The Sign of the Dollar

           Shesatatthewindowofthetrain,herheadthrownback,notmoving,wishingshewouldneverhavetomoveagain.

           Thetelegraphpoleswentracingpastthewindow,butthetrainseemedlostinavoid,betweenabrownstretchofprairieandasolidspreadofrusty,grayingclouds.Thetwilightwasdrainingtheskywithoutthewoundofasunset;itlookedmorelikethefadingofananemicbodyintheprocessofexhaustingitslastdropsofbloodandlight.Thetrainwasgoingwest,asifit,too,werepulledtofollowthesinkingraysandquietlytovanishfromtheearth.Shesatstill,feelingnodesiretoresistit.

           Shewishedshewouldnothearthesoundofthewheels.Theyknockedinanevenrhythm,everyfourthknockaccented—anditseemedtoherthatthroughtherapid,runningclatterofsomefutilestampedetoescape,thebeatoftheaccentedknockswaslikethestepsofanenemymovingtowardsomeinexorablepurpose.

           Shehadneverexperienceditbefore,thissenseofapprehensionatthesightofaprairie,thisfeelingthattherailwasonlyafragilethreadstretchedacrossanenormousemptiness,likeawornnervereadytobreak.Shehadneverexpectedthatshe,whohadfeltasifshewerethemotivepoweraboardatrain,wouldnowsitwishing,likeachildorasavage,thatthistrainwouldmove,thatitwouldnotstop,thatitwouldgetherthereontime—wishingit,notlikeanactofwill,butlikeapleatoadarkunknown.

           Shethoughtofwhatadifferenceonemonthhadmade.