A WAIF OF THE PLAINS

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2025-04-03 0 0 370.9KB 100 页 5.9玖币

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A WAIF OF THE

PLAINS

by Bret Harte

A WAIF OF THE PLAINS

CHAPTER I

A long level of dull gray that further away became a faint blue, with

here and there darker patches that looked like water. At times an open

space, blackened and burnt in an irregular circle, with a shred of

newspaper, an old rag, or broken tin can lying in the ashes. Beyond these

always a low dark line that seemed to sink into the ground at night, and

rose again in the morning with the first light, but never otherwise changed

its height and distance. A sense of always moving with some indefinite

purpose, but of always returning at night to the same place--with the same

surroundings, the same people, the same bedclothes, and the same awful

black canopy dropped down from above. A chalky taste of dust on the

mouth and lips, a gritty sense of earth on the fingers, and an all-pervading

heat and smell of cattle.

This was "The Great Plains" as they seemed to two children from the

hooded depth of an emigrant wagon, above the swaying heads of toiling

oxen, in the summer of 1852.

It had appeared so to them for two weeks, always the same and always

without the least sense to them of wonder or monotony. When they

viewed it from the road, walking beside the wagon, there was only the

team itself added to the unvarying picture. One of the wagons bore on its

canvas hood the inscription, in large black letters, "Off to California!" on

the other "Root, Hog, or Die," but neither of them awoke in the minds of

the children the faintest idea of playfulness or jocularity. Perhaps it was

difficult to connect the serious men, who occasionally walked beside them

and seemed to grow more taciturn and depressed as the day wore on, with

this past effusive pleasantry.

Yet the impressions of the two children differed slightly. The eldest,

a boy of eleven, was apparently new to the domestic habits and customs of

a life to which the younger, a girl of seven, was evidently native and

familiar. The food was coarse and less skillfully prepared than that to

which he had been accustomed. There was a certain freedom and

roughness in their intercourse, a simplicity that bordered almost on

A WAIF OF THE PLAINS

rudeness in their domestic arrangements, and a speech that was at times

almost untranslatable to him. He slept in his clothes, wrapped up in

blankets; he was conscious that in the matter of cleanliness he was left to

himself to overcome the difficulties of finding water and towels. But it is

doubtful if in his youthfulness it affected him more than a novelty. He

ate and slept well, and found his life amusing. Only at times the rudeness

of his companions, or, worse, an indifference that made him feel his

dependency upon them, awoke a vague sense of some wrong that had been

done to him which while it was voiceless to all others and even uneasily

put aside by himself, was still always slumbering in his childish

consciousness.

To the party he was known as an orphan put on the train at "St. Jo" by

some relative of his stepmother, to be delivered to another relative at

Sacramento. As his stepmother had not even taken leave of him, but had

entrusted his departure to the relative with whom he had been lately living,

it was considered as an act of "riddance," and accepted as such by her

party, and even vaguely acquiesced in by the boy himself. What

consideration had been offered for his passage he did not know; he only

remembered that he had been told "to make himself handy." This he had

done cheerfully, if at times with the unskillfulness of a novice; but it was

not a peculiar or a menial task in a company where all took part in manual

labor, and where existence seemed to him to bear the charm of a

prolonged picnic. Neither was he subjected to any difference of affection

or treatment from Mrs. Silsbee, the mother of his little companion, and the

wife of the leader of the train. Prematurely old, of ill-health, and harassed

with cares, she had no time to waste in discriminating maternal tenderness

for her daughter, but treated the children with equal and unbiased

querulousness.

The rear wagon creaked, swayed, and rolled on slowly and heavily.

The hoofs of the draft-oxen, occasionally striking in the dust with a dull

report, sent little puffs like smoke on either side of the track. Within, the

children were playing "keeping store." The little girl, as an opulent and

extravagant customer, was purchasing of the boy, who sat behind a counter

improvised from a nail-keg and the front seat, most of the available

A WAIF OF THE PLAINS

contents of the wagon, either under their own names or an imaginary one

as the moment suggested, and paying for them in the easy and liberal

currency of dried beans and bits of paper. Change was given by the

expeditious method of tearing the paper into smaller fragments. The

diminution of stock was remedied by buying the same article over again

under a different name. Nevertheless, in spite of these favorable

commercial conditions, the market seemed dull.

