gray plumes into the air like sluggish smoke. The corn threshed the wind and made a dry,
rushing sound. The finest dust did not settle back to earth now, but disappeared into the
darkening sky.
The wind grew stronger, whisked under stones, carried up straws and old leaves, and
even little clods, marking its course as it sailed across the fields. The air and the sky
darkened and through them the sun shone redly, and there was a raw sting in the air.
During a night the wind raced faster over the land, dug cunningly among the rootlets of
the corn, and the corn fought the wind with its weakened leaves until the roots were freed
by the prying wind and then each stalk settled wearily sideways toward the earth and
pointed the direction of the wind.
The dawn came, but no day. In the gray sky a red sun appeared, a dim red circle that
gave a little light, like dusk; and as that day advanced, the dusk slipped back toward
darkness, and the wind cried and whimpered over the fallen corn.
Men and women huddled in their houses, and they tied handkerchiefs over their
noses when they went out, and wore goggles to protect their eyes.
When the night came again it was black night, for the stars could not pierce the dust
to get down, and the window lights could not even spread beyond their own yards. Now
the dust was evenly mixed with the air, an emulsion of dust and air. Houses were shut
tight, and cloth wedged around doors and windows, but the dust came in so thinly that it
could not be seen in the air, and it settled like pollen on the chairs and tables, on the
dishes. The people brushed it from their shoulders. Little lines of dust lay at the door
sills.
In the middle of that night the wind passed on and left the land quiet. The dust-filled
air muffled sound more completely than fog does. The people, lying in their beds, heard
the wind stop. They awakened when the rushing wind was gone. They lay quietly and
listened deep into the stillness. Then the roosters crowed, and their voices were muffled,
and the people stirred restlessly in their beds and wanted the morning. They knew it
would take a long time for the dust to settle out of the air. In the morning the dust hung
like fog, and the sun was as red as ripe new blood. All day the dust sifted down from the
sky, and the next day it sifted down. An even blanket covered the earth. It settled on the
corn, piled up on the tops of the fence posts, piled up on the wires; it settled on roofs,
blanketed the weeds and trees.
The people came out of their houses and smelled the hot stinging air and covered
their noses from it. And the children came out of the houses, but they did not run or shout
as they would have done after a rain. Men stood by their fences and looked at the ruined
corn, drying fast now, only a little green showing through the film of dust. The men were
silent and they did not move often. And the women came out of the houses to stand
beside their men—to feel whether this time the men would break. The women studied
the men’s faces secretly, for the corn could go, as long as something else remained. The
children stood near by, drawing figures in the dust with bare toes, and the children sent
exploring senses out to see whether men and women would break. The children peeked
at the faces of the men and women, and then drew careful lines in the dust with their
toes. Horses came to the watering troughs and nuzzled the water to clear the surface dust.
After a while the faces of the watching men lost their bemused perplexity and became
hard and angry and resistant. Then the women knew that they were safe and that there
