I cupped my hands up against the windowpane of the taxicab, and looked out, trying to get landmarks. We climbed a little hill, made the curve, started down on the other side. The gasoline station with the lone cabin a hundred-odd feet in the rear showed briefly as black splotches against the sky. Then they had swept on behind us.
I slid open the window. “Stop the car right here, will you?”
He swung the car over to the side of the road. “Don’t race the engine, just cut it off, and switch out your lights.”
“I don’t get you.”
“I want you to wait here.”
He put on his brakes, shut off motor and lights, and said, “I think you got your distances wrong. There ain’t a thing near here.”
“It’s all right,” I told him. “I’ll get out and look around.”
Bertha got out with me. In the eastern sky there was a streak of dim light which as yet had no color. The desert chill seemed intensified after the warmth of the taxicab.
We started walking. The cab driver looked after us for a few moments, then turned back, settled down in his car, and huddled into his overcoat.
Bertha asked, “How much of this?”