Lockley went on ten miles more.  He begrudged the distances added by curves in the road.  He tended to fume when his underpowered car noticeably slowed up on grades, and especially the long ones.  He saw a bear halfway up a hillside pause in its exploitation of a berry patch to watch the car go by below it.  He saw more deer.  Once a smaller animal, probably a coyote, dived into a patch of brushwood and stayed hidden as long as the car remained in sight.

More miles of empty highway.  And then a long, straight stretch of road, and he suddenly saw vehicles coming around the curve at the end of it.  They were not in line, singlelane, as traffic usually is on a curve.  Both lanes were filled.  The road was blocked by motor-driven traffic heading away from the lake, and not at a steady pace, but in headlong flight.

It roared on toward Lockley.  Big trucks and little ones; passenger cars in between them; a few motorcyclists catching up from the rear by riding on the road’s shoulders.  They were closely packed, as if by some freak the lead had been taken by great trucks incapable of the road speed of those behind them, yet with the frantic rearmost cars unable to pass.  There was a humming and roaring of motors that filled the air.  They plunged toward Lockley’s miniature roadster.  Truck horns blared.

Lockley got off the highway and onto the right-hand shoulder.  He stopped.  The crowded mass of rushing vehicles roared up to him and went past.  They were more remarkable than he’d believed.  There were dirt mover trucks.  There were truck-and-trailer combinations.  There were sedans and dump trucks and even a convertible or two, and then more trucks—­even tank trucks—­and more sedans and half-tonners—­a complete and motley collection of every kind of gasoline-driven vehicle that could be driven on a highway and used on a construction project.

And every one was crowded with men.  Trailer-trucks had their body doors open, and they were packed with the workmen of the construction camp near Boulder Lake.  The sedans were jammed with passengers.  Dirt mover trucks had men holding fast to handholds, and there were men in the backs of the dump trucks.  The racing traffic filled the highway from edge to edge.  It rushed past, giving off a deafening roar and clouds of gasoline fumes.

They were gone, the solid mass of them at any rate.  But now there came older cars, no less crowded, and then more spacious cars, not crowded so much and less frantically pushing at those ahead.  But even these cars passed each other recklessly.  There seemed to be an almost hysterical fear of being last.

One car swung off to its left.  There were five men in it.  It braked and stopped on the shoulder close to Lockley’s car.  The driver shouted above the din of passing motors, “You don’t want to go up there.  Everybody’s ordered out.  Everybody get away from Boulder Lake!  When you get the chance, turn around and get the hell away.”