Zelazny, Roger - Novel 07 by Bridge of Ashes

said.
                   "Who goes first?" the other driver
asked.
                   "I don't care," Quick said. "Is
there more ammo for this piece?"
                   "Yeah, almost a full box.*
                   "Pass it back."
                   It came.
                   "Wait a minute," our previous driver
said. "Til go first. If you are figuring on shooting it out with them, I don't
want to be second—armed or unarmed. I wouldn't have a chance. Drop me first and
HI give them a good run for it. Then if you get a turn at it, do whatever you
want."
                   "Okay, fair enough/'
                   "Those .38 longs?" I asked him.
                   "Yep."
                   "Then give me a dozen or so," I
said.
                   "Check."
                   He pulled a handful and passed them over. I
dropped them in my pocket.
                   Quick continued his survey of the sky.
                   "Nothing yet," he said. "Wonder
how they found us so fast? Think they picked up those two dockhands? Or just
luck?"
                   I shrugged.
                   "Doesn't much matter now," I said.
                   "No."
                   It was several miles—and again, I was almost
beginning to believe we might make it—when Quick caught sight of the flier,
topping a range of hills, dropping, coming in low.
                  "Okay, this is it," he said.
"Pull over."
                   We did, and the other driver scrambled out.
                   "Luck," I said.
                   "Thanks."
                   He took off, sliding and running down the
hillside off the road's shoulder.
                   "What was his name, anyway?" I asked
as we moved forward again.
                   "Bob," Quick said. "That's all
I know."
                   The pilot of the flier could not seem to make
up his mind at first. He took the craft up higher and began circling. I suppose
he could see Bob and us both at his new altitude.
                   "Keeping an eye on us while he calls for
instructions," Quick said. "Bet they tell him to chase Bob."
                   "I don't suppose our next changeover is
any too soon," I said.
                   "Sorry," said the driver. "I
wish it were, too. Listen, they know where we are right now. If we stay on this
drag, they'll box us in. What say I try a side road? I am not familiar with
them around here, though. Are either of you?"
                   "No."
                   "No."
                   "What do you think?" he asked.
                   "Go ahead," I told him. "Pick a
good one."
                   But there were no decent turnoffs for the next
five or six miles. The flier, true to Quick's prediction, had finally dropped
and vanished. I imagined that cars from Taos would be heading down the road toward us
now.
                   "Better make it the first one that comes
up," I said.
                   He nodded.
                   "I think I see it now."
                   He slowed as we approached it. It led down to
the right. It was surfaced, but years overdue for maintenance.
                   It slowed us, but I heard myself sigh after
the first mile or so. It did not peter out, did not worsen. There was no one in
sight, anywhere.
                   The sun still had a long way to go. On foot,
after dark, my chances might be better, I decided.
                   "I don't suppose there's a canteen of
water aboard?" I asked.
                   The driver chuckled.
                   "Afraid not," he said. "I
wasn't figuring on anything but taxi service."