The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun by Paul Gallico

somewhere.”
    He glanced at the drawing again and leant back in his seat, his head tilted, his eyes staring blankly in long faraway thought.

C H A P T E R

7
    I t was dusk, lights had begun to come on and they had just passed through the main street of a small community consisting of a post office, a cafeteria, a Western Union Office, a few stores and a motel. The place was called Indian Falls and no stop was scheduled there. Nevertheless, the bus had come to a halt at the other side of town where there seemed to be some kind of a barrier across the road and a confusion of people gathered there. The bus was out of Arizona and into New Mexico and the wild country and at the foot of the pass that led over the Black Range to the Valley of the Rio Grande.
    Marshall said, “Now what?”
    Julian, who had been indulging once more in the sweet dream of his father confessing for the hundredth time that he had misjudged him and was proud of him, came out of it and asked, “Is something wrong?”
    Marshall said, “I dunno. There seems to be some kind of a roadblock.”
    There was a sheriff’s car at the barrier, some townspeople standing about. The bus driver got out and walked over as the noise of distant motor-cycles was heard and everyone looked up in the direction of the road signposted “Indian Falls Pass” as two state troopers came roaring down, got off and talked to the man in the sheriff’s car, their hands pantomiming as they told their story. The bus driver, now surrounded by bystanders, talked with the troopers briefly, consulted the sheriff for a moment and then returned to his bus where he picked up his microphone connecting him by radio to the Main Dispatcher’s Office and, cupping the mouthpiece with his hand, spoke sotto voce for a minute or so. Thereafter he transferred to his interior mike and addressed his passengers.
    “Folks, I’m sorry, but there’s been a washout and landslide twelve miles up Indian Falls Pass and they say we can’t get through. The troopers say there’s a gang working on it and they expect to have it cleared by morning. So, here’s the news, folks. We’re staying overnight at the company’s expense. There’s a nice motel here, dinner’s on the house, eat all you like. You’ll be comfortable. Okay, everybody pile out.”
    Marshall said, “Well, whaddya know, a night in the sack. That suits me,” and then he added, almost too hastily, “Can you look after yourself?”
    If Julian was disappointed at Marshall’s question he did not show it. A room all to himself in a motel was pretty exciting too. Maybe there’d even be a TV set in it and no one to tell him to turn it off and go to bed. He said, “Aw, sure. I got my case.”
    Marshall said, “Okay, kid, see you in the morning,” and was one of the first off the bus. Overnight with Julian asking eternal questions had not been attractive and he had thought suddenly about Clyde Gresham and was thankful that he had scared him off the bus.
    As people were reaching for overnight bags and pressing down the aisle, Bill looked at Marge. They were still in their seats. He was conscious of a sudden excitement. He was no longer called upon to make a decision. The situation had been taken out of their hands. This was where they were going to spend the night and, as far as he knew, nobody had ever heard of a place called Indian Falls. He put his arm about Marge’s shoulder and whispered, “I guess here, maybe. Yeah?”
    For Marge the decision had been made too and that it had happened without their having done anything more about it served somehow to quiet her qualms. There was no turning back now. She nodded in assent, leaned her head for a moment so that her hair touched Bill’s cheek to reassure him. Then they retrieved their overnight gear and joined the end of the line of passengers. Julian, too, lagged behind fascinated by the sheriff’s black and white car and troopers with their big guns and shining cartridge belts and the