Tupai managed to start the tractor all right, that part was easy, and Fizzer had driven one before, when his father had a job as a farm manager on a sheep station in the middle of the North Island. So they were soon rolling, heading towards an open gate at the far end of the field. First Fizzer had had to work out how to lift the plough, a solid metal apparatus attached to the back of the tractor, with sharp-looking tines curving down into the soil.
The plough rose and flattened itself against the rear of the tractor when Fizzer finally found the right lever.
They rumbled slowly across the field and out on to the road, where the tractor was able to pick up quite a good speed, the large rubber tyres with the deep tread making a buzzing noise on the hard metal of the road.
‘Le tracteur vert,’ Tupai shouted with a smile over the noise of the engine and the tyres.
‘Le what?’ Fizzer looked back at him, perplexed.
‘I never paid much attention in French,’ Tupai shouted, ‘but for some reason I remember that phrase, le tracteur vert. The tractor green.’
For some reason this seemed really funny, and they both laughed for a while. It felt good not to be walking, and it felt good to be making some real progress. They must have been travelling at around thirty kilometres per hour, which was all the tractor could manage.
The sun warmed their backs and the breeze of their speed ruffled their hair. It was altogether a much more pleasant feeling than lying face down in a muddy ditch.
The ugly brothers spotted them as they passed a grassy track that led to another huge barn. The pick-up truck was circling around in front of the barn when there was a shout from one of the brothers on the back of it, and it suddenly accelerated back down the track towards the road. It was a small satisfaction to see one of the twins lose his footing when the truck took off and slide back down the tray, cracking his head on the tailgate.
The pick-up slid out of the track on to the road, sending shingle flying, and came charging after them like a dog after a wild pig.
As it spun out of the track they could see the other twin aiming a shotgun in their direction, but then the truck was behind them, hidden by the metallic mass of the plough.
The plough was keeping them alive. On one side of the road was the drainage ditch, on the other a sturdy wooden fence. The plough was wide enough to block the small dirt road, leaving no room for the pick-up truck to pass. And it was solid enough to block any shots the brothers might be stupid enough to make.
There was a bang behind them, and a spray of pellets bounced harmlessly off the underside of the plough.
Fizzer and Tupai’s estimate of the brothers’ intelligence dropped a few more points. A couple more shots rebounded from the metal behind them but none penetrated the thick steel.
The pick-up truck swerved to the left, then to the right, as if by doing so it could find a way past.
An open gate appeared in front of them, opening on to another freshly ploughed field, huge furrows running the length of the paddock.
On impulse, Fizzer swung the big machine in through the gate and across the field of dirt. As he’d hoped, the pick-up truck slid to a halt at the gate, the narrow tyres of the truck unable to cope with the soft dirt and deep ruts of the freshly ploughed field.
The tractor trundled away happily, although the big tyres did score deep grooves sideways across the field, making a mess of someone’s hard work.
The pick-up pulled forwards a few yards, trying to get an angle on the tractor, but Fizzer aimed the tractor away from them a little, blocking their shot with the plough until they were out of range.
Another gate on the far side of the field led to another road, tarsealed. Fizzer felt a rising hope. Tarseal. That surely meant a public road.
‘I think we’re getting close to civilisation,’ he shouted.
On cue, the khaki pick-up screamed around the corner of a road somewhere behind them, its tyres smoking with anger as it slid on to the tarseal.
‘This is not good,’ Tupai shouted.
The road was wider, and there was just enough space for the truck to get by, if Fizzer would let it, so he didn’t. He swung the tractor desperately from right to left as the truck swerved around behind them.
Tupai was examining the rig of the plough, holding on to the roll bar with two rigid hands as the machine careened along the road.
‘I’ve got an idea,’ he shouted. ‘When I tell you to, slam on the brakes.’
Tupai reached up to the plough attachment. He had to stand on the seat of the tractor and stretch to his full height. The way the tractor was waltzing down the road made it almost suicidal.
Another pointless shot bounced off the underside of the plough as he reached up and pulled out a small locking bolt, then grasped the fat, rubber-coated handle of the assembly pin.
‘Ready …’ he shouted, watching the truck through a small gap in the plough and bracing himself with one hand on the roll bar. ‘Now!’
Fizzer stood on the brakes. Literally. He stood up out of the seat with all his weight on one foot, the one on the brakes.
A tractor is a huge deadweight and takes a lot of stopping, but those massive tyres put a lot of rubber on the road and, when they stop turning, they grip like glue.
The tractor shrieked to a halt, smoke pouring from both big tyres, and slewed a little to one side.
The pick-up truck slammed its anchors on too, but not quickly enough, and it rammed into the back of the tractor between the great wheels. It was a fight the tractor won.
Even before the impact, Tupai wrenched out the huge pin with a sound that was half scream, half roar, and the whole weight of the plough smashed down on to the front of the pick-up, the metal tines scything through the hood and into the engine bay below, with a screeching, tearing sound.
‘Go! Go!’ Tupai yelled, and Fizzer stood on the accelerator. The tractor surged forward dragging the hood of the truck, the distributor cap, the carburettor, half the radiator and a collection of small plastic hoses and wires with it.
The whole mess hit the road as it was dragged forward off the pick-up and the rear end of the plough bounced out of the towing bars and gouged its way to a stop in the tarmac.
The tractor went a lot faster, they discovered, without the plough, and they took off down the road, leaving the ugly brothers staring at the wreck of their truck.
Ten minutes later a State Police Cruiser approached on the other side of the road, and, by a combination of arm signals and general mad shouting, they managed to get it to stop.
The troopers inside were tough, experienced front-line policemen, with handguns the size of small cannons strapped to their waists, and hats that looked a little like lemon squeezers.
More importantly, though, they had a photo of Fizzer and Tupai in a clipboard on their dash.