"That's enough. Thanks." It had been a hope, but looking at her killed hope.
They plodded on and came to a blacktop. "I know where we are," one of the phony cowboys said. "Straight on in to Hebertown, two miles. It's a ridge road; it ought to be clear sailing."
A car was buzzing in the distance; frantically they flagged it down as it closed up on them. It was a late-model suburban with a New York plate in the rear, man and wife in the front seat, three kids rioting in the back. They all looked very strange to Mickey Groff, and he realized at last what the strangeness consisted of. They were clean, fed and rested.
"What do you want?" the man asked from behind the wheel, a little nervously.
What did they want. Penicillin. Beds. Warmth. Coffee.
"Take us into town, will you?" Mickey Groff said wearily.
The man hit the lock button on his door and cranked the window up a little. "It's only a little way on," he said evasively. "We aren't going any place special, we just heard about it on the radio and thought we'd come and see what was up—"
He hit the gas and the car zoomed on.
"Sightseers," Mrs. Goudeket said, wide-eyed. "God in Heaven, sightseers."
Mrs. Chesbro was swearing.