Driver Monologue from A Death in Fever Flat

From A Death in Fever Flat by George W. Cronyn

male · dark · 1:18 min

Well, sir, she do, but this time she don't. I've been havin' to run ten miles on low already and I jest don't dast take her across that thirty miles of sand the way she is. She'll drink water like a thusty hoss and like as not lay down and die on us half way out. Then where'd we be? No sir; you folks'll just have to camp here at Fever Flat till I kin do a tinkerin' job to-morrow mornin'. So I'll step into the Bar and tell Hank you're here. Hank'll do the best he kin fer ye. He's a squ'ar man. Good-night to ye! Ugh! it's cold in here. Feel like I was sittin' on my own grave's edge. The hills gits my goat. They're nothin' but blitherin skeletons, and this bunch of shacks they call Fever Flat looks like no more'n a damn bone yard to me.

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