style="font-size:15px;"> The two trucks went hurtling through Erwin, heading flat out for the Appalachian Mountains, with the police cars wailing behind them. Ahead was another intersection, lights yellow. Davey roared across it. At the next one the light was red and he kept his foot flat, his hand on the horn. A car squealed to a wild halt halfway across; Davey swung his wheel desperately and the truck hurtled through, Big Charlie still behind him. The first police car was almost level with Charlie now, siren screaming and a cop yelling out the window brandishing his gun, and Charlie just kept going. The car overtook Charlie’s truck and went wailing on after Davey on the wrong side of the road, and now the second police car was screaming up on Charlie’s flank.
The first car was drawing wildly alongside Davey, the cop yelling, ‘Pull over or I shoot!’ Davey jerked down behind the wheel and kept on going. Two hundred yards ahead was the turnoff to the mountains, and he headed for it, hunched over his wheel. The police car swung howling in front of his fender; there was a deafening crash of metal, and sparks flew. The truck jolted, and the police car bounced off, tires screeching and cops yelling. Davey kept his foot flat and swung into the intersection. His huge truck swayed and the police car swerved out of his thundering way, going into a wild skid. Big Charlie thundered across the intersection also, and the second police car crashed into his side, banging and bouncing off, then the driver swerved to avoid the first police car skidding toward him, and they crashed into each other. Sideways on, with a wrench of metal and screaming sirens, the two massive trucks roared into the suburbs of Erwin.
They hurtled along, horns blasting, hedges and fences and gardens and churches flashing by, dogs and cats scattering and astonished housewives clutching laundry, groceries and children. Back at the intersection the two police cars disentangled themselves and went racing furiously after them again, battered and howling. The two massive trucks full of animals hurtled past drive-in banks, and supermarkets and restaurants, laundromats and gas stations, heading for the Appalachian Mountains. Then one of the police cars was drawing alongside Davey’s cab again, and he ducked, his foot flat, his horn still sounding. There was a jolt and a screech, and the police car bounced wildly off his fender. The driver bellowed and swung the screaming car back at the truck. There was another crash above the siren; in the second car the cop was shouting into his radio ‘Pete’s jus’ bouncin’ off—there he goes again—these bastards’re too big to head off—Now he’s goin’ to shoot—’ And there was the cracking of gunfire above the wailing, and the bullets went ricocheting off Davey’s heavy-duty tires; fifty yards back the second car’s windscreen suddenly shattered like a spider web, and the car skidded to a stop against the curb.
The front car swung back toward Davey’s truck. There was a wrenching crash, its front wheel wobbled, and the car went into another skid. It skewed wildly across the road; then it nose-dived into the picket fence of the No-tell Motel Drive-in ‘n’ Nite-Club.
Elizabeth Johnson slammed down the telephone in her office, grabbed her medical bag, and dashed out. She scrambled into her Volkswagon. She drove fast out of the zoo grounds, heading for the airport in New Jersey.
Up in the Appalachians, a few miles from Erwin, there is a disused bridge across the Nolichucky River. It is one lane only, over the sheer cliffs of the gorge, which drops to the river below.
David Jordan roared his truck up the crest, then brought it to a hissing halt. He shoved her into reverse, and the huge truck swung backward off the highway, down onto the bridge. He leaped out of his cab, ran to the back, wrenched out the bolts and dropped the big tailboards. There stood the elephants and Sally, jam-packed, blinking at him.
He gave an imperative whistle. Rajah squeezed himself around and started uncertainly toward him, shoving past the hippopotamus.
It only took two minutes to get them all down the tailboards and onto the narrow, old bridge. Davey climbed back into his cab feverishly, and drove his vehicle out of the way, to allow Big Charlie to reverse his truck into the same position.
Five minutes later all the animals were on the bridge. The big bewildered elephants, the wide-eyed lions and tigers, the bears, the gorillas and Sally, blinking and frightened. Davey ran to the other end of the bridge and whistled, and Big Charlie began to shoo them from behind. The circus elephants began to lumber after Davey, then the bears and circus lions, then the others followed. Across the bridge they went, then they were scrambling up the steep dirt track into the Appalachian Mountains, Davey in front with Champ the Chimpanzee beside him, and Big Charlie and the wolf-dog, Sam, bringing up the rear.
For the first two miles they ran uphill, into forests of pine and laurel, the long line of animals huffing and panting, their nostrils dilated at all the smells, adrenalin pumping, flanks heaving. Davey ran, his knapsack bouncing, his heart pounding with exhaustion, his eyes bright with fury that this had happened, just one hundred miles from the Smokies—just two more hours in those trucks. He ran and ran, following the narrow dirt path that was the Appalachian Trail, looking over his shoulder, gasping at the animals to follow, but they were right behind him: the chimpanzee galloping hard on his heels; and Mama the zoo tiger; then Rajah and the circus elephants, trunks swinging; then the zoo elephants and the performing bears and, at the rear, Sally the hippopotamus, wheezing. Davey knew they would follow him, and anyway Big Charlie was herding them and Sam would bring back any that scattered off the trail. He kept glancing back only to urge them to hurry, desperately putting as much distance as possible between them and the abandoned trucks. He ran and he ran, then at last he slowed to a rasping jog.
He shuffled along the crest, his arms hanging loose, his heart thumping against his chest. He knew that a few miles ahead, near No Business Knob, there was a spring. About a mile beyond that, a creek. The animals needed water. But the spring was too small; it would take too long; they needed the creek … and he had not brought the pig’s carcass for the lions. Nor did he have a rifle.
‘But ole Professor Ford’s right,’ Frank I. Hunt drawled, eyes closed. ‘I’m not an expert.’ His makeup girl was putting the finishing touches to his tan.
‘But to them you are,’ Charles Worthy said. He jabbed his finger downstairs at the Hilton Hotel lobby. ‘You’re the big lion tamer to them, and don’t you forget it, Morris.’
‘And don’t call me Morris,’ Frank sighed.
‘And those grizzly bears, everybody’s scared of grizzly bears. Even those elephants are dangerous—that’s what you got to tell them. And you’re going to get them back.’
‘Sure,’ Frank said.
‘You know much more about those animals than that Professor Ford—’ He jerked his thumb at the television screen. He tossed his showman’s head: ‘“I am unaware that circus personnel are experts …” Well, I tell you something you’re going to make him aware of. He just keeps animals like museum pieces for people to ogle at. But we—we bring the animals to the people! We bring knowledge of animals. Entertainment. Happiness. Most kids in this world would never see an elephant or a lion unless we brought them to their town. And we’re proud of that! Zoo?—they just keep animals in cages. Us?—we go into the cages!’
‘Sure,’ Frank Hunt said wearily.
‘Are you listening, Frank? We’re not going to take that insult from Ford lying down!’
‘Certainly not.’
‘And something else Ford’s unaware of,’ the old man said vehemently. ‘He’s not going to steal the show, Morris! Hell, they’re mostly our animals that’s been stolen,
