The river boat had loitered down its way; The ropes were coiled, and business for the day Was done. The cruel noon closed down And cupped the town.
Stray voices called across the blinding heat, Then drifted off to shadowy retreat Among the sheds. The waters of the bay
Sucked away In tepid swirls, as listless as the day. Silence closed about me, like a wall, Final and obstinate as death.
Until I longed to break it with a call, Or barter life for one deep, windy breath. A mellow laugh came rippling Across the stagnant air,
Lifting it into little waves of life. Then, true and clear, I caught a snatch of harmony; Sure lilting tenor, and a drowsing bass,
Elusive chords to weave and interlace, And poignant little minors, broken short, Like robins calling June — And then the tune:
“Oh, nobody knows when de Lord is goin ter call, Roll dem bones. It may be in de Winter time, and maybe in de Fall, Roll dem bones.
But yer got ter leabe yer baby an yer home an all — So roll dem bones, Oh my brudder, Oh my brudder,
Oh my brudder, Roll dem bones!” There they squatted, gambling away Their meagre pay;
Fatalists all. I heard the muted fall Of dice, then the assured, Retrieving sweep of hand on roughened board.
I thought it good to see Four lives so free From care, so indolently sure of each tomorrow, And hearts attuned to sing away a sorrow.
Then, like a shot Out of the hot Still air, I heard a call: “Throw up your hands! I've got you all!
It's thirty days for craps. Come, Tony, Paul! Now, Joe, do n't be a fool! I've got you cool.”
I saw Joe's eyes, and knew he'd never go. Not Joe, the swiftest hand in River Bow! Springing from where he sat, straight, cleanly made, He soared, a leaping shadow from the shade
With fifty feet to go. It was the stiffest hand he ever played. To win the corner meant Deep, sweet content
Among his laughing kind; To lose, to suffer blind, Degrading slavery upon “the gang,” With killing suns, and fever-ridden nights
Behind relentless bars Of prison cars. He hung a breathless second in the sun, The staring road before him. Then, like one
Who stakes his all, and has a gamester's heart, His laughter flashed. He lunged — I gave a start. God! What a man!
The massive shoulders hunched, and as he ran With head bent low, and splendid length of limb, I almost felt the beat Of passionate life that surged in him
And winged his spurning feet. And then my eyes went dim. The Marshal's gun was out. I saw the grim
Short barrel, and his face Aflame with the excitement of the chase. He was an honest sportsman, as they go. He never shot a doe,
Or spotted fawn, Or partridge on the ground. And, as for Joe, He'd wait until he had a yard to go.
Then, if he missed, he'd laugh and call it square. My gaze leapt to the corner — waited there. And now an arm would reach it. I saw hope flare Across the runner's face.
Then, like a pang In my own heart, The pistol rang. The form I watched soared forward, spun the curve.
“By God, you've missed!” The Marshal shook his head. No, there he lay, face downward in the road. “I reckon he was dead
Before he hit the ground,” The Marshal said. “Just once, at fifty feet, A moving target too.
That's just about as good As any man could do! A little tough; But, since he ran,
I call it fair enough.” He mopped his head, and started down the road. The silence eddied round him, turned and flowed Slowly back and pressed against the ears.
Until unnumbered flies set it to droning, And, down the heat, I heard a woman moaning.
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