Ladies and GentlemenCobb, Irvin S. (Irvin Shrewsbury)
General
Ladies and Gentlemen
Cobb, Irvin S. (Irvin Shrewsbury)
Fiction; Short stories, American
Anyhow, that was how it was with Chaney. There he squatted with his
pleasant sins all heavy upon him, and the front of Scalded Peak was
fetching away from its foundation to coast down and totally abolish
Chaney. His bodily reflexes synchronized with his mind's. As his brain
recorded the thought his legs bent to jump and set him running off to
the left along the shore. But before he could take ten long leaps the
slide was finished and over with.
It was miraculous--he marveled over that detail later when he was in a
frame fit for sorting out emotions--it really was miraculous that the
entire contour of one side of the basin could change while a scared man
was traveling thirty yards. Yet that was exactly what took place. In so
brief a space of time as this, the façade of the steep, rocky wall had
been rent free and shoved off and had descended a thousand feet or so,
picking up a million billion bushels of loose stuff on the way, and had
stopped and was settling.
In another half-minute the grit clouds were lifting, and Chaney was
rising up from where he had flopped over into a tangle of windfall.
He was bringing his face slowly out from under the arms which
instinctively he had crossed on his head as he stumbled and sprawled
and he was wiping his hand across his eyes and taking stock of the
accomplished transformation and of his own sensations.
There had been an intolerable numbing, deafening roaring and crashing
in his ears, and a great incredible passing before his eyes; he could
remember that. There had been a sense that the air about him was filled
with sweeping stones as big as court-houses, that tons upon tons of
weight were crushing down about him and on him; that something else,
which was minute but unutterably dense and thick, was pressing upon
him and flattening him to death; that tree tops near at hand overhead
were whipping and winnowing in a cyclonic gale that played above all
else; and then all definitely he knew for a little while was that his
mouth was full of a sour powder and his right cheek was bleeding. Also
that the earthquake had passed on to other parts and that the avalanche
begotten of it had missed him by a margin of, say, six rods.
He lay almost on the verge of the damage. He turned over, but very
cautiously through a foolish momentary fright of jarring to life some
poised boulder near by, and sat up in a kind of nest of dead roots and
dead boughs and cleared his vision and stared fearsomely to his right.
Just over there was a raw gray pyramidal smear, narrow at the top where
a new gouge showed in the rim-rock, and broad at the base. It was slick
and it was scoured out smoothly up the steep slope, but below, closer
to him, the overturned slabs and chunks of stone had a nasty, naked
aspect to them, an obscene aspect what with their scraped bare bellies
turned uppermost.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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