章节正文
wound's healed; but you've been sick. Fever, I guess. I did all
I could."
Duane saw now that the difference in her was a whiteness and
tightness of skin, a hollowness of eye, a look of strain.
"Fever? How long have we been here?" he asked.
She took some pebbles from the crown of his sombrero and
counted them.
"Nine. Nine days," she answered.
"Nine days!" he exclaimed, incredulously. But another look at
her assured him that she meant what she said. "I've been sick
all the time? You nursed me?"
"Yes."
"Bland's men didn't come along here?"
"No."
"Where are the horses?"
"I keep them grazing down in a gorge back of here. There's good
grass and water."
"Have you slept any?"
"A little. Lately I couldn't keep awake."
"Good Lord! I should think not. You've had a time of it sitting
here day and night nursing me, watching for the outlaws. Come,
tell me all about it."
"There's nothing much to tell."
"I want to know, anyway, just what you did--how you felt."
"I can't remember very well," she replied, simply. "We must
have ridden forty miles that day we got away. You bled all the
time. Toward evening you lay on your horse's neck. When we came
to this place you fell out of the saddle. I dragged you in here
and stopped your bleeding. I thought you'd die that night. But
in the morning I had a little hope. I had forgotten the horses.
But luckily they didn't stray far. I caught them and kept them
down in the gorge. When your wounds closed and you began to
breathe stronger I thought you'd get well quick. It was fever
that put you back. You raved a lot, and that worried me,
because I couldn't stop you. Anybody trailing us could have
heard you a good ways. I don't know whether I was scared most
then or when you were quiet, and it was so dark and lonely and
still all around. Every day I put a stone in your hat."
"Jennie, you saved my life," said Duane.
"I don't know. Maybe. I did all I knew how to do," she replied.
"You saved mine--more than my life."
Their eyes met in a long gaze, and then their hands in a close
clasp.
"Jennie, we're going to get away," he said, with gladness.
"I'll be well in a few days. You don't know how strong I am.
We'll hide by day and travel by night. I can get you across the
river."
"And then?" she asked.
"We'll find some honest rancher."
"And then?" she persisted.
"Why," he began, slowly, "that's as far as my thoughts ever
got. It was pretty hard, I tell you, to assure myself of so
much. It means your safety. You'll tell your story. You'll be
sent to some village or town and taken care of until a relative
or friend is notified."
"And you?" she inquired, in a strange voice.
Duane kept silence.
"What will you do?" she went on.
"Jennie, I'll go back to the brakes. I daren't show my face
among respectable people. I'm an outlaw."
"You're no criminal!" she declared, with deep passion.
"Jennie, on this border the little difference between an out
law and a criminal doesn't count for much."
"You won't go back among those terrible men? You, with your
gentleness and sweetness--all that's good about you? Oh, Duane,
don't--don't go!"
"I can't go back to the outlaws, at least not Bland's band. No,
I'll go alone. I'll lone-wolf it, as they say on the border.
What else can I do, Jennie?"
"Oh, I don't know. Couldn't you hide? Couldn't you slip,out of
Texas--go far away?"
"I could never get out of Texas without being arrested. I could
hide, but a man must live. Never mind about me, Jennie."
In three days Duane was able with great difficulty to mount his
horse. During daylight, by short relays, he and Jennie rode
back to the main trail, where they hid again till he had
rested. Then in the dark they rode out of the canons and
gullies of the Rim Rock, and early in the morning halted at the
first water to camp.
From that point they traveled after nightfall and went into
hiding during the day. Once across the Nueces River, Duane was
assured of safety for her and great danger for himself. They
had crossed into a country he did not know. Somewhere east of
the river there were scattered ranches. But he was as liable to
find the rancher in touch with the outlaws as he was likely to
find him honest. Duane hoped his good fortune would not desert
him in this last service to Jennie. Next to the worry of that
was realization of his condition. He had gotten up too soon; he
had ridden too far and hard, and now he felt that any moment he
might fall from his saddle. At last, far ahead over a barren
mesquite-dotted stretch of dusty ground, he espied a patch of
green and a little flat, red ranch-house. He headed his horse
for it and turned a face he tried to make cheerful for Jennie's
sake. She seemed both happy and sorry.
When near at hand he saw that the rancher was a thrifty" target="_blank" title="a.节俭的；兴旺的">thrifty farmer.
