“We’ve got to get these sorted out,” she remarked to the woman with the marker. “Or I’ll fall in reaching for one and never be seen again. Here you go, dears.” Then she turned to lift out a clear plastic bag from the other box. It held maps and instructions.

The other woman said to Lars, “Tie your banner on the left side of your car. That’s where the monitors will be standing, and they’ll want to be able to find your number quickly if you come in with several other cars.”

Lars grinned. “I won’t be among several other cars, I’ll be way out in front.”

The woman frowned severely at him. “Remember, this is not a race.”

Jill snorted faintly and Betsy smiled. Not officially, no. But the cars were mostly being driven by men used to overcoming competition, and who did not like losing.

14

As they went down the walk out of the Boy Scout building, Betsy checked her watch. It was not quite quarter to ten, so she continued across the narrow lane and through an opening in a tall hedge into the cemetery.

“What’s up?” asked Jill, hurrying to join her.

“Nothing, we have a few minutes, so I thought I’d look around.”

“In here?” asked Lars. “This is a cemetery,” he added, in case she hadn’t noticed the headstones.

“I know. I just like cemeteries.” Betsy said it somewhat shamefacedly.

“So do I,” said Jill.

“You do?”

“I thought you’d got over that!” groaned Lars. “I don’t get it, what’s the attraction?”

Betsy said, “I like the epitaphs. They’re coming back, you know. For a long while it was too costly to put more than names and a date on a tombstone, but with laser cutters, you can have drawings and sayings all over your stone. Every so often I try to think up one for myself. I like really old ones best. ‘Behold O man, as you pass by-’ ”

Jill joined in, “ ‘As you are now, so once was I. As I am now, you soon must be. Repent, prepare to follow me.’ ” Jill and Betsy laughed quietly, pleased to find another thing in common.

Lars said, “I’m going to go start my car,” and walked away.

“He’s a little sensitive,” apologized Jill. “Or are we a little mad?”

“There’s something peaceful about cemeteries,” said Betsy. “I think long, easy thoughts in these places. Oh, look at that stone with the bus on it!”

“Someone in the Boy Scout building said the man who owned the bus company was buried here so he could keep watch over his company.”

A large monument near where they came in had lettering on every side. They paused to read it and found an account of an Indian massacre, noting the remains of the victims were buried here. “Say, you don’t see many of these,” said Jill.

“I know. From the cowboy movies you’d think they’d be common, but they’re not.”

They heard a quiet voice, and moved sideways just enough to see a woman on the other side, talking to a man taking photographs of the monument. She was saying-not reading from the monument, which had the usual sentiments about savages and innocent settlers, “… and the local Indian agent told them that the money promised from the federal government in payment for their land was not coming and they could try surviving that winter by eating grass. So of course, they got upset.”

“Uh-huh,” said the man. “Here, come point at the writing so I can show in the picture how big this sucker is.”

“Come on,” murmured Jill, and Betsy followed her back through the hedge.

They went the short distance down the lane and then crossed the faded blacktop street to the bus barn. Drivers, some wearing the big white dusters of the period, were standing beside their machines, or tinkering with them, or running a chamois or soft cloth over them, or talking with others about adventures on the road.

It was indicative of the determined goodwill these people had for one another that they said nothing when Lars began the lengthy process of firing up his Stanley. Steamers make internal combustion people nervous. Lars did his part by rolling his machine out of the shed first. Betsy came to help push and was surprised to find the car light and easy to move. “No transmission to weigh things down,” Lars reminded her.

While Lars worked with his blow torch, Betsy went to look at the other cars preparing for departure. Some she had seen in Excelsior last Saturday.

Trembling like Don Knotts was the rickety, topless, curved-dash Oldsmobile. Near it was an ancient green Sears, whose tiller came up from the side and made a ninety-degree turn to lay across the driver’s lap. The International Harvester farm wagon with hard rubber tires came rolling by.

Here also was the immense Winton’s younger sibling, the soft-yellow car with brown fenders that could have passed as a car from the twenties, that had beat Lars to Excelsior. And there was another, brighter yellow car of very dashing design. It had wide tires, a very long hood, two seats, and a big oval gas tank on top of the trunk, right behind the seats. On the back bumper was a spare tire with a black canvas cover on which was printed MARMON, 1911. Like the Winton, it looked very competent, and she began to feel a little better about being here with the super-capable Stanley.

Falling somewhere in between the Olds and the Marmon were a black 1910 Maxwell two-seater and an immense dark blue Cadillac touring car from 1911. There was also a beautiful, snub-nosed two-seater Buick, bright red, with its name spelled in brass on its radiator and 1907 in smaller figures.

An early REO pickup truck, also red, with hard rubber wheels, buck-whuddled by, an enormous American flag flying from the bin. “John!” called someone as he went by, “you’re not allowed to use a sail!”

John, laughing, answered, “That’s my line, Vern!”

A little yellow Brush with its top up puttered along behind the REO, driven by a man who looked a great deal like Oliver Hardy. Behind it dick-dicked a red Yale whose driver and passenger were wearing white knickers and jackets, pinch-brim hats, and goggles. The car, Betsy noticed, had a back door one could use to get into the back seat. “What year?” she called to the driver.

“Ought five!” he replied and waved as he continued up the road.

There came an eerie sound, a low howling slowly climbing the scale as it grew louder. Heads turned in alarm toward it, then just as Betsy recognized it as the Stanley building a head of steam, someone said, “By God, you’ll never get me up in one of those things!” and there was laughter.

“Hey, Betsy!” called Lars. “Com’ere!” She waved and went over.

Jill said, “We’re going to leave now. Have you met up with Adam?”

“No.” Betsy looked around, but didn’t see him. “You go ahead, I’ll find him.”

Jill followed Lars into the car, the route papers in her hand. “We go south, which is the way we’re headed,” she said, looking at the directions. She waved at Betsy. “See you in Litchfield!”

Lars politely waited until he was well away from the bus barn before blowing his whistle, but still some people waved impolitely at him.

When all but one of the cars going on the jaunt had departed, Betsy was still standing there. The driver of that last car, a tall, slim man with nice blue eyes said, “Miss your ride?”

“I don’t see how,” Betsy replied. “I was supposed to go with Adam Smith in his Renault.”

“Last I saw him, he was in the Boy Scout building,” said the man, climbing down. “That was just a few minutes ago, but he looked all tied up.”

Betsy’s face fell and he said, “Why don’t you ride with us? Plenty of room.” He gestured at his car, a big Model T. A woman sitting in the passenger seat waved invitingly.

Betsy hesitated. She wanted to talk to Adam. On the other hand, if he was really tied up, she was not only not going to talk to him in any case, she wasn’t going to get to ride in one of these pioneers. “All right. I have a ride back, which I won’t get if I can’t get to Litchfield. I’m Betsy Devonshire.”