Читать книгу Pillar Mountain - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 5

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They were up with the dawn, both of them exceedingly cheerful, for cold air makes the blood dance; and though this was the golden time of the autumn, on that high mountain-shoulder the nights and the mornings were very sharp.

But when they sat down at the table, the constraint fell upon Philip again, so that he ate busily, made a good deal of noise with his fork and knife, patted Loafer, looked out the door, spoke about the mist which was rolling in thin silver up the mountainside with the aspens standing in it like streaks of tarnished gold. Nevertheless, the more he busied himself and the more carelessly self-conscious he tried to appear, the more keenly was he aware of the thoughtful face of Oliver Aytoun.

At last he could stand it no longer; he pushed back his stool and cried out: “But, Uncle Oliver, I am coming back!”

The old man nodded and smiled; his eyes were looking into distance as though he had heard words read aloud out of a storybook.

“You’ll want this rifle,” he said at last, “and you’d better take this revolver.”

“They are your two best guns,” exclaimed Philip.

“Our two best guns,” answered Uncle Oliver.

Philip began to choke. He gathered up the dishes rapidly and began to wash them, scowling so that the tears in his eyes might not be seen. He felt so weak and uncertain that he could not believe that with these same hands he had lifted the black rock the day before.

Aytoun went about the preparation of a pack. He put into it some socks and shirts and flannel underwear and a bit of food. He spent some time examining the cartridge belts, but at last he selected one, and he had everything ready by the time the dishes were finished, and the dishcloth had been spread out neatly to dry.

At length Aytoun said: “If you ever should have a quarrel, I hope that you won’t use a gun, Philip.”

“No, no,” said Philip, “I won’t quarrel, because everyone down there is sure to know a great deal more than I do.”

“Perhaps they will,” said Oliver Aytoun, and closed his eyes.

“Not that you haven’t taught me a lot!” exclaimed Philip. “Dear Uncle Oliver, I shall remember every day of my life—”

“Hush,” said the old man. “I wish that I had a horse for you; but a mule will get you along.”

“Take one of your mules? I wouldn’t dream of it!”

“You must take one.”

Philip looked wildly about him. For many years all his dreams had walked down into the valley towards the sparkling lights and he had told himself that they lived a small, poor life here on the mountain, but never had he seen the truth so clearly as on this morning. It was a hovel that they lived in, and like beggars they had carved their existence in the wilderness from the hand of nature. But somehow his eye fastened and held upon the dishrag, because it made him think of fiercely cold winter evenings when the dishwater turned cold and greasy almost at once, and the tins rarely were really clean; one’s fingers would slip a bit upon them.

“I’ll take nothing more from you,” said Philip huskily.

There was no further argument. He stood at last outside the hut, with the pack strapped behind his big shoulders; the rifle he carried slung loosely in his hand; the revolver was worn on his right thigh. His clothes were tough woolens which fade with time, but which rather stiffen than wear thin. The cartridge belt sagged heavily about his hips and yet he scarcely felt its weight for every day he had strode across the difficult mountain heights until the metal of his body was like the supple steel of sword blades.

The mist had made the rocks and the soil black; from a pine tree near the house there was a constant dripping, like the sound of rain.

“I’d better be getting on,” said Philip.

“You’d better be getting on,” said the old man. “There’s Loafer showing you the way!”

In fact, Loafer was scouting down the mountainside, as though he knew in what direction his master would be walking.

“Good-by, Philip,” said Aytoun.

Philip took his hand.

“But I’m coming back!” said Philip desperately.

The other nodded.

“When you come to the town, get some cotton underwear,” he said. “It’ll be a lot warmer, down there in the valley.”

Philip marched stiffly away. Loafer, once sure that the journey was to be in that direction, disappeared into the distance. At the edge of a scattering of lodge-pole pines, Philip paused. He wanted to look back, but somehow he dared not risk another glance at the shack, and therefore he stumbled ahead. Aytoun had taught him three prayers; one of these he began to murmur to himself, hardly knowing what he said, but the words made it easier to breathe, and when he came out on the far side of the lodge-pole forest his mind was clear enough for him to see what lay about him.

