The Dog of the South by Charles Portis

A stalled bus on the crest of a hill! A pile of rocks coming up fast! An overturned truck and ten thousand oranges rolling down the road! I was trying to deal with all this and watch for Ski at the same time and I was furious at Dr. Symes for sleeping through it. I no longer cared whether he fell out or not.
    Finally I woke him, although the worst was over by that time.
    â€œWhat is it?” he said.
    â€œI’m not looking for that station wagon anymore. I’ve got my hands full up here.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s driving me crazy. I can’t tell what color these cars are.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œI’m talking about Ski!”
    â€œI wouldn’t worry about Ski. Leon Vurro is the man he’s looking for. Where did you know Ski?”
    â€œI don’t know Ski.”
    â€œDo you want me to drive for a while?”
    â€œNo, I don’t.”
    â€œWhere are we?”
    â€œI don’t know exactly. Out of the mountains anyway. We’re near Veracruz somewhere.”
    I kept thinking I would pull over at some point and sleep until daylight but I couldn’t find a place that looked just right. The Pemex stations were too noisy and busy. The doctor had me stop once on the highway so he could put some drops in his red eye. This was a slow and messy business. He flung his elbows out like a skeet shooter. I held the army flashlight for him. He said the drops were cold. While I was at it, I checked the transmission fluid and there were a lot of little blue flashes playing around the engine where the spark-plug cables were cracked and arcing.
    He napped again and then he started talking to me about Houston, which he pronounced “Yooston.” I like to keep things straight and his movements had me confused. I had thought at first that he came to Mexico direct from Louisiana. Then it was California. Now it was Houston. Ski was from Houston and it was from that same city that the doctor had departed in haste for Mexico, or “Old Mexico” as he called it.
    â€œWho is this Ski anyway?”
    â€œHe’s an old friend of mine. I thought I told you that.”
    â€œIs he a crook?”
    â€œHe’s a real-estate smarty. He makes money while he’s sleeping. He used to be a policeman. He says he made more unassisted arrests than any other officer in the colorful history of Harris County. I can’t vouch for that but I know he made plenty. I’ve known him for years. I used to play poker with him at the Rice Hotel. I gave distemper shots to his puppies. I removed a benign wart from his shoulder that was as big as a Stuart pecan. It looked like a little man’s head, or a baby’s head, like it might talk, or cry. I never charged him a dime. Ski has forgotten all that.”
    â€œWhy did you tell me he was looking for you?”
    â€œHe almost caught me at Alvin. It was nip and tuck. Do you know the County Line Lounge between Arcadia and Alvin?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThe Uncle Sam Muffler Shop?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œShoe City?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, it was right in there where I lost him. That traffic circle is where he tore his britches. I never saw him after that. He has no chin, you know.”
    â€œYou told me that.”
    â€œCaptain Hughes of the Rangers used to say that if they ever hanged old Ski they would have to put the rope under his nose.”
    â€œWhy was he after you?”
    â€œLeon Vurro is the man he really wants.”
    The highways of Mexico, I thought, must be teeming with American investigators. The doctor and I, neither of us very sinister, had met by chance and we were both being more or less pursued. What about all the others? I had seen some strange birds down here from the States. Creeps! Nuts! Crooks! Fruits! Liars! California dopers!
    I tried not to show much interest in his story after the way he had dozed while I was telling mine. It didn’t