forward toward the door.
Out of the way! someone yells, and Middie watches as the small man takes a blow to the side of the head, a shot of tremendous force that lifts him light as goosedown, unburdened in flight to where his body hits the wall near the floor of the car and he lies crumpled, his face lolling to one side. Thickly now the small man says, He told me precisely. His words are overrun but he continues. He told me precisely, in Wolf Point. Before all of this, he had five hundred ten dollars of earnings. He meant to do what he and his wife dreamed. Middie’s fists are bound up in the clothing of the Blackfeet man, his forearms are bone to bone with the man’s ribs. The little man is speaking, He meant to buy land, off the reservation. The voice seems small, down between the chairs, He meant to build a home.
The opening through which they pass is wide, the small man’s body a bit of detritus they have cast aside, the landing now beneath their feet solid and whole, like a long-awaited rest. Middie hears the velocity of wind and steel as he flows with the crowd to the brink. He feels the rush, like the expectancy of power in a bull’s back when the gate springs wide, like the sound of a man’s jaw when it breaks loose.
Also he feels sorrow; he wants to cry or cry out. He wants to reach for the ivory hair comb but a weight of bodies presses him from behind and his hands are needed to control the captive. He feels the indent of the guardrail firmly on his thigh. He hears the small man’s voice, back behind him. He told me at Wolf Point—precisely five hundred ten dollars. Five hundred ten.
The landing is narrow, the people many, and they are knotted and pushed forward by a score more, angry men running from other cars, clogging the aisle to get to the man. Those at the front grab the railing, the steel overhead bars, they grab each other, the Indian, the enemy. Noise surrounds them, the train’s cry, the wide burn of descent, the people’s yells high and sharp above everything, shrill as if from the mouths of predatory birds. The Indian’s suitcoat and vest are gone. His slim torso looks clean in his worried shirt, a V-shaped torso, trim and strong. In the press of it Middie is hot. Oxlike, he feels the burden of everyone, borne at once in him, and he bends and grabs the man’s leg. Other men do the same, there are plenty of hands now. He wants to hold the man fast but instead the crowd shoves the man aloft. They tip him upside down and clutch his ankles as they remove his shoes. They tear off his shirt, then his ribbed undershirt. They throw the shoes down among the tracks. The clothing they throw out into the wind where it whisks away and falls, rolling and descending like white leaves deep into the fog of the valley.
From here the man is lowered between the cars. He becomes silent. Below the captive, Middie sees the silvery gleam of the tracks, parallel lines in the black blur of the ties, the lines bending almost imperceptibly at times, silver but glinting dull like teeth. With his elbows he tries to hold the people back. He feels the oncoming force of the crowd behind him, the jealousy, the desire. A woman’s voice is heard, a voice he knows but does not recognize. He bows his back and groans, trying to draw the man forth. The words are like a song, simple and beautiful in his mind: Put on your garments of splendor. He smells the oil of the train, the heat, the wet rock of the mountain.
He sets his jaw and strains, he would pull the people and the man and the whole world to the mercy of his will; he gains no ground.
In the gusts of wind, the mob squints their eyes. Leaning forward, their hair is blown back, it swirls some, blows back again. The speed of the train and the noise of the tracks, the scent of high sage and jack pine, the fogged void of gray as wide and deep as an ocean, but foremost the wind, rushes up against the mob creating an almost still-life movement into which they carry the man.
Out of the way! someone yells, and Middie watches as the small man takes a blow to the side of the head, a shot of tremendous force that lifts him light as goosedown, unburdened in flight to where his body hits the wall near the floor of the car and he lies crumpled, his face lolling to one side. Thickly now the small man says, He told me precisely. His words are overrun but he continues. He told me precisely, in Wolf Point. Before all of this, he had five hundred ten dollars of earnings. He meant to do what he and his wife dreamed. Middie’s fists are bound up in the clothing of the Blackfeet man, his forearms are bone to bone with the man’s ribs. The little man is speaking, He meant to buy land, off the reservation. The voice seems small, down between the chairs, He meant to build a home.
The opening through which they pass is wide, the small man’s body a bit of detritus they have cast aside, the landing now beneath their feet solid and whole, like a long-awaited rest. Middie hears the velocity of wind and steel as he flows with the crowd to the brink. He feels the rush, like the expectancy of power in a bull’s back when the gate springs wide, like the sound of a man’s jaw when it breaks loose.
Also he feels sorrow; he wants to cry or cry out. He wants to reach for the ivory hair comb but a weight of bodies presses him from behind and his hands are needed to control the captive. He feels the indent of the guardrail firmly on his thigh. He hears the small man’s voice, back behind him. He told me at Wolf Point—precisely five hundred ten dollars. Five hundred ten.
The landing is narrow, the people many, and they are knotted and pushed forward by a score more, angry men running from other cars, clogging the aisle to get to the man. Those at the front grab the railing, the steel overhead bars, they grab each other, the Indian, the enemy. Noise surrounds them, the train’s cry, the wide burn of descent, the people’s yells high and sharp above everything, shrill as if from the mouths of predatory birds. The Indian’s suitcoat and vest are gone. His slim torso looks clean in his worried shirt, a V-shaped torso, trim and strong. In the press of it Middie is hot. Oxlike, he feels the burden of everyone, borne at once in him, and he bends and grabs the man’s leg. Other men do the same, there are plenty of hands now. He wants to hold the man fast but instead the crowd shoves the man aloft. They tip him upside down and clutch his ankles as they remove his shoes. They tear off his shirt, then his ribbed undershirt. They throw the shoes down among the tracks. The clothing they throw out into the wind where it whisks away and falls, rolling and descending like white leaves deep into the fog of the valley.
From here the man is lowered between the cars. He becomes silent. Below the captive, Middie sees the silvery gleam of the tracks, parallel lines in the black blur of the ties, the lines bending almost imperceptibly at times, silver but glinting dull like teeth. With his elbows he tries to hold the people back. He feels the oncoming force of the crowd behind him, the jealousy, the desire. A woman’s voice is heard, a voice he knows but does not recognize. He bows his back and groans, trying to draw the man forth. The words are like a song, simple and beautiful in his mind: Put on your garments of splendor. He smells the oil of the train, the heat, the wet rock of the mountain.
He sets his jaw and strains, he would pull the people and the man and the whole world to the mercy of his will; he gains no ground.
In the gusts of wind, the mob squints their eyes. Leaning forward, their hair is blown back, it swirls some, blows back again. The speed of the train and the noise of the tracks, the scent of high sage and jack pine, the fogged void of gray as wide and deep as an ocean, but foremost the wind, rushes up against the mob creating an almost still-life movement into which they carry the man.
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