"Chalker, Jack L - DG1 - The River of the Dancing Gods" - читать интересную книгу автора (Chalker Jack L)

4 THE RIVER OF DANCING GODS

should go right, damn it. And for the first time since she'd
jumped out of the car, she began to consider living again -- at
least a little bit longer, at least until the sunrise. She stopped
and looked up and down the highway for any sign of lights,
wondering what she'd do if she saw any. It would just as likely
be another Cal Hurder as anybody useful, particularly at this
ungodly hour in a place like this.

Lights approaching from the east told her a decision was
near, and soon. But she made no decision until the lights were
actually on her, and when she did, it was on impulse, without
any thought applied to it. She turned, put down her bags, and
stuck out her thumb.

Even with that and on the lookout for her, he almost missed
her. Spotting her, he hit the brakes and started gearing to a
stop by the side of the road, getting things stopped fully a
hundred yards west of her. Knowing this, he put the truck in
reverse and slowly backed up, eyeing the shoulder carefully
with his right mirror. After all this, he didn't want to be the
one to run her down.

Finally he saw her, or thought he did, just standing there,
looking at the huge monster approaching, doing nothing else
at all. For her part, she was unsure of just what to do next.
That huge rig was really intimidating, and so she just stood
there, trembling slightly.

Nighthawk frowned, realized she wasn't coming up to the
door, and decided to put on his flashers and go to her. He was
not without his own suspicions; hijackers would use such bait
and such a setting -- although he could hardly imagine some-
body hijacking forty thousand pounds of soap flakes. Still, you
never knew -- and there was always his own money and cards
and the truck itself to steal. He took out his small pistol and
slipped it into his pocket, then slid over, opened the passenger
door, and got out warily.

He was a big man, somewhat intimidating-looking himself,
perhaps six-three, two hundred and twenty-five pounds of mostly
muscle, wearing faded jeans, boots, and a checkered flannel
shirt. His age was hard to measure, but he was at least in his
forties with a face maybe ten years older and with very long,
graying hair. He was dark, too -- she took him at first for a
black man -- but there was something not quite of any race and