The red-faced farmer waved his weapon. “Git out of here!”
“Hey — now wait!” Gary shouted at him. “All I want is information.”
“You ain't getting nothing here but buckshot. Now git!” He hoisted the shotgun into firing position, and beside him the older boy did likewise. “I've had enough of you double-damned thieves!”
Gary slipped the idling motor into gear and poised for a quick getaway. “Information,” he shouted once more. “Where is the army?”
“Ain't seen no army!” And the shotgun blasted the air.
The Studebaker's rear tires spun madly, throwing a shower of dirt and gravel into the air. Gary piloted it a fast mile down the highway before taking his foot from the gas, and then he slowed to a stop, to climb out and circle the car looking for damage. The buckshot had missed them. He settled behind the wheel to light a cigarette.
“Sort of mad, wasn't he?” he asked mildly.
“What in heaven's name was the matter with him?” She reached over and helped herself to a cigarette.
His answering laugh was bitter. “You looters are giving us decent people a bad name.”
“Well, we certainly didn't get any information from him.”