Читать книгу Texas Man - William MacLeod Raine - Страница 3

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BOONE SIBLEY was the issue of his ancestry and of the circumstances that nurtured him. No other time or place, no less elementary conditions of life, could have begot in him the peculiar individual force which sent him striding on his stark way through a pack of wolves snarling and snapping at him to drag him down. No civilization could have produced him but that frontier world of contrasts, at once so hard and so kind, so tragic and so indomitably gay. Only the strong survived. That Boone became notable in it connotes in him ruthless efficiency, deadly skill, and a nerve that never faltered.

He was born in Parker County, Texas, on the east bank of the Brazos. He first opened his eyes in a log cabin of one room, a cabin with a puncheon floor, a door of clapboards chinked with mud, and a stick-and-dirt chimney.

The furniture was as rough as the house. In the room were a home-made bench and stools, a table with a top the planks of which had been shaved by a drawing knife. His mother lay on a one-legged, bedstead, the side and end of which were mortised in the wall. The cooking utensils consisted of a three-legged skillet, a Dutch oven, a dinner pot, a tea kettle, an iron shovel, and some pot hooks. Dipped candles stuck in square blocks of wood, a hole bored to fit the end, lighted the house after dark.

For James and Callie Sibley were pioneers. Not at all for adventure, with no love of heroics, but merely in the hope of bettering their condition, they had pushed beyond the fringe of farthest settlement into the Indian country. They took their lives in their hands. The oxen yoked to their covered wagon trod the uncharted wilderness. His rifle shot the game that kept them alive. His ax chopped the trees for their cabin. She made his clothes and her own, even to her husband’s cap of deerskin with the hair side out.

One of Boone’s earliest memories was walking with his mother to the nearest neighbour, more than a mile away, to borrow fire. Matches on the Brazos were almost unknown. In every house were a piece of punk and a flint rock.

Callie was a splendid type of the pioneer woman, deep-bosomed, active, the glow of health in her cheeks. There was nothing with which she could not cope. Beside her husband and a companion she fought Indians, a rifle in her hands. She could treat a wound as deftly as she baked bread. Boone remembered her as a woman of smiles, tender, firm, filled with courage, a worthy helpmate to such a man as his father.

In James Sibley was a quiet force that made for leadership. He was slow-spoken, gentle of voice, well-poised, influential because of his character. He would do, his neighbours said, “to ride the river with.”

Another of the lad’s early recollections had to do with two young women who stayed for a week or two at the Sibleys’ house. Why they were there, who they were, he could not recall. But it was long before he could forgive them. They wanted to kiss him. He fled, resisted, fought to the bitter end, but was defeated ignominiously. It is possible that the genesis of his later attitude toward women may be found in this experience.

Boone was brought up in a world of work. His three older brothers built fences, herded cattle, or broke the prairie behind two yoke of oxen hitched to a turn plough. They carried rifles with them into the fields as a protection against the Comanches. While still in their early teens they helped their father stand off a bunch of ten roving raiders.

There were no girls in the family. Therefore it fell to Boone to help his mother. He was torn between conflicting impulses. His mother he loved devotedly, but while he churned, wiped dishes, or milked the cows the outraged manhood in his little body was in rebellion. This was woman’s work. The shame of it abased him. He lived in continual dread lest some neighbour see him at his tasks and laugh at him.

On wash day the steaming clothes were dipped out of a boiler and put on a block made for the purpose. With a battling stick Boone beat the dirt out of them, one hand turning the sopping mass occasionally, the while his mother rubbed the garments after he had finished.

This was bad enough, but the quilting was almost more than he could bear. For weary hours he had to hand the threads through the harness of the loom. One day two young cowboys dropped in, caught him at it, and thoughtlessly made fun of him. They called him Miss Sallie.

Boone ran away that night. He took with him a big Sharp’s rifle almost as long as himself. It was characteristic of the little fellow that he did not turn back toward Weatherford and civilization, but pushed north, hoping to get across the Brazos into the Palo Pinto country. An outfit of buffalo hunters were on the far side of the river. They had stopped at his father’s place overnight, and one of them had asked Boone, as a joke, if he would go with them. He meant to join them now if he could.

The river was high for the time of year. The water was muddy and running fast. In the night it looked a fearsome adventure to attempt the crossing. He decided to ride farther up the stream on the lookout for a shallower place.

The boy had never been out alone so late at night. He had to steel his stout little heart against the fears that rose in him. The Indians might be all around him. Every clump of mesquite hid one or more, to his excited fancy. The whoop of a horn owl startled him. He pulled up, trembling with excitement. Boone knew that the Comanches, hunting horses at night, would keep in touch with each other by imitating these night birds. But he knew, too, that the sound of the horn owl carried no echo, that of the Indian’s call did. He waited, unmoving, till the hoot rang out again. There was no echo. Once more he dared to breathe as he put his pony in motion.

The first gray light of day was sifting into the sky when he crossed a pecan bayou and came to a ford. Very tired and sleepy, he tied the pony and sat down on the edge of the stream to wait until it was lighter. His eyes closed, fluttered open, drooped again. He was awakened by the sun’s rays streaming into his face.

Boone sat up, startled. He must have been asleep for hours. The paint pony stood patiently where he had left it.

Thoughts of his mother, of the home, of the friendly family, flooded the youngster’s mind. He had to choke down a lump in his throat. For he was both heartsick and hungry. But he did not for an instant waver. He pulled himself into the saddle and put the pinto at the stream. As he rode down he noticed wheel tracks. Very recently a wagon had crossed, probably within the past twenty-four hours. This was encouraging. If a wagon had made the ford, he could do it on horseback.

