Bullets flew around us. Reno and I threw bullets around while the girl made a polo pony of the little Marmon.
She shoved it over to the left of the road, let the left wheels ride the bank high, crossed the road again with Reno’s and my weight on the inside, got the right bank under the left wheels just as our side of the car began to lift in spite of our weight, slid us down in the road with our backs to the enemy, and took us out of the neighborhood by the time we had emptied our guns.
A lot of people had done a lot of shooting, but so far as we could tell nobody’s bullets had hurt anybody.
Reno, holding to the door with his elbows while he pushed another clip into his automatic, said:
“Nice work, kid. You handle the bus like you meant it.”
Dinah asked: “Where now?”
“Far away first. Just follow the road. We’ll have to figure it out. Looks like they got the burg closed up on us. Keep your dog on it.”
We put ten or twelve more miles between Personville and us. We passed a few cars, saw nothing to show we were being chased. A short bridge rumbled under us. Reno said:
“Take the right turn at the top of the hill.”
We took it, into a dirt road that wound between trees down the side of a rock-ridged hill. Ten miles an hour was fast going here. After five minutes of creeping along Reno ordered a halt. We heard nothing, saw nothing, during the half-hour we sat in darkness. Then Reno said:
“There’s an empty shack a mile down the way. We’ll camp there, huh? There’s no sense trying to crash the city line again tonight.”