Men were lounging against cars, smoking and moving their lips in silent conversation. Slow as the blue haze that drifted over the distant mountains, slow as the clouds, they moved, as if they were all waiting. And the air was hot and hushed. A little grey town, the color of gunpowder.
What is it that the people have to get out of their system ? What is it that stays so close to the surface that a few words from a Yankee stranger can send it flooding out ? Tonight, he thought, was the beginning. A war is coming to my town ; and i don't even know whose side i'm on.
The Intruder
Charles Beaumont
1959
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