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"
Boy
,
Colonel
,
"
said
Charlie
,
"
that
was
fine
.
Now
how
about
Pawnee
Bill
?
"
"
Pawnee
Bill
.
.
.
?
"
"
And
the
time
you
was
on
the
prairie
way
back
in
’
75
.
"
"
Pawnee
Bill
.
.
.
"
The
colonel
moved
into
darkness
.
"
Eighteen
seventy
-
five
.
.
.
yes
,
me
and
Pawnee
Bill
on
a
little
rise
in
the
middle
of
the
prairie
,
waiting
.
‘
Shh
!
’
says
Pawnee
Bill
.
‘
Listen
.
’
The
prairie
like
a
big
stage
all
set
for
the
storm
to
come
.
Thunder
.
Soft
.
Thunder
again
.
Not
so
soft
.
And
across
that
prairie
as
far
as
the
eye
could
see
this
big
ominous
yellow
-
dark
cloud
full
of
black
lightning
,
somehow
sunk
to
earth
,
fifty
miles
wide
,
fifty
miles
long
,
a
mile
high
,
and
no
more
than
an
inch
off
the
ground
.
‘
Lord
!
’
I
cried
,
‘
Lord
!
’
—
from
up
on
my
hill
—
‘
lord
!
’
the
earth
pounded
like
a
mad
heart
,
boys
,
a
heart
gone
to
panic
.
My
bones
shook
fit
to
break
.
The
earth
shook
:
rat
-
a
-
tat
rat
-
a
-
tat
,
boom
!
Rumble
.
That
’
s
a
rare
word
:
rumble
.
Oh
,
how
that
mighty
storm
rumbled
along
down
,
up
,
and
over
the
rises
,
and
all
you
could
see
was
the
cloud
and
nothing
inside
.
‘
That
’
s
them
!
’
cried
Pawnee
Bill
.
And
the
cloud
was
dust
!
Not
vapors
or
rain
,
no
,
but
prairie
dust
flung
up
from
the
tinder
-
dry
grass
like
fine
corn
meal
,
like
pollen
all
blazed
with
sunlight
now
,
for
the
sun
had
come
out
.
I
shouted
again
!
Why
?
Because
in
all
that
hell
-
fire
filtering
dust
now
a
veil
moved
aside
and
I
saw
them
,
I
swear
it
!
The
grand
army
of
the
ancient
prairie
:
the
bison
,
the
buffalo
!
"
The
colonel
let
the
silence
build
,
then
broke
it
again
.
"
Heads
like
giant
Negroes
’
fists
,
bodies
like
locomotives
!
Twenty
,
fifty
,
two
hundred
thousand
iron
missiles
shot
out
of
the
west
,
gone
off
the
track
and
flailing
cinders
,
their
eyes
like
blazing
coals
,
rumbling
toward
oblivion
!
"
I
saw
that
the
dust
rose
up
and
for
a
little
while
showed
me
that
sea
of
humps
,
of
dolloping
manes
,
black
shaggy
waves
rising
,
falling
.
.
.
‘
Shoot
!
’
says
Pawnee
Bill
.
‘
Shoot
!
’
And
I
cock
and
aim
.
‘
Shoot
’
he
says
.
And
I
stand
there
feeling
like
God
’
s
right
hand
,
looking
at
the
great
vision
of
strength
and
violence
going
by
,
going
by
,
midnight
at
noon
,
like
a
glinty
funeral
train
all
black
and
long
and
sad
and
forever
and
you
don
’
t
fire
at
a
funeral
train
,
now
do
you
,
boys
?
do
you
?
All
I
wanted
then
was
for
the
dust
to
sink
again
and
cover
the
black
shapes
of
doom
which
pummeled
and
jostled
on
in
great
burdensome
commotions
.
And
,
boys
,
the
dust
came
down
.
The
cloud
hid
the
million
feet
that
were
drumming
up
the
thunder
and
dusting
out
the
storm
.
I
heard
Pawnee
Bill
curse
and
hit
my
arm
.
But
I
was
glad
I
hadn
’
t
touched
that
cloud
or
the
power
within
that
cloud
with
so
much
as
a
pellet
of
lead
.
I
just
wanted
to
stand
watching
time
bundle
by
in
great
trundlings
all
hid
by
the
storm
the
bison
made
and
carried
with
them
toward
eternity
.
"
An
hour
,
three
hours
,
six
,
it
took
for
the
storm
to
pass
on
away
over
the
horizon
toward
less
kind
men
than
me
.
Pawnee
Bill
was
gone
,
I
stood
alone
,
stone
deaf
.
I
walked
all
numb
through
a
town
a
hundred
miles
south
and
heard
not
the
voices
of
men
and
was
satisfied
not
to
hear
.
For
a
little
while
I
wanted
to
remember
the
thunder
.
I
hear
it
still
,
on
summer
afternoons
like
this
when
the
rain
shapes
over
the
lake
;
a
fearsome
,
wondrous
sound
.
.
.
one
I
wish
you
might
have
heard
.
.
.
"
