I looked and saw how the bridge was coming and thought he could never make it and how I would be alone after all, except he made this leap, old though he was, and I saw where his arm looped round the door, his hand reaching out as if there was something there he could take a hold of. And I could see it were the burnt hand and that the shoulder was the one he just got shot in so that I felt sure he would let go. His legs were flying and the bridge was pretty much on us. Then he must have managed it because the bridge was flicking by and he didnât get knocked off, so that as we cleared the bridge I reached out for his collar and managed to get him in.
I guess I did it for me and not for him. We were together now and there didnât seem anything I could do about it. I wouldnât have chosen to be with him, but there didnât seem anything else I could do. He could have left me by the river, given me up to them men, but he stuck there till I come to. And besides, he must know what to do. He a white man, after all.
He lay there and so did I. We were both tired through. We had got away. I just lay back on the floor among the straw and the dirt. There was nothing in the wagon but a heap of rags over in the corner. We were picking up speed now and easing down the hill. I could see the trees flickering by, so that after a bit I couldnât watch. The flickering made my head ache and I could feel that feeling that told me the shakes were coming. When I got that feeling, I had to make sure I were safe, so I pulled back from the doorway. I wanted to tell him, so he would know what to do, but I couldnât speak and couldnât think how to show him. And besides, maybe the feeling would go away. It sometimes did, especially if I could just lie still. Except that the wagon was rocking from side to side and the flashes of light from the doorway seemed to set my head to throbbing. I thought maybe to shut the door, but didnât trust myself to stand or get close to it. So there was nothing for it but to lie back and try to stop it from happening, though, if it wanted to, there wasnât nothing I could do, not a thing in the world. And the train was the same. It was going north, that much I knew, but where it was going I didnât know and anyway wasnât nothing to be done about that neither. It would just take me wherever it wanted to. And then the shakes came and the dark rose up, and Iâm falling down into it like there is nothing but dark and I feel the shakes before it swallows me up. And then I am gone and not there no more, just somewhere where nobody is but a picture broken all to pieces. And then it was dark again and there was no me at all.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Something was over. A line had been drawn. He was tireder than he had ever been. There was no one pain, no one ache, his body simply hummed with pain and ache. Until now, he had thought of nothing but the train, as if the train were a destination in itself, except that he knew it wasnât. For the moment, though, it would do. It was putting distance between him and those who wanted him dead and who, if they knew he was on the train, as doubtless they would, could not possibly know where he would get off, since he didnât himself. For the first time, he felt if not at peace then relaxed, not tensed to fight or to run. Outside the door, the land was pulling away behind him, cutting by, each passing tree a second further off in time and space. Most of his life, nothing much happened each day that was any different from any other. He would work if there was work and not if there wasnât. Every now and then, he would go to the store or hunt in the wood, but nothing much marked off one time from another. Now things came at him one after another. It seemed to him that there was no rest. It was as though everything had been stored up and was now pouring out so fast that he could do nothing more than watch, as if it wasnât
I guess I did it for me and not for him. We were together now and there didnât seem anything I could do about it. I wouldnât have chosen to be with him, but there didnât seem anything else I could do. He could have left me by the river, given me up to them men, but he stuck there till I come to. And besides, he must know what to do. He a white man, after all.
He lay there and so did I. We were both tired through. We had got away. I just lay back on the floor among the straw and the dirt. There was nothing in the wagon but a heap of rags over in the corner. We were picking up speed now and easing down the hill. I could see the trees flickering by, so that after a bit I couldnât watch. The flickering made my head ache and I could feel that feeling that told me the shakes were coming. When I got that feeling, I had to make sure I were safe, so I pulled back from the doorway. I wanted to tell him, so he would know what to do, but I couldnât speak and couldnât think how to show him. And besides, maybe the feeling would go away. It sometimes did, especially if I could just lie still. Except that the wagon was rocking from side to side and the flashes of light from the doorway seemed to set my head to throbbing. I thought maybe to shut the door, but didnât trust myself to stand or get close to it. So there was nothing for it but to lie back and try to stop it from happening, though, if it wanted to, there wasnât nothing I could do, not a thing in the world. And the train was the same. It was going north, that much I knew, but where it was going I didnât know and anyway wasnât nothing to be done about that neither. It would just take me wherever it wanted to. And then the shakes came and the dark rose up, and Iâm falling down into it like there is nothing but dark and I feel the shakes before it swallows me up. And then I am gone and not there no more, just somewhere where nobody is but a picture broken all to pieces. And then it was dark again and there was no me at all.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Something was over. A line had been drawn. He was tireder than he had ever been. There was no one pain, no one ache, his body simply hummed with pain and ache. Until now, he had thought of nothing but the train, as if the train were a destination in itself, except that he knew it wasnât. For the moment, though, it would do. It was putting distance between him and those who wanted him dead and who, if they knew he was on the train, as doubtless they would, could not possibly know where he would get off, since he didnât himself. For the first time, he felt if not at peace then relaxed, not tensed to fight or to run. Outside the door, the land was pulling away behind him, cutting by, each passing tree a second further off in time and space. Most of his life, nothing much happened each day that was any different from any other. He would work if there was work and not if there wasnât. Every now and then, he would go to the store or hunt in the wood, but nothing much marked off one time from another. Now things came at him one after another. It seemed to him that there was no rest. It was as though everything had been stored up and was now pouring out so fast that he could do nothing more than watch, as if it wasnât
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