ALBACORA 203 



road. "Hello," I shouted, "Lou, is that you? Are you 

 all right?" 



"You sure pick a funny camping ground," a voice 

 came back. It was not Lou coming toward us, but Walt 

 Gorman. 



"Is Lou all right?" I shouted. "Where is he?" 



"Right now," Walt said, "he's sleeping in the ha- 

 cienda." 



I looked at Jo and John and we all felt a little silly. 

 Along with Walt, there came a huge Newfoundland 

 dog. "Is that a burro?" I said, trying to conceal joy 

 with flippancy. "Are we supposed to ride him to 

 Salango?" 



"What is it?" Jo asked, "an Angora jackass?" 



"What about the burro?" John said. 



"You don't need a burro when you've got a truck," 

 Walt said. He lifted the hood, probed, thumped and 

 announced shortly, "Just a fuel line clog. I'll have it 

 going soon." 



"How far are we from Salango?" I said. 



"Four miles," Walt said. "Lou didn't make it until 

 almost daybreak." 



In a few minutes we were careening toward Salango, 

 Walt at the wheel. When we arrived at 8:45, it had 

 taken us almost nineteen hours to travel eighty miles. 

 Lou's snores guided me to where he slept. I fell into 

 the adjoining cot and fell asleep, still filthy and with- 

 out even having changed my clothes. 



