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lin mclean-第41章

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music began to reach them。 At the foot of the hill they saw the sparse

lights and shapes of the town where ended the gray strip of road。 The

many soundsfeet; voices; and musicgrew clearer; unravelling from

their muffled confusion; and the fiddling became a tune that could be

known。〃



〃There's a dance to…night;〃 said the wife to the husband。 〃Hurry。〃



He drove as he had been driving。 Perhaps he had not heard her。



〃I'm telling you to hurry;〃 she repeated。 〃My new dress is in that wagon。

There'll be folks to welcome me here that's older friends than you。〃



She put her horse to a gallop down the broad road toward the music and

the older friends。 The husband spoke to his horse; cleared his throat and

spoke louder; cleared his throat again and this time his sullen voice

carried; and the animal started。 So Lusk went ahead of Lin McLean;

following his wife with the new dress at as good a pace as he might。 If

he did not want her company; perhaps to be alone with the cow…puncher was

still less to his mind。



〃It ain't only her he's stopped caring for;〃 mused Lin; as he rode slowly

along。 〃He don't care for himself any more。〃





PART III



To…day; Drybone has altogether returned to the dust。 Even in that day its

hour could have been heard beginning to sound; but its inhabitants were

rather deaf。 Gamblers; saloon…keepers; murderers; outlaws male and

female; all were so busy with their cards; their lovers; and their

bottles as to make the place seem young and vigorous; but it was second

childhood which had set in。



Drybone had known a wholesome adventurous youth; where manly lives and

deaths were plenty。 It had been an army post。 It had seen horse and foot;

and heard the trumpet。 Brave wives had kept house for their captains upon

its bluffs。 Winter and summer they had made the best of it。 When the War

Department ordered the captains to catch Indians; the wives bade them

Godspeed。 When the Interior Department ordered the captains to let the

Indians go again; still they made the best of it。 You must not waste

Indians。 Indians were a source of revenue to so many people in Washington

and elsewhere。 But the process of catching Indians; armed with weapons

sold them by friends of the Interior Department; was not entirely

harmless。 Therefore there came to be graves in the Drybone graveyard。 The

pale weather…washed head…boards told all about it: 〃Sacred to the memory

of Private So…and…So; killed on the Dry Cheyenne; May 6; 1875。〃 Or it

would be; 〃Mrs。 So…and…So; found scalped on Sage Creek。〃 But even the

financiers at Washington could not wholly preserve the Indian in

Drybone's neighborhood。 As the cattle by ten thousands came treading with

the next step of civilization into this huge domain; the soldiers were

taken away。 Some of them went West to fight more Indians in Idaho;

Oregon; or Arizona。 The battles of the others being done; they went East

in better coffins to sleep where their mothers or their comrades wanted

them。 Though wind and rain wrought changes upon the hill; the ready…made

graves and boxes which these soldiers left behind proved heirlooms as

serviceable in their way as were the tenements that the living had

bequeathed to Drybone。 Into these empty barracks came to dwell and do

business every joy that made the cow…puncher's holiday; and every hunted

person who was baffling the sheriff。 For the sheriff must stop outside

the line of Drybone; as shall presently be made clear。 The captain's

quarters were a saloon now; professional cards were going in the

adjutant's office night and day; and the commissary building made a good

dance…hall and hotel。 Instead of guard…mounting; you would see a

horse…race on the parade…ground; and there was no provost…sergeant to

gather up the broken bottles and old boots。 Heaps of these choked the

rusty fountain。 In the tufts of yellow; ragged grass that dotted the

place plentifully were lodged many aces and queens and ten…spots; which

the Drybone wind had blown wide from the doors out of which they had been

thrown when a new pack was called for inside。 Among the grass tufts would

lie visitors who had applied for beds too late at the dance…hall; frankly

sleeping their whiskey off in the morning air。



Above; on the hill; the graveyard quietly chronicled this new epoch of

Drybone。 So…and…so was seldom killed very far out of town; and of course

scalping had disappeared。 〃Sacred to the memory of Four…ace Johnston;

accidently shot; Sep。 4; 1885。〃 Perhaps one is still there unaltered:

