She wasn't much of a road, generally more chuckholes than bumps, though sometimes it was the other way around.

Unless it happened to be a man horseback or maybe a freighter without the fear of God in his soul, we didn't have no words with them; they was too busy cussin' the highways and generally too mad for social discourses.
One day early in the year, when the 'dobe mud made ruts to add to the bumps, one of these automobeels went past.

It was the first Tusky and me had seen in them parts, so we run out to view her.

Owin' to the high spots on the road, she looked like one of these movin' picters, as to blur and wobble; sounded like a cyclone mingled with cuss-words, and smelt like hell on housecleanin' day.
"Which them folks don't seem to be enjoyin' of the scenery," says I to Tusky.

"Do you reckon that there blue trail is smoke from the machine or remarks from the inhabitants thereof ?" Tusky raised his head and sniffed long and inquirin'.
"It's langwidge," says he.