The mist was much thinner, except in hollows here and there where the sun fell upon it and made it as blinding white as snow, but the golden aspens sparkled everywhere through the veil and the ground could be seen, tanned with withered grass except where the rocks broke through. Taking note of all this, Philip was oddly comforted, and he walked on at a greater pace.

He entered the belt of spruce and big pines where the air was wonderfully sweet and the cold of the night remained. Loafer came back to him, panting, his red-shot eyes gleaming with lust for game, but now for a time he kept just ahead of his master, glancing back over his shoulder, once in a while, as though to read the mind of the boy, and then trotting on. It was very easy for Loafer to change his home, thought Philip. One meal in three days was all he needed to have, and his sharp white teeth were sure to earn food at least that often; but he, a man, with a man’s weakness, needed far more.

Once he came to a stop, resolved to go home and say to Aytoun: “I’m not very old; I don’t know a great deal; I’ll stay with you a while longer, if I may!” But then he thought of the white, fierce winter when the winds come leaping out of the north and he went on again.

By noon he had come, after steady traveling, to easier country. The forest was taller than ever, but it was open, rarely choked with underbrush, and often it gave way to broad clearings where the tanned grass rolled pleasantly and smoothly over the hills.

In one of these clearings he heard the sweet, far-off tinkling of a bell that walked gradually towards him. Philip halted, full of wonder, but at last it was only a brindled cow that walked over the hill with a brown bell tied around her throat. She stopped and looked at him, but then passed on unafraid and drank from the stream that went down the valley.

Philip sat down near the same spot to eat a lunch. He found that his food supply consisted of slices of cold bacon, fried crisp and placed between thick bits of cornpone, and it seemed to him that there never had been food so delicious as this and nothing so good to drink as the bright water that swerved past his feet.

Loafer lay down to watch with his red eyes for crumbs. Bits that were thrown to him he slashed out of the air with his white fangs, capable of cutting through the flank of an elk to the life in a single stroke. However, he would need better and more food than this. A rabbit raised its foolish head from a tuft of grass a hundred yards away; Philip sent a bullet from his Winchester through that head, and Loafer was off at a gallop to bring in the prize. He brought it back and laid it at the feet of the master. It was a big, fat jack. With terrible desire, the jaws of Loafer slavered, and his belly muscles worked; so Philip gave it to him with a gesture and in an instant the rabbit was gone and Loafer curiously sniffing the bloodstains on the earth.

Philip studied him as he often had studied the dog before, for he saw in the greed and the cruelty and the hunger of Loafer a continual contrast with the goodness, the wisdom, the gentle grace of man, for whom this world and all the mountains and rivers and forests and beasts have been made. All has been prepared for him as by a kind father for a child; for so Oliver Aytoun had said, almost in those words. And Philip, looking up from the big wolfish dog to the hills, to the forest, to the sky, felt his heart run over with wonder and shame and gratitude. He felt that he was a weak and foolish creature, indeed; he prayed that he might become wiser, stronger, better, so that men would be willing to accept him as a brother!

After this, he set about reloading the rifle—for he wished to keep the magazine full; and the first thing he discovered was that one of the pockets was empty and into it had been thrust a little roll of paper.

He took it out and spread in his hand thirteen dollars.

One by one he examined the frayed slips of paper, as though on each there were written some special message for him. It was all the money that Uncle Oliver possessed, and he sprang to his feet and faced the upward slope, determined to return to the shack and give back the money.

That purpose, however, did not endure, for he saw that it was more than money that Aytoun had given to him; if he gave back the money, he could not return the kindness and the love with which they were enveloped.

Such was mankind; wise, gentle, tender of heart!

He wrapped up the remainder of the provisions and was fitting them into the knapsack when he heard the sharp clicking of the hoofs of a horse, and he saw a rider come around the shoulder of a hill, close to the little creek.

This man was pushing with whip and red spurs a little exhausted mustang which acknowledged the spurs and the quirt with a sudden flattening of the ears, but with no increase of speed. Philip watched the cruel progress with amazement. But he decided that he would not judge too quickly, for the world was a most complicated place and the motives and the needs of man might be quite past his understanding.

Just as he had come to this thought, the stranger marked him, and with an exclamation dropped the reins and jerked a rifle from the holster beneath his leg. Straight into the barrel of that rifle, Philip found himself gazing.