Buffalo

An old Ford drove east across the Reservation, among the small hills and gullies near the Grease River. The road was not good; it had been paved some twenty years before and had been disintegrating ever since. The Ford bounced a good deal, but it would have bounced almost as much on a smooth road. Two of its windows had been replaced by slabs of cardboard, and the body was marked by assorted dents and scrapes; some had been hammered more or less back into shape, and some had not. On sharp turns to the left, the right front tire was likely to whine as it scraped a part of the fender that had been straightened not quite enough with a crowbar.