W W W. D I S T I N C T LY M O N TA NA . C O M
35
I saw which way the wind was blowing now.
Everyone else got back in the cars. Everyone except Little and me.
e first light of the day, muted and gray, appeared on the east
ridge of the mountains surrounding Butte. It was just enough light
for me to make out the crumple of clothes, limbs, and white cast
behind the lead car. I was sorry for what was about to happen.
Blackface looked out the driver's side, saw me standing in the
street, and said in no uncertain terms, "Get in."
"ink I'll catch the next trolley, boys," I said brightly.
Blackface started to say something like "I don't think you heard
me" or "Wise guy, huh?" but he was interrupted by a commotion in
back of the car. It was Frank Little, struggling to stand. He got as
far as his knees.
One of the men leaned forward from the back seat and said,
"Forget this wiseacre, Middleton. Let's just go."
Blackface put the car in gear, but before he accelerated down the
street, he gave me one more narrow-eyed look, and said, "Take care,
Pink."
I knew then I was a marked man and started calculating how
fast I could get out of town.
e second car beeped its horn. "All right, already," Blackface
roared back at them. He shook his head at me—one last warning—
then he gave the Caddy all the gas in the world.
And me, I stood there watching them go down the street, pick-
ing up speed as they went.
I didn't turn away soon enough. I got it all: the rising roar of the
engine, the high girlish hoots from inside the car, the bouncing
mangle of a body, the plaster chips flying off the cast like white
sparks.
en they turned a corner and I went back to my room to pack
my bags.
