Highway of Escape

Signal gasoline. Let every traffic signal remind you. You do go farther with signal gasoline. Yes, you do go farther with signal. A signal oil company and your neighborhood signal dealer bring you another curious story by the Whistler.

Tonight, highway of escape. I am the Whistler. And I know many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales hidden in the heart of men and women who have stepped into the shadows.

Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak. Francis Block was never meant for the desert, but Fade put her there, set her down solidly in the center of an expansive creosote brush in Joshua trees, cactus and hot dry sand.

In a scrubby little group of nondescript shacks, huddled in the shade of a few scraggly umbrellatories. Known to the truck drivers passing through on Highway 441 as the Duncan Wells Taurus camp, just Francis and Pete Crawford, her stepfather.

For her it was a prison. For him it was a living and the only one he knew. It was on a particularly hot day in July that she decided she couldn't stand it any longer on a Sunday morning when the temperatures stood at 90 degrees at eight o'clock and Francis knew there was always more money than usual in the cash

register on Sunday morning ten eleven fifty twelve twenty five twelve eighty five oh you open for business not yet kind of early not even gasoline the pump lock 17 miles so what all okay I can make it a guess thanks a lot better I'm just second. Yeah, you are going through to I mean I was