by Edward Abbey
He kept trying not to think of her. A useless passion. He was sick enough already—why add to his miseries? No sense in it; stupid. She wasn’t even pretty… especially. Nice but no glamor girl. He had other things to worry about, more important things. The girl is lost, he argued with himself—lost, you’ll never see her again, she’s gone now, forget her… Tulsa, Oklahoma City, Amarillo… Best forget all about her, my unhappy friend…
A current of ice lanced through his nerves: he was dreaming. He blinked and shook his head, while his heart pounded up to a climax, hesitated, went down again. The road was still there, unwinding ahead of him, and he was passing cars again, three of them in a row. He swore at himself; the speedometer was reading eighty-five. Eighty-five! He slowed the truck, pumping on the brakes until he was down to sixty.
The highway, four lanes of it, curved grandly around the contours of the mountain; Hinton was dimly aware of vast dark shapes looming above him on either side— that other world, darkness, cold, the wild empty wind howling over rock and cactus and through the colonnades of the forest. He shivered, although the heater under the dashboard was humming, fanning out a constant stream of warm air from the engine.
The cars kept flowing toward him with their glaring lights, hurtling past with the sound of whistling steel and hot hissing rubber.
Another broad curve in the highway: he saw the city. There it lay, miles away beyond the black notch of the canyon, a soft shimmering bed of light surrounded by darkness. Relaxing again, Hinton thought of a fresh warm bed, of rest—he would sleep for days this time, if he felt like it. For days, by God—who would prevent him? His eyelids began to droop. To sleep, he thought, to sleep, sleep, dreaming of the girl…
Red brakelights were flashing ahead of him, flashing, pulsating in the blackness. He jerked his head up, his eyes popping open, and pulled at the wheel and roared around the red flashes on the left, on the inner lane. He was dazzled by the headlights of the approaching cars. Dazzled—and then he thought he was dreaming: he saw a horse on the road directly in front of him, turning round and round, and a man or a devil on the creature’s back, whipping it with his hat. Hinton’s foot plunged for the brakes; at the same time he heaved at the wheel, swerving the truck further to the left and into the lane of the oncoming traffic. He heard a scream, violent and inhuman, and what seemed like a gentle thump on his right fender—he could see nothing but the glare of the lights blossoming in the dark. He pulled the wheel and the truck to the right, back into his own lane, and saw a big automobile sideslipping on his right, plowing up dust and gravel on the shoulder of the road. He was going too fast, too fast; he pushed hard on the brake pedal, hearing his tires screech and shudder on the asphalt pavement. Forty tons, seventy miles an hour: he fought with the giant machine for a thousand feet before he could bring it to a full stop.
He set the parking brake and jumped out, leaving the engine running and all lights shining. He started to run, remembered something, turned back to the cab and groped for the First-Aid kit under the seat. He found it, cradled it in one arm like a football and turned again and ran up the highway, panting, his ribs beginning to ache almost at once. His mind was inert, paralyzed, glazed with shock.
He ran, his shoes pounding loudly on the asphalt; he heard the scream again, long and violent and terrible. Ahead of him he could see lights shining through dust, cars approaching, cars pulling off the highway. He couldn’t think; he didn’t try; but one noise went through his head, repeatedly, in rhythm with his feet: God, oh God, oh my God, oh God. He kept running.
In the glare of the lights, crumpled strangely in a Mack sheen of blood, he saw this figure of a man. Hinton was the first to reach him; the man was still alive, breathing convulsively, gasping and trying to talk through a mouthful of blood. Hinton put his hands under his armpits and drew him as gently as he could, not lifting or bending the body, off the pavement onto the gravel shoulder of the road.
A car hissed by, white faces staring; another; another.
Faces, bodies, emerged from the two cars parked nearby. Two men and a woman came up to Hinton and gaped down at the broken body in his arms. From the blackness of the arroyo below the highway came the scream again, wild and struck with terror.
“Blankets,” Hinton said. He stared up at the men, the woman. “Please, get some blankets. Quick.”
The woman turned and ran back to her car.
“I’ll go on and call an ambulance,” one of the men said.
“Go ahead,” Hinton said. “And for godsake hurry.”
The cars roared by on the highway, one after another, endlessly; from each peered a face, or two or three faces, staring blankly.
The woman came back with a pair of woolen rugs; each was woven in the bright, geometric style of the Navajo. Hinton took them and laid them over and tucked them under the body of the man, whose head and shoulders he rested on his lap. Looking down, he saw the face of a young man, white as candlewax, with a week’s growth of whiskers, a thin crooked nose, and two vague, stunned eyes staring up at him. “You’re gonna be all right, buddy,” Hinton said. “Just take it easy.” He reached in under the blankets and loosened the man’s clothing; he felt the cartridge belt and then the revolver. He left them where they were, hidden by the blanket.
