Emaline took their orders, which never varied. Pancakes for Cecil, two poached eggs for Earl. Pancakes, bacon, a bowl of Cream of Wheat, eggs sunny-side up for Vernon.

Emaline handed them their plates as soon as Hank finished frying the bacon and eggs. With the dust storm roaring outside, there wasn’t a useful thing the men could do. They sat and gossiped and watched the dust blow. Emaline poured more coffee and Hank grilled more eggs and bacon and they hunkered down to wait it out, the talk a mere rumble over the drone of Hank’s radio. Emaline watched an Indian family walk past the diner, fighting their way against the wind and the dust. The man was a big Crow named George White Magpie who worked as a hired hand, earning a dollar a day helping farmers haul hay or thin beets with a hoe. They walked single file, White Magpie leading the way with his long, loping strides, followed by his wife and their five children in descending order of their age and height, each two or three paces behind the one ahead. The youngest brought up the rear. She couldn’t have been more than three years old, struggling to keep up on her chubby little legs as they battled against the dust and wind. The others kept walking. Not once did White Magpie or his wife or any of the older children look back to see if the little one was keeping up. They came to an intersection and crossed single file, not pausing to look for cars. In the middle of the road, the little one fell hard and skinned her knees. Emaline started to run out to help her before a car came along, but she bounced to her feet and went on, rubbing her knees. She ran to catch up. Emaline watched them vanish behind a curtain of dust.

Around midmorning, a De Soto coupe crawled along the road in low gear and pulled off to park in front of the plate-glass window of the Arrowhead. Two men got out and dashed into the diner, holding their hats against the wind. All the talkers craned their necks to give these two birds a look-see. One was tall and lean, the other short and wide. The short one walked with a limp, a lit cigarette dangling from his lower lip. The tall one moved like a dancer, light on the balls of his feet, but his nose looked as though it had been smashed by a baseball bat and his hands were lumped with fractures. They sat at a booth by the window. When Emaline brought the menus, the short one wanted a coffee, black. The tall one ordered a half dozen eggs, scrambled, with pancakes and bacon and a glass of milk.

“Hank makes big pancakes. You sure you can eat all that?”

“Hell yes, little lady. Got to, or I’d blow away.”

“Suit yourself.”