And then it happened: the miracle of the train’s arrival. No faint and distant sound now, but the hard braking of iron and hissing of steam and bucketing of boxcars knocking against their joinings when the engine stopped. Among the men there was a general sigh of satisfaction. Jane turned in Leon’s arms, and they looked at each other with an excitement that never lessened, as often as they had seen this together. She butted his chin with her head, and he threw her into the air, shouting, “Jane can fly!” Catching her again as she shrieked her delight, he set her down on the platform. She took his hand and pulled him toward the engine of the train. And there Leon saw Roscoe and his grandson; they had come too, to watch the train’s arrival. The boy Roscoe was nine years old; a stout, bold, black fellow, he stared at the engine. Jane called up to the engineer who knew her and took off his cap and waved to her. Leon and Roscoe looked directly at each other, but only for a moment before each turned to his grandchild. For the first time Leon thought of Roscoe as mortal, because he looked old and unwell.

4

On an afternoon soon after Lincoln’s Inaugural, which had been much discussed with little consequence other than to establish the fact that everyone agreed that war was now inevitable, Leon retreated to the office at Beulah Land, knowing that no one would follow him there other than Sarah, and knowing that she had gone to one of the cabins to doctor a woman with severe toothache. He was sitting idle at his desk, although a ledger was open before him when there was a knock at the door. Opening it when bidden to, Lovey announced with as much surprise as Leon heard the words: “Roscoe Elk is here.”

“What does he want?” The name still had the power to summon in Leon a kind of panic he had known in his youth.

“He says—to see you alone.”

“Well, bring him.”

Leon was standing beside his chair when Roscoe entered, Lovey closing the door behind him and leaving the two men alone. They looked at each other without any greeting until Roscoe said, “I have come to finish it.”

Observing him, Leon remembered that Roscoe must be more than seventy years old. The straight hair that had appeared to give substance to the rumor of Indian blood was as black as ever, and he stood as straight as he ever had; but it seemed to be deliberate now, not the automatic arrogance of his younger years. His face was thinner than Leon remembered, but Leon might have been mistaken about that, for one seldom looks closely at a face one hates.

“We finished with each other long ago,” Leon said.

“No, it goes on.” Roscoe’s voice was thin and dry but steady, and his eyes were piercing.