Читать книгу Happy Hawkins - Robert Alexander Wason - Страница 8

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He looked mighty peaceful, did ol' Monody. Curious thing about death, is the way it seems to beautify a person. In life Monody was the homeliest human I ever see, an' yet the' was something so kindly, an' gentle, an'—an' satisfied in his face there under the lamplight, that I reached out an' patted his hand, almost envious—even though my fool eyes was a-winkin' mighty fast.

We all of us would give the first ten years of our life to know what it's like out yonder; when he was here, ol' Monody would 'a' done anything he could for me,—well, he lay down his life an' I reckon that's about skinnin' the deck,—but here I was achin' to know how it was with him, an' there he was with all his guesses answered, an' him not able to pass back a single tip to me.

It wasn't him that I was lookin' down at, it was just the shell of him, scarred and battered and bruised, but all his life—or at least most of it—he had twisted up his face to make it as ugly as possible, so 'at no one wouldn't take him for a woman. Now it could relax an' give a sort of a hint as to what it might have been if he'd had a chance to live. Oh, it's sure a crime the way we torture some o' the white souls 'at drift to this Sorrowful Star, as I once heard a feller call it.

Injun, Nigger, an' Greaser—why, such a combination as that ain't entitled to trial in a civilized nation—it's guilty on sight. Any one would know 'at such a bein' would be cruel an' treacherous an' thievin' an' everything else 'at was bad—but yet the' come a good streak into Monody some way or other. All in the world I had ever done for him was to beat him over the head when he acted like a beast, an' then to treat hint like a human when he acted like one. The' wasn't nothin' especially kind nor thoughtful in it, just simple justice as you might say, an' yet in spite of his treacherous mixture he wasn't askin' no favors; all he wanted was a square deal, an' when he got it he was square clear to the finish. It's a funny thing, life.

In spite of all he'd done to kill it the' was a mother streak in him which made him fair hungry for somethin' to pet an' fondle. He was allus good to any kind of an animal, an' though I didn't notice it at the time, he was allus motherin' me; an' look at the way he had soothed little Barbie with a touch that night in the cook shack! O' course I ain't questioning the judgment o' the Almighty, but for the life o' me the I can't see why it was necessary to make a woman as big an' as tall as ol' Monody was, an' yet perhaps if I just knew the story from the beginnin', I 'd see it was a mercy, after all.

Anyhow, it made it easy enough for him to work out his scheme.

The' ain't no rules for women anyhow, 'cause their hearts won't never surrender to their heads; when they do, they ain't all woman. Well, yes, there is one rule 'at 's safe for a man to foller In dealin with woman, an' that is that when a woman's in love, she 's in love all over. Sometimes a man's in love up to his pocket-book, sometimes up to his appetite, an' sometimes up to his heart, but he's mighty seldom in love all over. If nothin' else stays dry he's generally able to take care of his head, but with a woman everything goes; so I'm purty tol'able sure that away back at the beginnin' it was love 'at drove ol' Monody out of her own sex down into ours.

When the news spread abroad 'at the man who had killed Bill Brophy without a weapon had cashed in, the neighbors gathered from ninety miles around, and we sure gave Monody the rip-snortin'est funeral ever seen in those parts. We didn't say nothin' about him not really bein' a man, an' though I reckon 'at every feller there knew of it, the' wasn't a single one of 'em spoke of it—so we didn't have no trouble at all.

He lies on a little knoll about a mile to the north of the ranch house. Up back of him ol' Mount Savage stands guard an' fights off the roughest of the storms; while the soft winds from the south steal gently up a little cut in the rocks an' seem to circle about him, whisperin' secrets of countries far away. If the' 's a single bird in Wyoming, you can find it hoppin' about his narrow bed or singin' in the oak tree 'at stands above him, spreadin' out its branches like a priest givin' the blessin'. Winter or summer, Monody's grave is the quietest, peacefullest, purtiest spot 'at lies outdoors, as if the old Earth had repented of the way it had treated him, and was tryin' to make it up to him now.

Take it in winter when the' 's a clean sheet o' soft, white snow over everything, an' I like to go out an' stand on another little knoll about a half mile this side. The last speck of light in the valley comes through a narrow cleft an' falls on Monody's grave. As the sun sinks lower an' lower the crimson glory on the soft fleecy snow seems to come up out of the grave an' climb the black shadow of the mountain, like—but pshaw, I reckon it'd be a mighty tame sight to ol' Monody himself.

I never speak of him, an' I never think of him, as anything but a man. He lived like a man, God knows he died like a man; and on the little stone at his head the' ain't nothin' carved except just—Monody, a Man.