Riding back to the stockade after the long and leaden day on the road, Dooley sat stripped to the waist on a plank that crossed the body of the truck, looking at the pines» sand and palmettos.

Friday. The week-end Olympics again. Night games. God, if only—I hope he can’t get any ephedrine tonight.

He looked back at Barton sitting massively on the tail-gate, brown back and yellow hair gleaming in the late sunlight. He was swinging his feet and singing “When It’s Twilight On the Trail”—doy-doy doy doy doy doy doy, doy-doy doy doy doy— the raucous voice rebounding from the wall of the woods.