``S-s-sahjunt.'' Johnson's fat hand, another bottle were protruding from the truck cab, and that self proclaimed Baptist teetotaler, had a bottle at his own lips.

Two cars came over a crest, their chrome and glass flashing. The Indian's arm whipped sidewise -- there was a flash of amber and froth, the crash of the bottle shattering against the side of the first car.

Brakes shrieked behind us. I saw Johnson's bottle snatched from his hand, saw it go in a swirl of foam just behind the second car. This time there was no sound of brakes but the shrieking of women. I looked back at pale ovals framed in the elongated oval of the car's rear window.

``Drink, you son of a bitch!'' I quickly turned around and began to drink. But the Indian was jabbing another bottle toward Johnson.