vee formation, not about to back down from colliding with a despised "boat" like a vintage Caddy giving them a challenge.
Then a cloud of gray that reminded me of a mini-version of the creepy spectral hyena desert "fog" surmounted the leader of the pack's leather-jacketed back.
The rider's clawed, fingerless gloved hands shot up off his handlebars. His fur-eared head twisted hard to the left as he fell from the saddle. His Harley went down, striking sparks from the pavement as it drove ahead in a sideways stop and his gang plowed into it and each other in one howling, screeching, shattering, squealing cloud of metal and leather and blood and fur.
And chrome.
Dolly.
"Hang on, Del, and don't look back," Ric shouted. "I'm making that green crossroad light like you said, and I don't want to do an accident report on this one. We'll circle around and find Quicksilver on foot. Damn, I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. Don't do anything insane."
Something thumped into the backseat in a cloud of dust as police sirens converged on the intersection dwindling behind us, where small engine fires were sending up smoke signals into the settling dust.
"Go up the on ramp and back onto the freeway," I shouted.
Ric sent me a disbelieving look as Quicksilver nudged my shoulder with his dust-powdered nose. He smelled of gasoline, leather, cheap hair gel, and flea powder. Ugh.
"I knew the dog could fight, but you never mentioned he was a racehorse too." Ric nervously eyed the rearview mirror. "I don't think any civilians got caught in that mess."
"Nope. The gang had bullied all the accompanying traffic off the road, so Quicksilver had a clear alley all the way to take them out before the next intersection."
"You're not telling me he planned that mayhem to the last second?"
A cold wet nose brushed my cheek.
I twisted around to pat the backseat for his sunglasses until I, oof, found them and perched them on his nose again.
"Delilah?" Ric insisted.
"Yup. He's a yuppie puppy. A can-do puppy. Quicksilver can pace most any vehicle for a short distance, and at street speed, indefinitely, I know from experience. He knew he could get those dangerous Lunatics off the asphalt without involving any innocent victims, or he wouldn't have gone after them."
"You can't tell me a dog, any dog, would take that into consideration."
"That's just his breed instincts coming out. He's half wolfhound under that lupine package. Werewolves are the only lupines left in the Continental U.S., and these half-weres are the worst of the breed. So Quick's their law-enforcement nightmare."
I eyed Quicksilver stretched out on the long backseat, licking his toes free of dust, gasoline, and probably asphalt burns. Not to worry. Dog saliva will soothe wounds, but Quicksilver's saliva has proven to have instant healing properties for him, and, on two occasions, Ric. That's how my two mucho macho males had bonded despite initial territorial disputes over custody of me. They knew I didn't want to see either one of them hurt.
"It's the motel bathtub for you tonight, buddy," I told Quick, "for a good soak and cleaning. No arguments."
He ignored me and lapped away like a cat.
"Okay. This time we're really on the road," Ric said, letting Dolly out to high speed and settling his frame into her cushy, red-leather comfort.
"Your Vette is a railroad flatcar compared to Dolly, isn't it?"
"I like road feel. Dolly drives like an overweight rolling marshmallow to me."
I peered into the side mirror. "She didn't lose any tail-light?"
"Naw." Ric grinned and pushed the speedometer up past the speed limit. Vegas had diminished to a piece of sparkling glass winking from Dolly's mirrors. "That broken chrome you spotted was from the tinsel on all those hopped-up Harleys.
"And if you want to put me into the motel bathtub tonight for a good, long soak," he added, "I'm all for it. Hell, I earned it for my performance as a dog chauffeur."
"A-plus driving, partner. With a gold star."
UTAH'S SUNSET-COLORED MESAS and cliffs resembled the spectacular Valley of Fire attraction near Las Vegas, only it went on for hundreds of eye-candy miles.
To reach our first night's stop near Green River we crossed a plateau of almost eight thousand feet and came back down to earth through Spotted Wolf Canyon, where Quicksilver ran along the winding interstate. Quick resumed his rumble seat through the sheer canyons of the San Raphael Swell.
Ric was driving, so I enjoyed striking views of Devils Canyon as we ascended Ghost Rock Summit and noticed a side