He knew this much--that Cal Harkness drove an express wagon
somewhere in that town, and that he, Sam Folwell, had come to kill
him. And as he stepped upon the sidewalk the red came into his eye
and the feud-hate into his heart.
The clamor of the central avenues drew him thitherward. He had half
expected to see Cal coming down the street in his shirt-sleeves,
with a jug and a whip in his hand, just as he would have seen him in
Frankfort or Laurel City. But an hour went by and Cal did not appear.
Perhaps he was waiting in ambush, to shoot him from a door or a
window. Sam kept a sharp eye on doors and windows for a while.
About noon the city tired of playing with its mouse and suddenly
squeezed him with its straight lines.
Sam Folwell stood where two great, rectangular arteries of the city
cross. He looked four ways, and saw the world hurled from its orbit
and reduced by spirit level and tape to an edged and cornered plane.
All life moved on tracks, in grooves, according to system, within
boundaries, by rote. The root of life was the cube root; the measure
of existence was square measure. People streamed by in straight rows;
the horrible din and crash stupefied him.
Sam leaned against the sharp corner of a stone building. Those faces
passed him by thousands, and none of them were turned toward him.
A sudden foolish fear that he had died and was a spirit, and that
they could not see him, seized him. And then the city smote him with
loneliness.
Pages:
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117