Knowed he stood out.
Spread his arms an’ stood.
Naked as morning, an’ against the sun.
Maybe he was crazy.
I don’ know.
Stood there, arms spread out; like a cross he looked.
Four hunderd yards.
An’ the men—well, they raised their sights an’ they felt the wind with their fingers; an’ then they jus’ lay there an’ couldn’ shoot.
Maybe that Injun knowed somepin.
Knowed we couldn’ shoot.
Jes’ laid there with the rifles cocked, an’ didn’ even put ’em to our shoulders.
Lookin’ at him.
Head-band, one feather.
Could see it, an’ naked as the sun.
Long time we laid there an’ looked, an’ he never moved.
An’ then the captain got mad.
“Shoot, you crazy bastards, shoot!” he yells.
An’ we jus’ laid there.
“I’ll give you to a five-count, an’ then mark you down,” the captain says.
Well, sir—we put up our rifles slow, an’ ever’ man hoped somebody’d shoot first.
I ain’t never been so sad in my life.
An’ I laid my sights on his belly, ’cause you can’t stop a Injun no other place—an’—then. Well, he jest plunked down an’ rolled.
An’ we went up.
An’ he wasn’ big—he’d looked so grand—up there.
All tore to pieces an’ little.
Ever see a cock pheasant, stiff and beautiful, ever’ feather drawed an’ painted, an’ even his eyes drawed in pretty?
An’ bang!
You pick him up—bloody an’ twisted, an’ you spoiled somepin better’n you; an’ eatin’ him don’t never make it up to you, ’cause you spoiled somepin in yaself, an’ you can’t never fix it up.
And the people nodded, and perhaps the fire spurted a little light and showed their eyes looking in on themselves.
Against the sun, with his arms out.
An’ he looked big—as God.
And perhaps a man balanced twenty cents between food and pleasure, and he went to a movie in Marysville or Tulare, in Ceres or Mountain View.
And he came back to the ditch camp with his memory crowded.
And he told how it was:
They was this rich fella, an’ he makes like he’s poor, an’ they’s this rich girl, an’ she purtends like she’s poor too, an’ they meet in a hamburg’ stan’.
Why?
I don’t know why—that’s how it was.
Why’d they purtend like they’s poor?
Well, they’re tired of bein’ rich.
Horseshit!
You want to hear this, or not?
Well, go on then.
Sure, I wanta hear it, but if I was rich, if I was rich I’d git so many pork chops—I’d cord ’em up aroun’ me like wood, an’ I’d eat my way out.
Go on.
Well, they each think the other one’s poor.
An’ they git arrested an’ they git in jail, an’ they don’ git out ’cause the other one’d find out the first one is rich.
An’ the jail keeper, he’s mean to ’em ’cause he thinks they’re poor.
Oughta see how he looks when he finds out.
Jes’ nearly faints, that’s all.
What they git in jail for?