretty soon the brakes burn out and if they don't git her in a low gear quick enough then, they're done for. Some of them's do i n ' b e t t e r ' n a hundred when they h i t ." "They could jump," says John Henry. "Time they know they got t o , they're usually movin' too f a s t . Most of them try to ride the rigs a l l the way down, but they never make i t . Too many curves, and the speed builds up way too quick." "Shit, sarge, you just t r y i n ' to scare the kid with |