〃Sacred to the memory of Mrs。 Ryan's babe。 Aged two months。〃 This unique

corpse had succeeded in dying with its boots off。



But a succession of graves was not always needed to read the changing

tale of the place; and how people died there; one grave would often be

enough。 The soldiers; of course; had kept treeless Drybone supplied with

wood。 But in these latter days wood was very scarce。 None grew nearer

than twenty or thirty milesnone; that is; to make boards of a

sufficient width for epitaphs。 And twenty miles was naturally far to go

to hew a board for a man of whom you knew perhaps nothing but what he

said his name was; and to whom you owed nothing; perhaps; but a trifling

poker debt。 Hence it came to pass that headboards grew into a sort of

directory。 They were light to lift from one place to another。 A single

coat of white paint would wipe out the first tenant's name sufficiently

to paint over it the next comer's。 By this thrifty habit the original

boards belonging to the soldiers could go round; keeping pace with the

new civilian population; and though at first sight you might be puzzled

by the layers of names still visible beneath the white paint; you could

be sure that the clearest and blackest was the one to which the present

tenant had answered。



So there on the hill lay the graveyard; steadily writing Drybone's

history; and making that history lay the town at the bottomone thin

line of houses framing three sides of the old parade ground。 In these

slowly rotting shells people rioted; believing the golden age was here;

the age when everybody should have money and nobody should be arrested。

For Drybone soil; you see; was still government soil; not yet handed over

to Wyoming; and only government could arrest there; and only for

government crimes。 But government had gone; and seldom worried Drybone!

The spot was a postage…stamp of sanctuary pasted in the middle of

Wyoming's big map; a paradise for the Four…ace Johnstons。 Only; you must

not steal a horse。 That was really wicked; and brought you instantly to

the notice of Drybone's one officialthe coroner! For they did keep a

coronerJudge Slaghammer。 He was perfectly illegal; and lived next door

in Albany County。 But that county paid fees and mileage to keep tally of

Drybone's casualties。 His wife owned the dance…hall; and between their

industries they made out a living。 And all the citizens made out a

living。 The happy cow…punchers on ranches far and near still earned and

instantly spent the high wages still paid them。 With their bodies full of

youth and their pockets full of gold; they rode into town by twenties; by

fifties; and out again next morning; penniless always and happy。 And then

the Four…ace Johnstons would sit card…playing with each other till the

innocents should come to town again。



To…night the innocents had certainly come to town; and Drybone was

furnishing to them all its joys。 Their many horses stood tied at every

post and cornerpatient; experienced cow…ponies; well knowing it was an

all…night affair。 The talk and laughter of the riders was in the saloons;

they leaned joking over the bars; they sat behind their cards at the

tables; they strolled to the post…trader's to buy presents for their easy

sweethearts their boots were keeping audible time with the fiddle at Mrs。

Slaghammer's。 From the multitude and vigor of the sounds there; the dance

was being done regularly。 〃Regularly〃 meant that upon the conclusion of

each set the gentleman led his lady to the bar and invited her to choose

and it was also regular that the lady should choose。 Beer and whiskey

were the alternatives。



Lin McLean's horse took him across the square without guiding from the

cow…puncher; who sat absently with his hands folded upon the horn of his

saddle。 This horse; too; was patient and experienced; and could not know

what remote thoughts filled his master's mind。 He looked around to see

why his master did not get off lightly; as he had done during so many

gallant years; and hasten in to the conviviality。 But the lonely

cow…puncher sat mechanically identifying the horses of acquaintances。



〃Toothpick Kid is here;〃 said he; 〃and Limber Jim; and the Doughie。 You'd

think he'd stay away after the trouble heI expect that pinto is Jerky

Bill's。〃



〃Go home!〃 said a hearty voice。



McLean eagerly turned。 For the moment his face lighted from its

sombreness。 〃I'd forgot you'
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