305

A scrawny old man, dressed in an assortment of evil-smelling rags, sits cross-legged beside the fire. He pokes at the crackling flames with the handle of an old branding iron, and mumbles continuously and incoherently under his breath. At your approach, he raises his eyes and stares at your gun, yet you sense that it does not worry him unduly.¹⁴

‘Saw your lights on the road,’ he croaks, a toothy smile cracking several layers of dirt that have built up around his nose and mouth. ‘Said to m’self, those folks will come a’ callin’. Best whup up a real larrupin’ meal to make ’em feel right welcome.’ He jabs his metal rod into the fire and spears the blackened remains of a large rat. Proudly he holds it up and nods enthusiastically, as if he were about to serve you a prime T-bone steak. Your stomach turns when he offers you the charred carcass. You refuse politely.

‘You gone an’ broked down, ain’t you, boy?’ he says, pointing at the convoy on the highway below. ‘What exactly’s the problem? You never know, maybe I kin help you out. You’d not be the first folks that ol’ Mountain Goat’d set right.’

Half-heartedly you tell the old hermit about the breakdown, suspecting that he is just wasting your time. When you have finished, he smiles once more, and taps the side of his nose with a greasy forefinger. ‘I know just where you can lay y’hands on the part you need to fix that ol’ bus o’ yours,’ he says, smugly.

‘Where?’ you reply.

‘If you agree to take me with you, I’ll tell you where. Is it a deal?’

If you agree to his proposition, turn to 257.

If you refuse it, turn to 139.