Free Tex by S. E. Hinton Page B

Johnny said.
    â€œHey, come on,” I said. “You don’t want to kill yourself.”
    We looked down to where everybody was grouped, watching. Roger hollered something, we couldn’t hear what.
    â€œOff,” Johnny said. I got off reluctantly. “Johnny…”
    He revved up the engine and took off. I watched him, so antsy I couldn’t stand still. Geez, Johnny, faster! I was twisting my fists around like I could change the gears for him. He should have had it wide open by now, full throttle, unless he wanted to be able to stop, unless he thought he’d change his mind … he’s going right off the cliff, dammit! I thought He’s going to be dead and I could have stopped him, I should have stopped him … I started running.
    Johnny realized he didn’t have enough speed, not enough to make the jump, but too much to stop. I felt like I was running in a nightmare; I was going as fast as I could but not covering any ground. Everything was happening in slow motion. Johnny slammed on the brakes and the cycle skidded, turning, but moving right toward the creek. Johnny laid the cycle on its side and they both slid to the edge.
    I didn’t stop running, even when I saw he wasn’t going over.
    Johnny was looking at his leg. Most of his jeans and part of his leg was in shreds from the gravel. His jacket had protected his arm, but his knuckles were skinned up, too.
    Everybody else buzzed up. Roger had the decency to pause, making sure Johnny wasn’t really hurt, before he said, “Run out of gas?”
    Johnny didn’t look up from picking the rocks out of his leg. I could tell he was wishing he had gone over the bank rather than have to face everybody.
    I went over and picked up Johnny’s cycle. “Shoot,” I said, catching my breath. “He just hit a bump. Anybody could hit a bump. But seeing how he can’t give it another chance, I will.”
    I started up the cycle. I wasn’t worried about wrecking it. If that cycle didn’t go across that creek bed, for everybody to see, Johnny’d never ride it again anyway. I drove back up the hill, turned, and paused. Everybody was standing to one side, even Johnny had limped out of the way. I saw them for a few seconds, then I didn’t see anything but the creek.
    When I used to ride in junior rodeos, before money was such a problem, I had the same thing happen to me. You think the crowd is so loud you can’t hear yourself think, then you climb in the chute and everything disappears except you and what you’re up against. I wouldn’t have cared if there were five guys down there, or five hundred, or nobody. I was going across that creek.
    I started down the hill, changing gears fast. I didn’t even hear the roar of the engine. I kept my eyes on where I wanted to land. A motorcycle needs speed to jump, where it’s mostly impulsion with a horse. A horse can tell where you’re looking, and head that way, and care if he makes the jump. A horse is a partner, but on a cycle you’re all by yourself. Still I leaned and steadied that hunk of machinery like I would a horse coming to a scary jump. When I left the bank and the air whistled around me, and the rocky creek bed floated out behind me, I thought, “Good boy!” and I wasn’t talking to myself.
    I came down where I’d planned to, but harder than I thought I would. The cycle bounced hard, and we parted company—the cycle going in one direction and me in another. I’ve had a lot of practice at being thrown from horses, so I know how to relax and roll. And I still got the wind knocked out of me. That sure is a sickening feeling, waiting for air and not really sure you’ll get it again.
    Somebody came scrambling up the creek bank. I got a mild shock when I looked in that direction. I hadn’t cleared the creek by as much as I thought. In fact I’d barely made it.
    â€œTex?” Johnny crawled