 Suspense, and the producer of radio's outstanding theatre of thrills, the master of mystery and adventure, William M. Robson. The word license has two meanings. The first is familiar to all of us, official permission, as in marriage license, liquor license, driving license. The second definition, paradoxically, means almost the opposite, freedom from rules. We can send ourselves here with an esoteric aspect of this definition, namely dramatic license. In the forthcoming story, we have deviated somewhat from the facts and altered California topography ever so slightly in the interest of suspense. To the residents of San Bernardino, who may grumble, it couldn't happen that way, all we can say is, aren't you glad? Listen, listen then as Mr. William Bishop stars in Ride Down Cajon, which begins in just a moment. And now, Ride Down Cajon, starring Mr. William Bishop, a tale well calculated to keep you in, suspense. The two main gateways to California, route 40 over Dona Pass in the north and route 66 over Cajon Pass in the south. I don't know anything about Dona, but Cajon Pass, I know. You see, I'm Nightman at Ella's Tip Top Cafe, the summit of the pass. And I live down the hill in Purdue, that's San Bernardino, down the hill. You drop 3,000 feet and 20 miles on a four-lane divided highway that's so well designed, drivers hit it like it was the Indianapolis Speedway. Which is okay, if your wheels are working okay. If they're not, you can get killed on Cajon, fast. By all rights, I should have been the other night, and I just went along for the ride. It was around about 2 a.m. and I was waiting for my relief man when Phil dropped in for a cup of coffee. Phil rides the pass for the highway patrol. He also is my brother-in-law to be, seeing he's married to my girlfriend's sister. Don't forget, Andy, we're supposed to take the girls to the beach tomorrow afternoon. Don't worry, Johnny's reminded me at least twice a day all week long. What time do you want to get started? I'll be over as soon as I can get my car out of the garage. They promised it before noon. Oh, that's right, I forgot your car's tied up. How are you getting down the hill tonight? What do you care? You wouldn't give me a lift. You know I can't. Regulations? You might break a regulation or two. You're practically my brother-in-law. Andy, my boy, the only way you can ride that patrol car is to break the California vehicle code. Then I'll be glad to give you a lift. The jail? Thanks a lot. I'll hitch a ride. Much action on the pass tonight? No, it's been pretty quiet. A couple of drunks, two or three speeders, no blood, and that's good. That's the way I like it. Hi, Phil. Oh, hi, Dave. How you doing, Andy? Okay, Dave. Hey, where'd you blow in from? Colorado. And I could eat a horse. Fresh out. How about a cow, medium well? I'll buy it. In the side of fried eggs and a gallon of coffee. Coming right up? Andy's car is in the shop, Dave. He's looking for a ride down the hill tonight. Can you fix him up? For sure. Why not? There's a starter on that gallon of coffee. No. Dave will give you a ride down the hill, Andy. Crazy. Providing you're ready by the time I finish eating. Well, sure. I'm off in 20 minutes. Hey, Dave. Why? Whatever you're carrying in that rig, it's leaking. Yeah, I know. Ice water. Ice water. You carrying a load of ice? No, no, no. Chickens. Chickens? All the way from Colorado? Sure. Where do you think the Los Angeles housewife gets her fresh-killed spring chickens? Colorado? Louisiana? Mississippi? No kidding. Sure. 10, 11 days from the axe to the dinner table. Aren't they a little spoiled by that time? No, they're okay to eat. They may have lost a vitamin or two on the way. Well, it's time to head down the pass. I gotta check in at the weighing station. I'll be too late tomorrow, Andy. No worry. I'll be there around noon. Take it easy, Phil. Yeah. By the time David eaten his steak and eggs, my relief man had checked in, and I was through for the night. We walked out into the chill desert air. Route 66 stretched endlessly toward the east, marked only by the yellow pinprick of an approaching car. The melting ice water dripped steadily from Dave's loaded trailer. He walked slowly around the rig as he always did before he started her up, checking the connections with the tractor, the running lights, taking in every detail, seeing things only an expert can see. If you were so serious about it, I'd nearly laugh. Thinks you'll make it? If everything holds together. Doesn't it always? It always has, so far. Dave swung into the cab and fired up a big diesel. I clombered him after him, and he knows this big ten tons of refrigerated chickens out onto the westbound lane to Highway 66. He ran her through the gears, and when we got up to speed, it finally was fired up. I've been talked without yelling at each other. When are you and Joanie gonna do it? Sooner or better. She wants to be a June