'I can't do it,' Brookshire muttered. 'I can't do it. I'd just like to get on the train.' He paused, his eyes still on his feet.
'What I'd like very much is to get on the train,' he said, again.
Call immediately set down his saddle and duffle roll and took Mr. Brookshire's arm. The man was close to panic, and when a man was close to panic, discussion rarely helped.
'Here, I'll just escort you to your car,' he said, holding Brookshire's arm. Brookshire took one small step, and then another. Soon Call had him situated in a railroad seat.
Brookshire's chest began to heave and the sweat poured off him, but at least, Call reckoned, the panic was broken.
'Just stay here and settle in,' Call said.
'I'll stroll over to the hotel and pick up that valise.' 'Grateful,' was all Brookshire could say.
What he really wanted to do was crawl under the seat, but of course, that would be impossible-- anyway, the railroad car had walls. He wasn't going to blow away.
A few minutes later, Captain Call came walking in with the valise and with his own saddle and duffle roll. He sat down across from Brookshire as if nothing untoward had happened.
But Brookshire knew that something had happened-- something very untoward. He was embarrassed and also deeply grateful to the Captain. Not only had he guided him onto the train and then walked two hundred yards out of his way to fetch the valise, but he had done both things politely. He hadn't asked Brookshire why he couldn't walk a hundred yards and tote his own baggage; he just accepted that it was an impossibility and put him on the train without a fuss.
Brookshire worked for people who never let him forget that he was an underling. Captain Call hadn't been especially friendly when they met that morning, but he hadn't treated Brookshire as an underling. When he noticed that a crisis was occurring, he had dealt with it efficiently and with no evident feelings of contempt for Brookshire's weakness.
It was exceptional behavior, in Brookshire's view. He had met with a good deal of exceptional behavior in his years with Colonel Terry, but most of it had been exceptionally bad. He was not used to decent treatment, but he had received it from Captain Call. When his heart finally stopped pounding, he took another look at the man who sat across the aisle from him.
Call was smoking. If he even remembered that something out of the ordinary had happened on the railroad platform, he gave no sign.
The train started and they were soon cutting a narrow furrow through the endless miles of prairie.
The stiff wind was still blowing, ruffling the surface of the sea of grass.
'Does your hat ever blow off, Captain?' Brookshire asked.
'Rarely,' Call said.
'You see, I've got mine trained,' he added, looking over at the man from Brooklyn.
'You're new to these parts--it takes you a while to get yours trained just right.' 'I doubt mine will ever be trained--I'll probably have to chase it all over Texas,' Brookshire said.
Then, relaxing, he fell asleep. When he awoke and looked out the window, there was nothing to see but grass. Captain Call seemed not to have moved. He was still smoking. The stock of a rifle protruded from his duffle roll. Brookshire felt glad Call was there. It was a long way to San Antonio--if he had no one to share the ride with, he might get the blowing-away feeling again. Probably, after all, his superiors had been right in their choice of bandit killers. Most likely Captain Call could do the job.
'How long have you been a lawman, Captain?' he inquired, to be polite.
Call didn't turn his head.
'I ain't a lawman,' he said. 'I work for myself.' After that, a silence grew.
Brookshire felt rather as he felt when he went to a dance. Somehow he had stepped off on the wrong foot.
'Well, you picked an exciting line of work, I'd have to say,' he said.
Captain Call didn't answer.
Brookshire felt at a loss. He began to regret having made the remark--he began to regret having spoken at all. He sighed.
The Captain still said nothing. Brookshire realized he didn't know much about Texans.
Perhaps they just weren't inclined to conversation.
Certainly Captain Call didn't appear to be much inclined to it. He didn't appear to be excited about his line of work, either.
Brookshire began to miss Katie, his wife. Katie wasn't lavish with her conversation, either. A month might pass with the two of them scarcely exchanging more than three or four words.
But the plains outside the window were vast and empty. The wind was still blowing, rippling and sometimes flattening the top of the grass.
Brookshire began to wish, very much, that he could go home to Brooklyn. If only he were in Brooklyn and not in Texas, he might not feel so low. If he were in Brooklyn, he felt sure he would be sitting with Katie, in their cozy kitchen. Katie might not say much, but in their cozy kitchen, the wind never blew.
Lorena woke to the sound of the baby coughing.
Pea Eye was up walking her, trying to get her quiet. For a minute or two, Lorena let him: she felt too sad to
