We started to back-track our way out of the Township Outback. The tracking wasn’t that hard seeing how we were following a trail made by a cheerfully reckless camera-chick-stunt driver. The Track followed an old lane used long ago to bring out slash wood to ship to a paper mill. More or less.
And then in the far-off distance we hear a clear, “Yeeee-Hawww!” Then nothing.
Hurrying to where the ancient lane made a wide swing, the mini-stunt-van tracks gave out.
“Hmm,” Greg MacIntyre pushed his hat back a bit, “The tracks give out at the edge of the Gitchy Gulch.”
“Blast it,” I look down from the end of the tracks far down into the Gitchy Gulch, “If they went down in there, I sure hope they didn’t get hurt.”
“Shouldn’t of have,” Greg figures, “Slopes not so bad, enough saplings to slow them down,” Greg MacIntyre frowns, “But it’ll take all day and most of the night to get them out of there, I’ll miss the CowBoy Movie Marathon the WFHC Station is running tonite.”
“Such are the Times,” I observe.
Greg shrugs, “You don’t pull one over on the Gitchy Gulch.”
I squint and look over to the other side of the Gitchy Gulch, “Are those mini-van tracks i see?”
“Hunh,” Greg takes a squiont for himself, whisltes, “I think they are, don’t figure that the stunt driver used the side of the lane as a Ramp ramped it over.”
‘Wouldn’t put it by her,” I shrug.
“A Good Piece of Wheeling,” Greg Conmpliments her.
“Just glad I’m here and the stunt-driver’s in the mini-van,” I remark.
“How do you figure that?” Greg asks.
“Oh, just a deeply ingrained instinct for survival,” I answer.
“I can see how you came up with that conclusion,” Greg McIntyre agrees with me.
“So I gess we have to get around over to the other side of the Gitchy Gulch to pick up their track,” I figure.
“Pick?” Greg asks.
‘Me?” I ask with some surprise.
“You’rethe Scout,” Greg mMacIntyre comments.
“Ok,” I decide and point in a Deirection with the short tree shadows, “I say we go thataways.”
“Good, that means we’re going this way,” Greg steps off in the direction towards the Sun.
Following Greg’s lead, we struggle our way thru the tangles.
“I told you to head East,” I grumble.
“How’s that?’ greg Drawls.
“If we went East, sooner or later, we’d hit the too Much creeek, then we follow it and either way, we end up down by the Water Bridge, or come out at the Droll bridge,”
“And spend the rest of the day listening to Ed Drollinger retell every event that’s ever happened in Clover County,” Greg MacIntyre growls.
“Well, yah,” Greg drawls, and then we nearly tripped, “Lookee here,” Greg MacIntyre grins, “Paved road, must lead back to town, becuz there aren’t that many pavedroads in this here Township.”
I kneel down and pat the pavement, “So from here we either get back to HicksTown, or the one County over, notthing can go wr5ong now.”
“You are right pardner,” Greg agrees, “look down the road, there is even a Truck coming on our way.”
The Truck pulls up and Evelyn Plymouth leans out, “You Gentlemen look like you may be needing to hitch a ride.”
“Just needing to borrow a ride back to Town,” Greg McIntyre agrees, “Save these dogs here a mite of a trip,” Greg shifts his feet.
“Well you Gentlemen are in Luck, that’s where I’m heading now, have a Delivery to make at Bascom’s,” Evelyn grins.
“I thought that Town was that a way,” I remark pointing in the opposite direction where the truck had just come from.
“Oh, Hi Scout, didn’t recognize you until a moment ago,” Evelyn greets me, “I’m just running some fresh eggs into Bascom’s, here Greg,” she directs macIntyre, “got room here in the passsenger seat beside the eggs, Scout,” she tells me, “You’ll hav e to scout yourself a spot out in the bed of the truck, betwen the bales of chicken feathers.”