by Stephen Crane
A MAN in a maroon-colored flannel shirt, which
had been purchased for purposes of decoration and made, principally, by some
Jewish women on the east side of New York, rounded a corner and walked into the
middle of the main street of Yellow Sky. In either hand the man held a long,
heavy, blue-black revolver. Often he yelled, and these cries rang through a
semblance of a deserted village, shrilly flying over the roofs in a volume that
seemed to have no relation to the ordinary vocal strength of a man. It was as
if the surrounding stillness formed the arch of a tomb over him. These cries of
ferocious challenge rang against walls of silence. And his boots had red tops
with gilded imprints, of the kind beloved in winter by little sledding boys on
the hillsides of New England.
The man's face flamed in a rage begot of
whisky. His eyes, rolling and yet keen for ambush, hunted the still doorways
and windows. He walked with the creeping movement of the midnight cat. As it
occurred to him, he roared menacing information. The long revolvers in his
hands were as easy as straws; they were moved with an electric swiftness. The
little fingers of each hand played sometimes in a musician's way. Plain from
the low collar of the shirt, the cords of his neck straightened and sank,
straightened and sank, as passion moved him. The only sounds were his terrible
invitations. The calm adobes preserved their demeanor at the passing of this
small thing in the middle of the street.
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