The Jimmyjohn Boss, and Other Stories. Owen WisterЧитать онлайн книгу.
buccaroo dropped his stolid bull eyes, but raised them again and grinned. “Well, I'm not particular about goin' this week, boss.”
“That's not my name,” said Drake, “but it's what I am.”
They stood a moment. Then they shuffled out. It was an orderly retreat—almost.
Drake winked over to Bolles. “That was a graze,” said he, and smoked for a while. “They'll not go this time. Question is, will they go next?”
III
Drake took a fresh cigar, and threw his legs over the chair arm.
“I think you smoke too much,” said Bolles, whom three days had made familiar and friendly.
“Yep. Have to just now. That's what! as Uncle Pasco would say. They are a half-breed lot, though,” the boy continued, returning to the buccaroos and their recent visit. “Weaken in the face of a straight bluff, you see, unless they get whiskey-courageous. And I've called 'em down on that.”
“Oh!” said Bolles, comprehending.
“Didn't you see that was their game? But he will not go after it.”
“The flesh is all they seem to understand,” murmured Bolles.
Half-past Full did not go to Harney City for the tabooed whiskey, nor did any one. Drake read his buccaroos like the children that they were. After the late encounter of grit, the atmosphere was relieved of storm. The children, the primitive, pagan, dangerous children, forgot all about whiskey, and lusted joyously for Christmas. Christmas was coming! No work! A shooting-match! A big feed! Cheerfulness bubbled at the Malheur Agency. The weather itself was in tune. Castle Rock seemed no longer to frown, but rose into the shining air, a mass of friendly strength. Except when a rare sledge or horseman passed, Mr. Bolles's journeys to the school were all to show it was not some pioneer colony in a new, white, silent world that heard only the playful shouts and songs of the buccaroos. The sun overhead and the hard-crushing snow underfoot filled every one with a crisp, tingling hilarity.
Before the sun first touched Castle Rock on the morning of the feast they were up and in high feather over at the bunk-house. They raced across to see what Sam was cooking; they begged and joyfully swallowed lumps of his raw plum-pudding. “Merry Christmas!” they wished him, and “Melly Clismas!” said he to them. They played leap-frog over by the stable, they put snow down each other's backs. Their shouts rang round corners; it was like boys let out of school. When Drake gathered them for the shooting-match, they cheered him; when he told them there were no prizes, what did they care for prizes? When he beat them all the first round, they cheered him again. Pity he hadn't offered prizes! He wasn't a good business man, after all!
The rounds at the target proceeded through the forenoon, Drake the acclaimed leader; and the Christmas sun drew to mid-sky. But as its splendor in the heavens increased, the happy shoutings on earth began to wane. The body was all that the buccaroos knew; well, the flesh comes pretty natural to all of us—and who had ever taught these men about the spirit? The further they were from breakfast the nearer they were to dinner; yet the happy shootings waned! The spirit is a strange thing. Often it dwells dumb in human clay, then unexpectedly speaks out of the clay's darkness.
It was no longer a crowd Drake had at the target. He became aware that quietness had been gradually coming over the buccaroos. He looked, and saw a man wandering by himself in the lane. Another leaned by the stable corner, with a vacant face. Through the windows of the bunk-house he could see two or three on their beds. The children were tired of shouting. Drake went in-doors and threw a great log on the fire. It blazed up high with sparks, and he watched it, although the sun shown bright on the window-sill. Presently he noticed that a man had come in and taken a chair. It was Half-past Full, and with his boots stretched to the warmth, he sat gazing into the fire. The door opened and another buckaroo entered and sat off in a corner. He had a bundle of old letters, smeared sheets tied trite a twisted old ribbon. While his large, top-toughened fingers softly loosened the ribbon, he sat with his back to the room and presently began to read the letters over, one by one. Most of the men came in before long, and silently joined the watchers round the treat fireplace. Drake threw another log on, and in a short time this, too, broke into ample flame. The silence was long; a slice of shadow had fallen across the window-sill, when a young man spoke, addressing the logs:
“I skinned a coon in San Saba, Texas, this day a year.”
At the sound of a voice, some of their eyes turned on the speaker, but turned back to the fire again. The spirit had spoken from the clay, aloud; and the clay was uncomfortable at hearing it.
After some more minutes a neighbor whispered to a neighbor, “Play you a game of crib.”
The man nodded, stole over to where the board was, and brought it across the floor on creaking tip-toe. They set it between them, and now and then the cards made a light sound in the room.
“I treed that coon on Honey,” said the young man, after a while—“Honey Creek, San Saba. Kind o' dry creek. Used to flow into Big Brady when it rained.”
The flames crackled on, the neighbors still played their cribbage. Still was the day bright, but the shrinking wedge of sun had gone entirely from the window-sill. Half-past Full had drawn from his pocket a mouthorgan, breathing half-tunes upon it; in the middle of “Suwanee River” the man who sat in the corner laid the letter he was beginning upon the heap on his knees and read no more. The great genial logs lay glowing, burning; from the fresher one the flames flowed and forked; along the embered surface of the others ran red and blue shivers of iridescence. With legs and arms crooked and sprawled, the buccaroos brooded, staring into the glow with seldom-winking eyes, while deep inside the clay the spirit spoke quietly. Christmas Day was passing, but the sun shone still two good hours high. Outside, over the snow and pines, it was only in the deeper folds of the hills that the blue shadows had come; the rest of the world was gold and silver; and from far across that silence into this silence by the fire came a tinkling stir of sound. Sleighbells it was, steadily coming, too early for Bolles to be back from his school festival.
The toy-thrill of the jingling grew clear and sweet, a spirit of enchantment that did not wake the stillness, but cast it into a deeper dream. The bells came near the door and stopped, and then Drake opened it.
“Hello, Uncle Pasco!” said he. “Thought you were Santa Claus.”
“Santa Claus! H'm. Yes. That's what. Told you maybe I'd come.”
“So you did. Turkey is due in—let's see—ninety minutes. Here, boys! some of you take Uncle Pasco's horse.”
“No, no, I won't. You leave me alone. I ain't stoppin' here. I ain't hungry. I just grubbed at the school. Sleepin' at Missouri Pete's to-night. Got to make the railroad tomorrow.” The old man stopped his precipitate statements. He sat in his sledge deeply muffled, blinking at Drake and the buccaroos, who had strolled out to look at him, “Done a big business this trip,” said he. “Told you I would. Now if you was only givin' your children a Christmas-tree like that I seen that feller yer schoolmarm doin' just now—hee-hee!” From his blankets he revealed the well-known case. “Them things would shine on a tree,” concluded Uncle Pasco.
“Hang 'em in the woods, then,” said Drake.
“Jewelry, is it?” inquired the young Texas man.
Uncle Pasco whipped open his case. “There you are,” said he. “All what's left. That ring'll cost you a dollar.”
“I've a dollar somewheres,” said the young man, fumbling.
Half-past Full, on the other side of the sleigh, stood visibly fascinated by the wares he was given a skilful glimpse of down among the blankets. He peered and he pondered while Uncle Pasco glibly spoke to him.
“Scatter your truck out plain!” the buccaroo exclaimed, suddenly. “I'm not buying in the dark. Come over to the bunk-house and scatter.”
“Brass will look just the same anywhere,” said Drake.
“Brass!”