And thrift spoke for honesty. There were fields of alfalfa,
fruit-trees, corrals, windmill pumps, irrigation-ditches, all
surrounding a neat little adobe house. Some children were
playing in the yard. The way they ran at sight of Duane hinted
of both the loneliness and the fear of their isolated lives.
Duane saw a woman come to the door, then a man. The latter
looked keenly, then stepped outside. He was a sandy-haired,
freckled Texan.
"Howdy, stranger," he called, as Duane halted. "Get down, you
an' your woman. Say, now, air you sick or shot or what? Let
me--"
Duane, reeling in his saddle, bent searching eyes upon the
rancher. He thought he saw good will, kindness, honesty. He
risked all on that one sharp glance. Then he almost plunged
from the saddle.
The rancher caught him, helped him to a bench.
"Martha, come out here!" he called. "This man's sick. No; he's
shot, or I don't know blood-stains."
Jennie had slipped off her horse and to Duane's side. Duane
appeared about to faint.
"Air you his wife?" asked the rancher.
"No. I'm only a girl he saved from outlaws. Oh, he's so paler
Duane, Duane!"
"Buck Duane!" exclaimed the rancher, excitedly. "The man who
killed Bland an' Alloway? Say, I owe him a good turn, an' I'll
pay it, young woman."
The rancher's wife came out, and with a manner at once kind and
practical essayed to make Duane drink from a flask. He was not
so far gone that he could not recognize its contents, which he
refused, and weakly asked for water. When that was given him he
found his voice.
"Yes, I'm Duane. I've only overdone myself--just all in. The
wounds I got at Bland's are healing. Will you take this girl
in--hide her awhile till the excitement's over among the
outlaws?"
"I shore will," replied the Texan.
"Thanks. I'll remember you--I'll square it."
"What 're you goin' to do?"
"I'll rest a bit--then go back to the brakes."
"Young man, you ain't in any shape to travel. See here--any
rustlers on your trail?"
"I think we gave Bland's gang the slip."
"Good. I'll tell you what. I'll take you in along with the
girl, an' hide both of you till you get well. It'll be safe. My
nearest neighbor is five miles off. We don't have much
company."
"You risk a great deal. Both outlaws and rangers are hunting
me," said Duane.
"Never seen a ranger yet in these parts. An' have always got
along with outlaws, mebbe exceptin' Bland. I tell you I owe you
a good turn."
"My horses might betray you," added Duane.
"I'll hide them in a place where there's water an' grass.
Nobody goes to it. Come now, let me help you indoors."
Duane's last fading sensations of that hard day were the
strange feel of a bed, a relief at the removal of his heavy
boots, and of Jennie's soft, cool hands on his hot face.
He lay ill for three weeks before he began to mend, and it was
another week then before he could walk out a little in the dusk
of the evenings. After that his strength returned rapidly. And
it was only at the end of this long siege that he recovered his
spirits. During most of his illness he had been silent, moody.
"Jennie, I'll be riding off soon," he said, one evening. "I
can't impose on this good man Andrews much longer. I'll never
forget his kindness. His wife, too--she's been so good to us.
Yes, Jennie, you and I will have to say good-by very soon."
"Don't hurry away," she replied.
Lately Jennie had appeared strange to him. She had changed from
the girl he used to see at Mrs. Bland's house. He took her
reluctance to say good-by as another indication of her regret
that he must go back to the brakes. Yet somehow it made him
observe her more closely. She wore a plain, white dress made
from material Mrs. Andrews had given her. Sleep and good food
had improved her. If she had been pretty out there in the
outlaw den now she was more than that. But she had the same
paleness, the same strained look, the same dark eyes full of
haunting shadows. After Duane's realization of the change in
her he watched her more, with a growing certainty that he would
be sorry not to see her again.
"It's likely we won't ever see each other again," he said.
"That's strange to think of. We've been through some hard days,
and I seem to have known you a long time."
Jennie appeared shy, almost sad, so Duane changed the subject
to something less personal.
Andrews returned one evening from a several days' trip to
Huntsville.
"Duane, everybody's talkie' about how you cleaned up the Bland
outfit," he said, important and full of news. "It's some
exaggerated, accordin' to what you told me; but you've shore
made friends on this side of the Nueces. I reckon there ain't a
town where you wouldn't find people to welcome you. Huntsville,
you know, is some divided in its ideas. Half the people are
crooked. Likely enough, all them who was so loud in praise of
you are the crookedest. For instance, I met King Fisher, the
boss outlaw of these parts. Well, King thinks he's a decent
citizen. He was tellin' me what a grand job yours was for the
border an' honest cattlemen. Now that Bland and Alloway are
done for, King Fisher will find rustlin' easier. There's talk
of Hardin movie' his camp over to Bland's. But I don't know how
true it is. I reckon there ain't much to it. In the past when a
big outlaw chief went under, his band almost always broke up
an' scattered. There's no one left who could run thet outfit."
