rough, rutted way. Dessicated cacti showed dusty green against the ochre and yellow of desert background. On the horizon, blue hills wavered in Mulvaney’s vision, dim and indistinct. He mopped the sweat from his forehead for the dozenth time, clinging with one hand to the wretchedly twisting wheel.
“God, what a road!”
You're going to get the werewolf’s slant on life—as you read how these accursed man-beasts roam the American West in a hellish quest for human food!
The engine punctuated his exclamation with a sharp cough, gave a straining wheeze and died.
A glance at the instrument panel discovered the red of the thermometer had squeezed as far to the right as it could possibly go. Boiling water plunked tunefully in the radiator. He switched off the ignition with a motion of abrupt disgust.
Nothing for it now but to sit out here on this damned desert until the engine
