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Charlie Frazier blinked twice, rubbed his eyes, then finally slowed down. The man was standing right in the middle of the road. |
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He brought the car to a sliding halt, rolled down the window and squinted into the swirling flakes. ''Got a problem?" |
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The old man stared back at him, his face all but concealed by a heavy slate-gray wool stocking cap pulled down to the ridge of his prominent brow and the thick mackinaw collar turned up to protect him from the wind. |
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"Which way you going?" Charlie's words were muffled by the snow and howling wind. |
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The man hesitated, then pointed in the same direction Charlie was headed. |
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"Well, old man, you're in luck. I'm going on into Sixkill. Crawl in; I'll give you a lift." |
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The old man hesitated. Finally, halting, half-articulated words began to worm their way out from behind the pulled up collar. "Don't wanta' be troublin' ya none." |
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Charles Everett Frazier, or Charlie, as he was known to most, didn't say it, but he had already gone to all the trouble he intended to for the old man. If there had been any doubt in his mind about being able to get the Buick rolling again, he wouldn't have stopped in the first place. |
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"Climb in before we get snowbound," he said impatiently. |
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The old man labored through the snow and |
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