Brice. Oh, it'll be June. Yeah, I guess so. Where you going on your honeymoon? Joanie's talking about Frisco, so I guess that's where it'll be. Boy, she's got you roped and hot-tied already. Uh-uh. Joanie and me, we talk everything over first, and come to an agreement so there won't be any arguments. So long as it's the way Joanie wants it? Maybe it looks that way to you, but it isn't that. I know. Margie and me had the same kind of talks. But that's as far as it ever got, talk. It's different with Joanie and me. Oh, sure it is. Every guy didn't think it was different. There wouldn't be no more marriages. Tell me something, Andy. Honest. What? If you could pull out. If you could keep right on going tonight, on into LA and down to San Pedro, get on a slow boat to China and never come back. Wouldn't you? Of course not. Joanie and I are in luck. That's not what I'm talking about. But on the level, Andy, aren't you a little scared? Huh? Yeah. Yeah, I guess so a little. I didn't like Dave talking that way. I knew he was only kidding me, but it was like he was reading my mind. How did he know that that was exactly how I felt? Scared of getting married and guilty because I felt that way. Our lights picked up a sign on the right. Summit Cajon Pass, elevation 4,301 feet. This is the spot where the truck jockeys down ship so they can ride down the pass on compression and take the load off their brakes. Dave threw out his clutch, shifted to neutral, tramped on the brake pedal, and it went right down to the floor, boy. He tried it again. And again. Nothing. No brakes. What are you going to do? Try to get her to gear. I can't get the gears to mesh. Bear that heart, pull over your head and keep her going. Okay. We got air brakes. We got no air pressure for the brakes. We got nothing on the horn. Fire brakes? Yeah, on the roof, turn it on. Want me to work it? We were picking up speed all the time since we know it's over the top of the pass. We went into that first big wide curb below the summit like a Maserati at Sudbury. Tight on the lap, then drifting across both lanes to the outside prints and back to the right. Coming out at better than 70 miles an hour. Fangio couldn't have done better than Dave did on that one. But what about the next one? And the ones after that? Tight at turns. Not so well-banked. And the traffic. It was bound to be traffic. After we got out of that curb, I could see the car way down the road. I kept it for being on my spotlight when you get back and forth. And in no time, we were up on it. Dave pulled one hand off the wheel to the electric horn button. But he didn't hold it long because he needed both hands to keep the truck on the road. The guy in the car must have got that message because he pulled way over on the shoulder. We made it fast just before we went into the next turn. Not a lot with a 75. With a slight dip and an incline, slowed us down a little. Then we came over the top. My heart stopped. A half mile down the road with two cars, one in each lane. Neither one was giving way to the other. Put your light on the left one. We'll need that lane to make it. I kept my light in his back window, but he didn't move. Dave hit the horn. Still, a moving roadblock didn't break. We were getting closer. Why wouldn't they move? Why wouldn't they move? Get over! I can't read the license plates clearly now. Too clearly. Incredible Colorado, New Mexico, Atlanta, and Shantman. Why didn't they move? The distance was closing. 20 yards, 15-10. Five yards now. We continue with the second act of suspense. And now, ride down Cajon. We're not more than four feet from him when colorful Colorado got the idea. With a gust of black smoke from his tailpipe, he pulled ahead of New Mexico, landed in Shantman, and we feraled by with nothing to spare. Like a bad dream. Like one of those dreams of falling, falling, flying an airplane between skyscrapers or riding down Cajon Pass in a runaway truck. I knew that next curve. Just last week I stopped there to see what was left of the truck, going through the guardrail. The truck had precise laws. There was nothing to do. Nothing. Hold your breath, shut your eyes, and pray if you remember how. You can open your eyes. You're not in the framing heap in the bottom of the canyon. You're still alive. You're still hurtling down the pass at a mile a minute with no brakes. Andy? Yeah. Didn't Bill say he was going to check into the Wayne station? Yeah, I think he did. Think he'd still be there? I don't know. Maybe. The station's just over the next ride. He's just getting in his car. Yeah. He must have thought we were clowning. He just waved back. At the speed we were going, it seemed to take forever to fill the catch-up to us. Dave slowly carefully edged the swaying rig over the left lane, so Bill could pass on my side of the cab. We were feraling down a straight stretch of the pass now, where the eastbound lane was only separated by a