The young man attempted to speak. His lips moved, he swallowed and started to choke.
“Take it easy, friend,” Hinton said, lifting his head. He pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped some of the blood and sweat and dust from the young man’s face.
The horse screamed from below.
“Why don’t we put him in my car?” the woman said. She was wearing jeans and a ragged sweater. She had a tough, sundried, southwestern face and the kind of voice that often goes with it: soft, slow, gentle.
“We better not try to move him,” Hinton said. “I think his back is broke.”
A state police car stopped behind them, the red dome of light on its roof revolving, flashing. One man got out, the other stayed inside, speaking into the microphone of the shortwave transmitter.
The first trooper knelt down beside Hinton and looked at the victim’s white, sweating face. “We’re calling an ambulance,” he said. “Is he still alive?”
“Sure,” said Hinton. “Of course he’s still alive.”
The young man opened his mouth again, still trying to talk. “Paid,” he said hoarsely—“come on…”
“How bad is he hurt?” the trooper asked.
“I don’t know for sure. I think his back’s broke and maybe worse. He’s bleeding inside.”
“Yeah? He’s in shock, too,” the trooper said. “Look at that white face. Maybe you ought to lower his head.”
“But he’s, bleeding too much,” Hinton said. “He was almost choking on his own blood when I found him.”
“Well…” The trooper shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. You might be right.” He looked at the smear of blood on the pavement, at the nearby car, at the woman standing above them. “What happened anyway?” he said to Hinton.
Hinton nodded his head dumbly, for a moment unable to speak. He licked at his Ups and managed to say: “That’s my rig down there.”
The trooper glanced down the road toward the gay colored lights that outlined the trailer and tractor. “You hit him?” he said.
Hinten nodded.
From the darkness below the highway came the sound of the heavy body thrashing in agony among the rocks and brush; they heard the ragged, terrorized scream.
“What in God’s name is that?” the trooper said.
The woman looked at Hinton. He said: “The horse, I guess. He was riding a horse.”
“A horse!” The trooper was silent for a moment. “A horse,” he said again, quietly, looking at the man in Hinton’s arms. “Well… now we know…”
“Know what?”
“We been looking for this lad. All over creation.”
The stream of automobiles and trucks poured by on the highway, continuously, fur
iously, roaring through the night…
“When’s that ambulance gonna get here?” Hinton said.
“It’ll take about ten minutes.”
“Paul,” the young man said. Blood leaked from the corners of his mouth and from his nose. “Paul,” he said, breathing hard, “where the hell are you?”
“Easy, pal,” Hinton said. “You’re gonna be all right.” He looked up at the state trooper. “Maybe we ought to take him to the hospital ourselves,” he said. “You got a litter in your car?”
“No, we don’t.” The trooper pulled at his nose, then looked down at his fingers. “I don’t know,” he said. “You’re not supposed to move a man if he’s busted up inside.”
“I don’t think he’ll make it,” Hinton said.
“We better wait. They’ll be here in a few minutes.” The trooper readjusted his squatting position, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “You’ll have to make a full report of this,” he said to Hinton.
“Sure,” Hinton said. “I know. I’ll follow you to the station, soon as the ambulance gets here.”
Again the horse screamed.
The woman scraped her feet restlessly. “Somebody ought to go down and shoot that horse,” she said.
“Where is it?” the trooper asked.
“Down there in the arroyo.”
The trooper stood up, pulled a flashlight from his belt and walked to the edge of the highway, drawing his revolver. “I don’t see it,” he said, aiming his light down into the darkness. “Yes I do,” he said and started to descend, slipping a little on the loose gravel.
The young man in Hinton’s arms stirred uncomfortably, trying to raise his head. “Paul,” he said, staring wildly at Hinton, “you got to come with me.” He breathed in short sharp gasps as if in suffocation. “You got to come with me,” he said; “Paul,” he said, “Paul—” And then his words were cut off in a fit of choking as the dark rich blood gushed out from his mouth and nostrils. The woman knelt down beside him, reaching for his body.
“Don’t worry,” Hinton was mumbling, touching the young man’s hair; “you’re gonna be all right. Every-thing’s gonna be fine.”
From the black arroyo came the scream of the horse, then the sound of the first shot and another scream;— while over the great four-lane highway beside them the traffic roared and whistled and thundered by, steel, rubber, and flesh, dim faces behind glass, beating hearts, cold hands—the fury of men and women immured in engines.