Dust and grass and leaves fled before it, seeking refuge in calmer corners. The wind cracked and whipsawed Old Glory, and rattled windowpanes. The wind stabbed through the ill-clad Shoshones who had gathered at the warehouse for Distribution Day. The wind would whistle through their paltry allotment of flour and beans, small parcels that would stave off starvation yet one more month. The wind hurried around the uprights of the gallows on the commons, but the structure did not quake before the arctic air. Its crossbeam rested solidly on its posts, and below, a hinged platform awaited its sole passenger. A manilla rope shuddered in the whipping air, and at its end was a curious noose, the rope snaked around and around and around, forming a perfect cylinder. At the warehouse, clerks told the collecting Shoshones that distributions would begin after the sun had reached its zenith, and meanwhile the People should gather at the structure in the commons. The People surmised what they would witness, and gathered reluctantly, curious about the white men’s ways to begin the Long Walk.
