Free Holland Suggestions by John Dunning Page B

foot rested heavy on the gas. I drove sixty-five and seventy with a feeling of perfect safety on this long Kansas road. Traffic was light; I guessed that most cars were using the interstate. The windswept towns rolled past: Peabody; Hutchinson; Zenith; Macksville.
    Dodge City. Tumbleweeds rolled across the highway just outside the town, adding to the cowboy imagery. We passed a rebuilt western street with saloons and wooden sidewalks and a Boot Hill cemetery. Amy wanted to stop, but I dismissed the town as a tourist trap and drove on through. Colorado was drawing me on; its effect was almost magnetic, and I was testing the law in my determination to make it by nightfall. We crossed the state line late that afternoon, but if I expected the Rocky Mountains to suddenly jump up and engulf the car, I was mistaken. For many miles there was only more of the same monotonous, rolling prairie; when the country did change, it became even more dreary. Now there were more tight bends and the land was one of washed-out gullies and dried riverbeds and sunbaked plants. That lasted for more than a hundred miles. Just before dusk I got my first look at the Rockies, through the smoke and haze of Pueblo. The lights of the city stretched across the plains ahead of us; beyond—how many miles I couldn’t guess—were the mountains, black against the velvet of twilight. Darkness came very fast, and as the lights of the city came up to me, the mountains blended into nothing behind them. Then the city engulfed us.
    Pueblo is a small city with old, run-down buildings and factories that constantly belch smoke into the air. I found it dismal but a decided relief from the long drive behind me. The city had an air of finality about it; at least it created that for me, and that made up for most of its physical shortcomings. I was damned tired and looking forward to a shower and a bed.
    “This is where we part company,” I said; “I think this is as far west as I go.”
    “Oh? I guess I should say something like it’s been fun, then, and thanks. It really has—been fun, I mean.”
    “Even if I did give you a bad time that first night. I’d like to apologize for that, by the way.”
    She smiled. “I knew right away you really weren’t like that. You’re actually a nice man, you know that?”
    I laughed out loud. “I’m a peach.” We kidded around some more, thoroughly enjoying each other in our final moments. Of course, that was all a game too. I did not for one minute think that I was finished with Amy, but we would have to see about that. I almost wished it could end here, with good feelings on both sides, and for a moment I felt that she was wishing that too. We enjoyed the play acting; going through all the bittersweet emotions of two people who become good friends overnight and never meet again. It filled the hour and made that night’s meal the best of the lot. The food was terrible, but neither of us cared. It was just part of our arrival in this smoky little city on the brown plains of Colorado.
    “I probably won’t go on till morning,” she said over dessert. “I hate thumbing, like I told you before; especially at night.”
    I nodded toward the telephone. “Maybe your friends are home now.”
    A strange, sad expression came into her eyes then and worked down to her lips. She moistened her lips with her tongue, started to say something, and thought better of it. What she did say was, “The hell with them. If they’re really my friends they’ll be glad enough to see me.”
    “I guess that’s right.”
    “I always get by.”
    “Yeah, I know.”
    “Tell me,” she said thoughtfully, “do you keep in touch with your friends? Do you write letters?”
    “Not much.”
    “I’d write you if you’d answer.”
    “I’d like to hear from you. I’d really like to know how you make out in California.”
    “I’ll do okay.”
    “Sure, but I’d like to hear about it.”
    “Then I’ll write and tell you.”
    “Good.” I