The pony sank deeper into the current as it moved forward. The swift water rose to its belly. Presently the hoofs of the horse were swept from the ground, and it was swimming. In a moment Boone knew that his life was at hazard. The river must have risen during the night.

Pluckily the pinto breasted the waters. The stretch of swift, deep current was not wide, but, as the pony fought to make headway, the youngster knew that the animal was not gaining. Its strength began to fail before the pressure of the pounding flood. The bank of the river in front of the boy seemed to slide up.

Boone heard a shout. The loop of a rope snaked forward and dropped over his shoulders. He felt himself snatched out of the saddle and swept away. The waters swirled above his head. He was under the surface, struggling for breath. With a jerk, the rope brought him up, dragged him into shallower water. Sputtering and gasping, he was hauled ashore.

For a few moments he must have been unconscious. Out of a haze a voice came to him. “Came mighty nigh not cuttin’ it.”

A second voice answered: “The little skeezicks stuck to his rifle like death to a nigger’s heel.”

The boy opened his eyes. A bearded man knelt beside him. He was loosening a wet rope from the little fellow’s body. A younger man, wet to the waist, had hold of the other end of the rope. Beside him, staring down at Boone, was a long-legged red-headed little girl.

She shrilled out in a burst of excitement: “He’s openin’ his eyes, Pappy.”

“Sure is, Til,” the older man assented.

Gravely the boy looked from one to another. “Did Pinto make it?” he asked.

“Got out thirty-forty rods lower down. He’s sure whipped out, though. Boy, how come you to tackle the river? Where are yore folks, anyhow?”

“He’s the teentiest li’l’ thing,” the girl cried. She was not very large herself, perhaps seven or eight years old.

Boone looked at her resentfully. “I’m not,” he denied flatly.

“How old are you?” asked her father.

“Eleven, comin’ grass.”

“Where you from?”

“From the yon side the river,” Boone answered after a moment of deliberation. He had no intention of telling too much.

“Where was you aimin’ to go?”

“To Wayne Lemley’s buffalo camp.”

The men stared at this amazing child. He had got up and was wringing water out of his coonskin cap.

“Not alone?” one of the men said.

Boone looked at him with dignity. “I’m not keerin’ for company, seh.”

“You’d go alone, right through the Injun country?”

“I aim to travel mostly at night.”

The older man scratched his sandy hair. “He sure whips me.”

His son grinned. “Looks like a motherless calf, but he surely has got spunk.” Of Boone he asked a question. “Is yore paw at this buffalo camp?”

“No, seh.”

“Who then?”

“I done told you. It’s Wayne Lemley’s camp.”

“Now, see here, boy, you got no business here all by yoreself. It ain’t safe. Where would you have been right now if I hadn’t snaked you outa the Brazos?”

“Maybe I would have got out with Pinto; maybe not. I’m right much obleeged to you.”

In so small a chap his imperturbability was surprising. His reserve repulsed all attacks upon his incapacity to look after himself.

The little girl offered a constructive suggestion. “Well, anyhow, he’ll eat breakfast with us, Pappy.”

The bearded man led the way to the covered wagon. “Come on, son. It’s ready now.”

“I’ve got yore company, seh,” Boone answered with quaint courtesy.

The breakfast consisted of coffee, flapjacks, and pemmican, but the boy would not eat until he had reclaimed and hoppled the pinto. This done, he sat on his heels at the tail of the wagon and ate heartily. The child sat opposite and stared at him while he satisfied his hunger.

The camper introduced himself and family. “Our name is McLennon. My son’s name is Hugh. The little girl is Tilatha.”

“I’m Boone Sibley,” the guest responded.

“Where are yore folks?”

“Down the river a ways.”

“How come they to let you get so far from home?”

“I’m headin’ for the buffalo camp.”

“I heerd you the fust time, son. But I don’t reckon you better try it. If I was you I’d cut dirt for yore folks’ place. We’ll see you acrost the river.”

“I don’t aim to go acrost the river,” the boy said doggedly.

“Better run back, son. Have you got a father and a mother?”

“Yes, seh.”

“Had some trouble with them, maybe. They whopped you, likely.”

“No, seh. My father an’ mother are the best folks in the world,” Boone answered stoutly.

“Well, you go home to them. Cain’t have you runnin’ around thisaway.”

“He’s too li’l’, ain’t he, Pappy?” Tilatha volunteered complacently.

Boone looked at her and flushed. He had no use for girls anyhow. “I don’t reckon it’s none of yore business, is it?” he demanded.

Her eyes flashed. “You’re a nasty li’l’ boy. Tha’s what you are,” she countered swiftly.

“There—there. Don’t you get red-haided, Til,” her father chided. “I expect Boone is right. It ain’t yore put-in. Little girls had orta speak when they are spoke to.”

“He’s only a li’l’ boy,” she protested. “Only he thinks he’s so big.”

“Shet yore mouth, child,” McLennon chided. “Cain’t you-all behave like a little lady?”

She subsided externally, but her eyes flamed defiance at the boy. Later, when her father’s attention had been withdrawn for a moment, she spat her feeling out in words.

“ ’Bout so big,” she hissed, measuring a distance on her forefinger with the adjoining thumb.

Boone looked at her, then looked away. After all, she was only a girl. Why let himself get annoyed? He had, even at this age, a capacity for silence.