Chapter 18
Page 122
Page 122
Jed was noted by his friends as being "laid back mellow," -but when angry, very, very angry. And the quickest way to make him explode was to threaten harm to one of his horses. As a freshman at Cascade County High he had earned a reputation of someone to be left alone. The first day of school Jed had sought out a senior class bully and smashed him flat. What his classmates didn't know was that the jerk had buzzed a string of Amos Smith & Son's horses that summer on a forerunner of trailbikes, a Tote Goat, and this was the first opportunity Jed had to set the matter straight.
Just as illogically, the thought of horses dying on account of "them," started his fuse smoldering. He got very mad. Suddenly he didn't care anymore what it took. He, Jenny, the colonel were going to make whoever "they" were, pay. Make them account, show the world, let the infamous them cry for once.
In his rage he failed to notice that entering rural Panama was a journey back into time. Each mile on the odometer was like a year. At the end of the paved roads, traffic changed from the lavishly painted buses, to jitneys —an old pickup truck carrying passengers sitting on raw planks stretched across the bed under a tattered canvas canopy.
After experiencing a few close encounters of the Pana-mania kind —cars passing on blind corners, horns blaring— Jed asked if he could drive. Jenny, studying the map, directed turns that led across bridges consisting of wooden planks loosely laid upon a simple, unsecured I-beam frame. Passing through a small village that featured a health clinic and open air, thatched roof restaurant, she exclaimed, while looking around for a place-name, "Hey, this road happens to be the southern end of the Pan American Highway. The northern terminus is considered to be Circle City, Alaska. I wonder how many other than me, have.... Oh, oh."
"We being followed?"
"Could be. A funny little green car."
"Think you're right. I have been watching him for quite awhile. In the last ten miles we have passed one jitney, ten or so people walking, and one riding a mule. From the glances we have been getting, it's possible this road doesn't see that many private vehicles. I'm going to take the turn up ahead."
Ten minutes later, Jenny folded the map and declared, between bounces, "That's it! If we are on what is called a road, it sure the heck isn't on the map."
Jed just grunted, and shifted into four wheel low range. He was more interested in listening for any sign of a wheel spinning in the deep mud. Rather than grip the jerking wheel, he held it with sensitive fingertips.
Just as illogically, the thought of horses dying on account of "them," started his fuse smoldering. He got very mad. Suddenly he didn't care anymore what it took. He, Jenny, the colonel were going to make whoever "they" were, pay. Make them account, show the world, let the infamous them cry for once.
In his rage he failed to notice that entering rural Panama was a journey back into time. Each mile on the odometer was like a year. At the end of the paved roads, traffic changed from the lavishly painted buses, to jitneys —an old pickup truck carrying passengers sitting on raw planks stretched across the bed under a tattered canvas canopy.
After experiencing a few close encounters of the Pana-mania kind —cars passing on blind corners, horns blaring— Jed asked if he could drive. Jenny, studying the map, directed turns that led across bridges consisting of wooden planks loosely laid upon a simple, unsecured I-beam frame. Passing through a small village that featured a health clinic and open air, thatched roof restaurant, she exclaimed, while looking around for a place-name, "Hey, this road happens to be the southern end of the Pan American Highway. The northern terminus is considered to be Circle City, Alaska. I wonder how many other than me, have.... Oh, oh."
"We being followed?"
"Could be. A funny little green car."
"Think you're right. I have been watching him for quite awhile. In the last ten miles we have passed one jitney, ten or so people walking, and one riding a mule. From the glances we have been getting, it's possible this road doesn't see that many private vehicles. I'm going to take the turn up ahead."
Ten minutes later, Jenny folded the map and declared, between bounces, "That's it! If we are on what is called a road, it sure the heck isn't on the map."
Jed just grunted, and shifted into four wheel low range. He was more interested in listening for any sign of a wheel spinning in the deep mud. Rather than grip the jerking wheel, he held it with sensitive fingertips.
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