“B. Dix,” a voice said from the warm darkness ahead of him. The convoy was parked among low rolling hills. J.B. was returning to the area where the wrenches hung out, down closer to the Ohio in a stand of black walnut and river birch trees. He was bone tired and ass dragging. He’d worked doing mechanical repairs and maintenance all day, then helped Ace strip, inspect and clean the armament on War Wag Two that evening. He loved that part of it, but a double shift was a double shift. Crickets ...were trilling. A night bird let out weird hoots at random individuals from down by the slow-rolling water, whose smell reached back here to join that of dark rich soil and trees. “Yeah, Rance,” he said in a leaden voice. “What is it? Don’t tell me that damned Chrysler’s gearbox is breaking down again. I got to sleep or I won’t be worth a toad run over by War Wag One.” The convoy had swung northeast. It had stopped for a couple days—at least—to do business at Dombrowski’s End, the major trading post in this part of the Ohio River Valley.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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