A CABIN

Oursips the small square of the window, dull greys
and greens ran together in a heavy downpour of
rain. Inside it, against the glass, flies crawled and
buzzed and fell back among the empty cans on the
sill. Mosquitoes whined through the dimness of the
cabin, and ceased their whining to sting, and began
to whine again. There was a sickly smell of coyote
skins and drying meat and musty blankets. Dirty
cups and plates stood on the table, forgotten.

The old man’s voice was high and sharp with ex-
citement. One of his hands rested upon the head of
his dog, playing with the soft nose and silky ears;
the other emphasized his talk with wide, angular
gestures. His moccasined feet were braced against
the wooden box upon which he sat. The long cords
in his throat stretched forward from a ragged
shirt.

“Seventeen years. Seventeen years. I dare not go
out now. I’m too old, and the world has changed
so much. My friends are all dead, I think. No one
ever writes to me now. But tell me, is the scow
coming down? I’ve had no sugar nor coffee for

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