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You slow your roadster to a halt and, with your hand held to your forehead to shield your eyes from the glare of the evening sun, you try to discern the source of the dust cloud.
‘It’s no good,’ you say in frustration. ‘I can’t tell what’s going down in that town.’
‘Me neither,’ says Kate, ‘but I’ve got a pretty good idea what’s going on back there.’
She points back along the highway at another dust cloud, which is fast approaching. You do not need a magnifying device to be able to tell that the dust is being stirred up by a pack of bikers that have come racing out of San Angelo.
‘I think it’s time we were movin’ on,’ says Kate, uneasily.
‘I think you’re right,’ you reply, as, hurriedly, you reach for the ignition switch. ‘Let’s detour around this town and follow the river. We can pick up the highway again at Eldorado.’
‘OK,’ she replies, ‘but step on it Cal. Those bikes are movin’ real fast.’
