The grader sat high on five-foot-tall tires with rubber that looked
heavier and tougher than tank tread, and the guy up there was not
likely to open his door and come down for a chat. He would probably
just roll down his : window, keep some distance between them, have a
shouted conversation above the shrieking wind--and if he heard
something he didn't like, he'd tramp the accelerator and haul ass out
of there. In the event that the driver wouldn't listen to reason, or
wanted to waste too much time with questions, Jack was ready to climb
up to the door and do whatever he had to do to get control of the
grader, short of killing someone.
To his surprise, the driver opened his door all the way, leaned out,
and looked down. He was a chubby guy with a full beard and longish
hair sprouting under a John Deere cap. He shouted over the combined
roar of the engine and the storm: 'You got trouble?'
'My family needs help!'
'What kind of help?'
Jack wasn't even going to try to explain an extraterrestrial encounter
in ten words or less. 'They could die, for God's sake!'
'Die? Where?'
'Quartermass Ranch!'
'You the new fella?'
'Yeah!'
'Climb on up!'
The guy hadn't even asked him why he was carrying a shotgun, as if
everyone in Montana went nearly everywhere with a pistol-grip,
pump-action twelve-gauge.
Hell, maybe everyone did.
Holding the shotgun in one hand, Jack hauled himself up to the cab,
careful where he placed his feet, not foolish enough to try to leap up
like a monkey.
Dirty ice was crusted on parts of the frame. He slipped a couple of
times but didn't fall.
When Jack arrived at the open door, the driver reached for the shotgun
to stow it inside. He gave it to the guy, even though for a moment he
worried that, relieved of the Mossberg, he would get a boot in the
chest and be knocked back to the roadway.
The driver was a good Samaritan to the end. He stowed the gun and
said, 'This isn't a limousine, only one seat, kinda cramped. You'll
have to swing in here behind me.'
The niche between the driver's seat and the back wall of the cab was
less than two feet deep and five feet wide. The ceiling was low. A
couple of rectangular toolboxes were on the floor, and he had to share
the space with them. While the driver leaned forward, Jack squirmed
headfirst into that narrow storage area and pulled his legs in after
himself, sort of half lying on his side and half sitting.
The driver shut the door. The rumble of the engine was still loud, and
so was the whistling wind.
Jack's bent knees were behind the driver, and his body was in line with
the gearshift and other controls to the right of the man. If he leaned
forward only inches, he could speak directly into his rescuer's ear.
