PART FOURTEEN
(Published in 1999)
About a mile or so up Number one, the snow is getting thick. Already a few inches on the road and now it’s coming down so heavy and wet and windblown that it’s really hard to see. Roy says the Caddy handles nice in the snow. He’s cool and relaxed. We got the heater on and the radio is playing “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” I’m kind of digging it, except my gut is still nagging me.
We come to the base of a long upgrade, and you can see up ahead that the snow is even thicker yet. Roy says he thinks the Cad has traction control, because we aren’t having any problems.
Up at the crest of the hill, the trees are farther from the road, about thirty yards of clearing on each side. The country flattens out a little. The snow is at our backs and visibility is a little better. It’s a good thing, too, because out of the gray-white snow cloud come headlights—four headlights. Two of them right in our goddamn lane and heading right for us.
Right there, I know I’m lucky to have Roy along. He takes his foot off the gas and doesn’t even think about hitting that brake pedal. We aren’t going very fast, probably forty to forty-five, but how he finds that shoulder without going off and rolling us over, is beyond me.
A big, blue, Dodge Charger with a white racing strip down the middle comes blowing by. They hit the brakes when they see us, but it’s too late. The front bumper of the Charger bangs into the back of the small Chevrolet it’s passing, and both vehicles go sliding by in slow motion, turning circles.
I’m struck dumb.
Miraculously, the cars stay on the road and fail to hit anything, except when they finally come to rest, front bumper to front bumper, headlights almost touching.
Four young Indians come bursting out of the Charger: one’s wearing a frontier era U.S. Cavalry coat and another one’s got feathers in his braids and what looks to me like war paint on his face. The other two are generic in jeans and parkas. All four of them stagger toward Roy and I, instead of going to the car they hit.
I push open the door and amble out to survey the scene, squinting against the stinging snow. Then out of the tan Chevy pops an angry, older Indian guy: heavyset, hair in a ponytail with a little gray on the sides. He starts coming toward us too. His wife is still inside the car and looking concerned.
The dude in the cavalry coat glares at me with bloodshot eyes. His long black braids reach down to the gold epaulets on his shoulders. “We don’t need you here,” he sneers. “You better leave.” Vaporizing alcohol rides by on a gust.
“We’re just here to see if everyone is all right and to offer ourselves as witnesses,” I say, glaring back.
The older guy is stopping by me now, checking out these young hotshots. They’re coming at me with what seems like ill intent when Roy steps out from behind me and shows himself. They all stop dead. I figure that seeing me with an Indian has thrown them off course, drunk as they are.
Roy doesn’t say a word, just looks at the two cars kissing and chuckles dryly. The older guy starts demanding to know who is the driver and did he have insurance. The four young bucks kind of cower and grumble to themselves, but then they start cooperating with the old guy. Roy and I trudge back to the Eldor and go spinning off, shaking our heads and feeling strange, or at least I am.
(To be continued)
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