“Jim, look alive!” Omer yelled through the comm.
Raynor glanced at the right side mirror, and saw a big blunt-nosed fueler pulling up next to him, about to swerve in the gap in front of his truck, crowding in ahead of all the others. The tanker’s door said HARNACK TRUCKING.
Raynor quickly put in the clutch and up-shifted but he was too late to fill the gap as the invading truck driver jerked in front of him and stomped on the brake. That forced Raynor and all the rest to do likewise, and within seconds, a percussive string of metal crunching metal resounded behind him.
“Damn it!” Raynor roared, joining the thunder of expletives that rattled the truck’s speakers. The frustration that had built up over the last hour sent adrenaline surging into his bloodstream. Raynor turned the engine off, set the brake, and was out of the cab in a matter of seconds. His boots delivered a muted thump as they hit the hot pavement. He quickly strode the length of the trailer in front of him as other drivers piled out of their trucks.
“Get that sonofabitch!” one of Raynor’s buddies yelled, and most of the gathering crowd echoed their support. One of the local farmers tried to get in his way, but Raynor pushed past and approached the driver’s door, fire coursing through his veins. He was about to throw it open and pull the bastard out by his neck when the door suddenly swung out.
A red-haired youth dressed in tattered shorts and a T-shirt hopped onto the truck’s drop step, grinning wickedly and cracking his chewing gum. Raynor recognized him immediately as the star of the Bronsonville demolition team. It all came rushing back to him—the explosive match in which Harnack intentionally flipped his own vehicle on top of Raynor’s as they went around a curve, nearly decapitating him in the process. The crowd went completely mad, and Harnack became an instant legend.
“What the hell is your error?” Raynor yelled over the clangor of loud, thrashing music that spilled out from inside the truck.
“My error? I’m lookin’ at him.”
“You’re such a moron. You’re gonna pay for all that damage back there!”
“Okay, farm boy, I’ll pay you with some fresh manure. Cup your hands.”
Furious, Raynor latched onto the Harnack kid’s legs, attempting to pull them out from under him, but the youth held tight onto the door frame. Raynor jumped back to avoid a kick in the face, but then Harnack launched himself out of the cab, clearly intending to land on top of Jim and ride him to the ground.
But Raynor anticipated the move, sidestepped his opponent, and had the pleasure of seeing him land spread-eagled on the pavement. “Stomp him!” someone shouted, but Raynor shook his head and waited for the other driver to get up.
The Harnack kid had game, Raynor had to admit, as his foe bounced up off the road with fists raised. His forehead was bleeding, as was his right forearm, but he appeared to be in no way intimidated. “Come on, sissy boy,” the other teenager said. “Show me what you got other than a funny looking face!”
“What are you, five years old?” His hands were up by then, held just the way his father had taught him, as both circled, looking for an opening.
“Knock his block off!” Omer shouted from the crowd. “Kick his ass!”
Raynor could tell it wasn’t going to be that easy, as Harnack threw a couple of quick jabs and drove him backward. He responded in kind, landed a blow that glanced off the other driver’s left cheekbone, and took a fist to the stomach in return.
Raynor knew that people were yelling things, rooting for him mostly, but the sound of it merged into an indecipherable roar. The first flush of anger had disappeared by then and his brain had kicked in. Think, he told himself, look for some sort of weakness, so you can land some good punches and end this thing quickly.
Harnack pressed forward and threw a succession of jabs, which Raynor easily avoided. Then, out of nowhere, as he dodged his opponent’s fist, Raynor took a skull-splitting wallop to the back of the head. What the hell? He instantly reached back to confront his new attacker, finding instead a sizzling hot metal bar. He glanced behind him. Harnack had backed him into the truck’s side mirror!
As Raynor turned again toward his foe, the kid flashed a gleeful smile before delivering a flurry of punches, most of which Raynor was able to block with wrists and forearms as he put his chin down and danced away.
“Come back here!” the red-haired boy demanded. “Come back and fight, you fekkin’ dirt-pusher!”
That was when Raynor saw Harnack squint and realized that the sun was shining in his opponent’s eyes. Raynor shifted his position slightly until he was sure Harnack was blinded by the glare, planted his feet, and threw a quick jab. The other teenager could see well enough to know something was coming his way, and raised his arms to defend against it. That opened his midriff to an attack, and Raynor was there to deliver a solid right punch to the gut. Three alternating blows, each powered by strong farm-boy shoulders, hammered Harnack’s stomach like pile drivers.
The Harnack kid grunted as the air left his lungs, then he clutched his stomach, dropped to the ground, and vomited on the pavement. A cheer erupted as the locals celebrated a victory by one of their own, and a few of the adults stepped in to drag the bully away from the mob of youths that had closed in and was shouting slurs and threats.
Raynor started walking toward his truck—he just wanted to climb in and shut the door so nobody would notice that he was a little rattled from the fight—but Omer intercepted him. “Good fight, man.” he said as he shook Raynor’s hand. “That was killer.”
Raynor muttered a series of expletives before spitting a wad of pink saliva onto the hot, dusty ground. Several of Jim’s buddies jogged over to congratulate him, and after a round of cheerful high-fives and slaps on the back, a smiling Raynor and his friends turned to watch the scene unfold.
One of the farmers climbed up into Harnack’s truck and revved the engine, sending black smoke belching out of twin stacks, and drove the tanker onto the shoulder of the road. Then, with a burly man at each elbow, Harnack was escorted over to his rig and told to wait for the end of the line to arrive or head on home. He chose the second option.
As Harnack struggled up the drop step and into his truck, Raynor’s friends howled with derisive laughter and shouted a few choice obscenities at him. The truck’s air horn blared as the teenager hit the gas, up-shifted, and roared along the shoulder. Then, having spotted a gap, he cut between two trucks and swerved into oncoming traffic to yet another sounding of horns. Harnack steered into the right lane and headed north toward Bronsonville, waving a one-fingered salute out the window.
The line suddenly jerked ahead and everyone scrambled to get back to their trucks. Back in the cab, and having closed the gap in front of him, Raynor eyed himself in the mirror. That was when he realized that Harnack had scored a clean hit on his left eye, which was already turning blue and would soon be swollen shut. He swore. There wouldn’t be any way to hide that from his mother, who was going to be less than pleased.
Raynor pulled into the station twenty minutes later, and was greeted with nods and smiles from his fellow truckers. It seemed as though he’d earned a fair amount of respect by standing up to the Harnack kid, and that felt pretty good.
He filled the tanker halfway, which was all his family could afford. As he started up the truck again, he hoped the fuel would be sufficient to get most, if not all of the crop in. That, at least, was better than nothing.