By Anna Von Reitz
Picture this. It's evening. I and an Indian Chief are out in the middle
of nowhere fifty miles from the nearest cattle crossing. The only sign of
civilization in the whole vast landscape is a pair of steel rails on railroad
ties and we happen to be standing on them. In the near distance, about three
miles away, we can see a train heading toward us and feel the very faint tremble
in the rails under our feet.
We've been gossiping about life and weather and the difficulties of men and
women we know, commiserating about the hardships of bringing up children, the
effort to restore the buffalo herds, the beauty of the landscape in front of us,
and we go on discussing these and other topics as the train makes its slow way
forward.
A few minutes later the train is coming close enough to start to worry me.
The faint tremble in the rails has become something more akin to an electric
current, a constant strong vibration, and I can see the engine heading through
the final copse of trees before it hits a straightaway stretch coming right for
us.
"Ah, Chief, we should move off the tracks," I suggest mildly.