The WeenerMan attaches the cable and climbs into the bed. Ernie has finished scooping from under neath the wagon and pulls back. Greg McIntyre sees everything in order and circles his arm clockwise for all to go. I nudge the truck along to pull the cable taut. It bounces slightly in the breeze. I think I can hear an accokrdian sound.
Greg McIntyre points for both me and the Judge it is time to try for the open road. I put the truck into low gear and start forward. Judge Kippatrick guns his engine.
Tires spin and snow flies. The resultant is my truck at the end of the Weenerman Towline, and the Judge digging fresh ruts in his snowdrift.
I look back to the safety cable. It appears that little black strands are flaking off it.
I ask Weener, "So howere you able to get the tires to unravel, with the all the different plies and stuff?"
"I didn’t," HM WeeenerMan says with a straight face, "I used old-fashioned tires made out of natural rubber."
And that’s when the sling hit the fan, Ernie spots where the Judge’s Wagon is hung up and yells, "I’ll get it!" and runs forward to take one last swipe with his long-handled shovel.
The Judge sees Ernie clear and gives his wagon one last rev.
Tire spins, and the stuck rear wheel climbs through Ernie’s swipe.
The buck truck shoots forward, faithfully tugging on its payload.
Judge Kippatrick’s station wagon launches out of its rut and comes out at full rev.
I see the rear-veiw mirror filling with oncoming station wagon, and yell to the WeenerMan, "Hang On!"
HM grabs a rope tied accross the siderails and hang-ons.
The now freed station wagon hurtles forward.
For a few moments, the bucket truck even manages speeds of 45 miles per hour or more. I didn’t have time to check.
As the blue-green truck saunters down the road just ahead of the propelling station wagon, Weenerman spots a turn off into a flat-feild, "There!" he growls over the din.
A slight turn of the steering wheel and the buck truck veers obediently into the snowy feild and skids to a halt as snow fills the wheel-wells.
"Get the Pin!" I yell back.
Somehow the Weenerman is able to swing back on the rope and pluck the linch-pin out just moments for the Judge’s station wagon goes sailing by, down the road, now with the detached experimental tow cable flapping in the breeze behind it.
As the Judge’s wagon bounces down the road and out of sight, Greg McIntyre walks up to the field where the Weenerman and I are cllecting our wits. Greg seems to listen to the winter air one moment, and then comments, "Think I heard a sonic boom."
We all agree we heard something. Ernie thinks he may have heard something that sounded like the Judge saying, ‘Just wait til I get my hands on,’ Ernie claims to have not heard the rest since the judge was by then out of hearing range.
There wasn’t much else to do about then but to get my truck out and head back to town.
It wasn’t I was so badly stuck. Just a lot of snow and digging to do.
Greg McIntyre reaches behind the seat and pulls out a pair of snowshoes , "Good thing I brought these," he says as he laces them on, "I’ll just finish lacing off and then follow that creek branch back to civilization, and then send help; sit tight," Greg Drawls and with that he shoes his way accross the top of the drifts, to the creek bank and begins his long, intrepid trek back to civilization.
WeenerMan starts to pull other shovels out of the truck bed.
"What’s that for?" Ernie asks, "You heard that Greg was going for help!"
"I know that creek branch," the WeenerMan tells Ernie, "Comes out by the Drollingers, "not much chance of Greg getting back here anytime soon."
I take a shovel and start to scoop a route out of the field.
"You’re right," Ernie concedes as he starts to help dig out, "Next time I’m bringing snowshoes for me."