"I can show you a fine quality of sheeting at four cents a yard, double

width," said the boy, rising and leaning on his fingers on the counter as he

had seen the shopmen do. "All wool and will wash," he added, with easy

gravity. "I can buy it cheaper at Jackson's," said the girl, with the

intuitive duplicity of her bargaining sex.

"Very well," said the boy. "I won't play any more."

"Who cares?" said the girl indifferently. The boy here promptly upset

the counter; the rolled-up blanket which had deceitfully represented the

desirable sheeting falling on the wagon floor. It apparently suggested a

new idea to the former salesman. "I say! let's play 'damaged stock.' See,

I'll tumble all the things down here right on top o' the others, and sell 'em

for less than cost."

The girl looked up. The suggestion was bold, bad, and momentarily

attractive. But she only said "No," apparently from habit, picked up her

doll, and the boy clambered to the front of the wagon. The incomplete

episode terminated at once with that perfect forgetfulness, indifference,

and irresponsibility common to all young animals. If either could have

flown away or bounded off finally at that moment, they would have done

so with no more concern for preliminary detail than a bird or squirrel.

The wagon rolled steadily on. The boy could see that one of the

teamsters had climbed up on the tail-board of the preceding vehicle. The

other seemed to be walking in a dusty sleep.

"Kla'uns," said the girl.

The boy, without turning his head, responded, "Susy."

"Wot are you going to be?" said the girl.

"Goin' to be?" repeated Clarence.

"When you is growed," explained Susy.

A WAIF OF THE PLAINS

Clarence hesitated. His settled determination had been to become a

pirate, merciless yet discriminating. But reading in a bethumbed "Guide

to the Plains" that morning of Fort Lamarie and Kit Carson, he had

decided upon the career of a "scout," as being more accessible and

requiring less water. Yet, out of compassion for Susy's possible

ignorance, he said neither, and responded with the American boy's modest

conventionality, "President." It was safe, required no embarrassing

description, and had been approved by benevolent old gentlemen with

their hands on his head.

"I'm goin' to be a parson's wife," said Susy, "and keep hens, and have

things giv' to me. Baby clothes, and apples, and apple sass-- and

melasses! and more baby clothes! and pork when you kill."

She had thrown herself at the bottom of the wagon, with her back

towards him and her doll in her lap. He could see the curve of her curly

head, and beyond, her bare dimpled knees, which were raised, and over

which she was trying to fold the hem of her brief skirt.

"I wouldn't be a President's wife," she said presently.

"You couldn't!"

"Could if I wanted to!"

"Couldn't!"

"Could now!"

"Couldn't!"

"Why?"

Finding it difficult to explain his convictions of her ineligibility,

Clarence thought it equally crushing not to give any. There was a long

silence. It was very hot and dusty. The wagon scarcely seemed to

move. Clarence gazed at the vignette of the track behind them formed by

the hood of the rear. Presently he rose and walked past her to the tail-

board. "Goin' to get down," he said, putting his legs over.

"Maw says 'No,'" said Susy.

Clarence did not reply, but dropped to the ground beside the slowly

turning wheels. Without quickening his pace he could easily keep his

hand on the tail-board.

"Kla'uns."

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AWAIFOFTHEPLAINS1AWAIFOFTHEPLAINSbyBretHarteAWAIFOFTHEPLAINS2CHAPTERIAlonglevelofdullgraythatfurtherawaybecameafaintblue,withhereandtheredarkerpatchesthatlookedlikewater.Attimesanopenspace,blackenedandburntinanirregularcircle,withashredofnewspaper,anoldrag,orbrokentincanlyingintheashes.Beyondtheseal...

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