Читать книгу The Long Rifle - Stewart Edward White - Страница 32

Table of Contents

They plowed upstream against two hundred miles of heavy current. Crane, realizing that the journey was nearing its end, abandoned his careless companionships and gave his whole attention to Andy. He considered it nothing short of a crime that so likely a young man, the grandson of Gail Burnett, should become a farmer. He said so, very bluntly, and incidental to his protest sketched appealing glimpses of the wild life beyond the Missouri and the Platte. Andrew’s spirit yearned toward the adventure; but he continued to shake his head.

“I promised Grandmother,” he persisted steadily, “that I’d send for her when I’d made a place for her to live. This money here,” he tapped his chest, “is hers. She gave it to me to pay the journey and buy land.”

“You’ll make more in a season with the free trappers than you’ll make in ten year on a farm. And it’s a man’s life.”

“I know,” agreed Andy sighing.

“There’s a country nor’west,” urged Crane, “it ain’t never been trapped. It’s Blackfoot country. Blackfeet is bad Injuns; but with a good man and a bright lad—like yourself ... I know a park back in them mountains called the Tetons whar I g’arantee no Injuns will ... Why, lad, there’s never a trap been set in them waters. We’ll have it all to ourselves. If we save our ha’r we’ll come out to the rendezvous with a thousand plew! Think of that, lad! a thousand plew; or more! That’ll buy ye a dozen farms—if you still want the things. Yo’ll git Missus Burnett out jist as quick; and you’ll have money to make her comfortable,” said Crane cunningly.

“I can’t! I can’t!” cried Andy with a desperation that indicated his temptation. “I promised; and I took the money; and I’ve no right—— Besides,” the words were dragged from his reluctance, “I’d be no good to you in that country. I’m such a greenhorn. I know nothing.”

“Of course, if yo’re afeard——” said Crane deliberately.

Andy’s head jerked up. A dull red suffused his face. His hand dropped to the pan of the weapon in his lap.

“I’m not afeard,” he said quietly.

Crane looked at him; sighed.

“I know ye’re not, lad. I take that back. Shore yo’re a greenhorn; but you got good makin’s and you come of good stock. And you larn quick. Look a yere, lad.” He thrust his hand forward earnestly. “We need ye. The big companies is comin’ in. They’re sendin’ out their burgeways to build forts and liquorize the Injuns. The Mountain Men must make a stand or the beaver streams will be tromped and the Injuns hostile. The mountains won’t be no place for a white man.” He brooded. “What you think yore grandpop—and Dan’l Boone—would say if they knew that this,”—he reached forward and laid his hand too on the long rifle—“was a-poppin’ black squirrels in a Missouri bottom, and buffalo and Injuns and grizzly b’ar and antelope and sich just over the skyline?”

“I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!” cried Andy. “And,” he repeated bitterly, “I wish you’d let me be! I promised, I tell you! I don’t see why you want me, anyway. I’d probably just do some fool thing.”

“That’s why I want you,” replied Crane.

“What?”

“You stick,” said Crane simply. “Well, if that’s the way yore stick floats ...” He spat disgustedly. “It’s always a woman; young or old, it’s always a woman spiles a good man.”

“My grandmother——” Andy fired up at this.

“Shore! She’s all right,” Crane placated him. “I ain’t sayin’ a word agin her. But that’s the way it works. The good ones is wuss’n the bad ones.” He apparently gave it up. “I know. Nigh got me one time. Might have been on a farm myself if a good friend hadn’t stepped in and saved my ha’r for me jist in the nick o’ time. She was a good gal, too. Run plumb onto her in St. Louey when I come in with my fur, spring of ’15. Hit me like a dose of alkali water. Felt queer all over like a buffalo shot in the lights. Had no taste for mush and molasses, no interest in hominy and johnnycakes. I didn’t care whether my rifle had hind sights or not. Couldn’t help myself no more than a man who’s kicked a yaller-jacket log. If it hadn’t a-been for that friend I’d have been a gone beaver.”

“What did he do?” asked Andy.

“He married her,” said Crane.

Andy laughed. Crane grinned reluctantly.

“Don’t suppose nobody’d marry yore grandmother,” he admitted.