divide. The big trucks climbing the grave kept flashing their lights, signaling to us to dim ours. But Dave couldn't fool with a dimmer switch and handle the wheel too, so he had to take the angry glares, pulling his eyes. Finally, Bill grew up alongside us. The gas puddling filled out in front, sirens screaming, red lights flashing, and I breathed once more, riding parallel like that at 60 plus, where that trail is slewing behind us, anything could have happened. Well, that's nothing. What? We don't have any brakes either. What else is new? With Bill out front, I didn't have to work the spotlight anymore. I set it straight ahead, so Dave wouldn't be in any danger of over-driving his headlights. I could see in the Phil's control car. He was talking into his radio lines. Maybe somebody will figure out how to stop this thing. I looked out, and down into the canyon, dark, black, and far down, I saw the twin lights of a double-headed diesel crawling up the pass with a load of freight. The road ahead seemed straight and level, but that train reminded me what a grade it really was. Two engines pulling, and at the tail, another pushing, crawling up the pass at 10 miles an hour while we shot down at a mile a minute. After the rightward turnoff, we had another long curve, almost a 90-degree turn, long and bright, but at this speed it would be tough. My tires always screeched when I came through it, and I had brakes. There was nothing for me to do, out of the spotlight and set dead center. So, I just sat there, while Dave did all the work. Sweat dripping on this far as we went into the curve. His arms straining at the wheel, turning in the middle, and easy lock, turning it again, coaxing that crazy rig through at every part of the track. We came out of that one, almost at right angles to the road. The trailer in the right lane, the tractor in the left, but we came out of it. But best of all, there was a little grade ahead of us that slowed us down. And then beyond, the road was straight for a long, long time. We passed the firehouse, and the light up creek cut off. And then it's still downhill, but much more gradual. And then you're out of the canyon, and the desert stretches flat on both sides of the road. Hey Dave, how about pulling up on the shoulder now? Too soft! We clipped for sure! I thought of the road ahead, all downhill. We'd lose speed all right, but would we lose it quick enough to do us any good? There comes a time when you just can't keep going straight. The road ends. In a moment, we continue with the third act of and now. Starring Mr. William Bishop, act three of Ride Down Cajon. He was down to fifty-three as we topped the last rise. Far ahead, we passed the fire station. I saw a red light flash on, and the green was back to sixty-five. Passing on into the dew, we were doing better than seventy. We were joined by a fourth in our parade. But this member wasn't as encouraging as the rest. He followed us with his siren glaring. It was an ambulance. Through a fairly large town of seventy miles an hour, quite an experience. Up ahead, I saw the first police car right over a dip and bobbed up and down like a teeter-tonner. But it slowed us a little. And so did the next one. And the next, as we approached the bridge over the railroad yard, they got worse, and the creaking of the company between the cab and trailer screamed more each time. The dip on the bridge did it. There was a sudden surge. There was a jerk at home. We were both in the left lane, and then Phil moved to the right, stuck his arm out the window, waved his arm. Phil slowed down, and when we got alongside him, I leaned out the window. Five yards of state there, but half a block. Then he slowed down. We pushed him away. This morning, we smashed into the rear of the patrol car. And each time, we slowed a little more. And the third time, we connected and stayed connected. And Phil's brakes hella and brought us to the slowing stop. Less than half a block from where the street ends. We crawled down from the cab. Phil got out of the patrol car, and we just stood there, shaking, looking at the smashed-up rear of the patrol car and the smoking brake drums. And then, I started laughing. I couldn't help it. It struck me as funny. That's so funny! I just thought of something. Let us in on it. We could all use a laugh. Do you know why my car's in the shop? I'll buy it. Why? To have the brakes relined. In which William Bishop starred in William and Robson's production of Ride Down Cajon, written by John Moller and adapted for suspense by Mr. Robson and Mr. Moller. In just a moment, the names of the supporting players and a word about next week's story of suspense. Supporting William Bishop in Ride Down Cajon were Bill Quinn and Joda Santos with sound patterns by Bill James and Tom Hanley. Listen. Listen again next week when we return with Elliott Reid in Four of a Kind. Another tale well calculated to keep you in.