"Did you hear of any outlaws hunting me?" asked Duane.
"Nobody from Bland's outfit is huntin' you, thet's shore,"
replied Andrews. "Fisher said there never was a hoss straddled
to go on your trail. Nobody had any use for Bland. Anyhow, his
I could."
Duane saw now that the difference in her was a whiteness and
tightness of skin, a hollowness of eye, a look of strain.
"Fever? How long have we been here?" he asked.
She took some pebbles from the crown of his sombrero and
counted them.
"Nine. Nine days," she answered.
"Nine days!" he exclaimed, incredulously. But another look at
her assured him that she meant what she said. "I've been sick
all the time? You nursed me?"
"Yes."
"Bland's men didn't come along here?"
"No."
"Where are the horses?"
"I keep them grazing down in a gorge back of here. There's good
grass and water."
"Have you slept any?"
"A little. Lately I couldn't keep awake."
"Good Lord! I should think not. You've had a time of it sitting
here day and night nursing me, watching for the outlaws. Come,
tell me all about it."
"There's nothing much to tell."
"I want to know, anyway, just what you did--how you felt."
"I can't remember very well," she replied, simply. "We must
have ridden forty miles that day we got away. You bled all the
time. Toward evening you lay on your horse's neck. When we came
to this place you fell out of the saddle. I dragged you in here
and stopped your bleeding. I thought you'd die that night. But
in the morning I had a little hope. I had forgotten the horses.
But luckily they didn't stray far. I caught them and kept them
down in the gorge. When your wounds closed and you began to
breathe stronger I thought you'd get well quick. It was fever
that put you back. You raved a lot, and that worried me,
because I couldn't stop you. Anybody trailing us could have
heard you a good ways. I don't know whether I was scared most
then or when you were quiet, and it was so dark and lonely and
still all around. Every day I put a stone in your hat."
"Jennie, you saved my life," said Duane.
"I don't know. Maybe. I did all I knew how to do," she replied.
"You saved mine--more than my life."
Their eyes met in a long gaze, and then their hands in a close
clasp.
"Jennie, we're going to get away," he said, with gladness.
"I'll be well in a few days. You don't know how strong I am.
We'll hide by day and travel by night. I can get you across the
river."
"And then?" she asked.
"We'll find some honest rancher."
"And then?" she persisted.
"Why," he began, slowly, "that's as far as my thoughts ever
got. It was pretty hard, I tell you, to assure myself of so
much. It means your safety. You'll tell your story. You'll be
sent to some village or town and taken care of until a relative
or friend is notified."
"And you?" she inquired, in a strange voice.
Duane kept silence.
"What will you do?" she went on.
"Jennie, I'll go back to the brakes. I daren't show my face
among respectable people. I'm an outlaw."
"You're no criminal!" she declared, with deep passion.
"Jennie, on this border the little difference between an out
law and a criminal doesn't count for much."
"You won't go back among those terrible men? You, with your
gentleness and sweetness--all that's good about you? Oh, Duane,
don't--don't go!"
"I can't go back to the outlaws, at least not Bland's band. No,
I'll go alone. I'll lone-wolf it, as they say on the border.
What else can I do, Jennie?"
"Oh, I don't know. Couldn't you hide? Couldn't you slip,out of
Texas--go far away?"
"I could never get out of Texas without being arrested. I could
hide, but a man must live. Never mind about me, Jennie."
In three days Duane was able with great difficulty to mount his
horse. During daylight, by short relays, he and Jennie rode
back to the main trail, where they hid again till he had
rested. Then in the dark they rode out of the canons and
gullies of the Rim Rock, and early in the morning halted at the
first water to camp.
From that point they traveled after nightfall and went into
hiding during the day. Once across the Nueces River, Duane was
assured of safety for her and great danger for himself. They
had crossed into a country he did not know. Somewhere east of
the river there were scattered ranches. But he was as liable to
find the rancher in touch with the outlaws as he was likely to
find him honest. Duane hoped his good fortune would not desert
him in this last service to Jennie. Next to the worry of that
was realization of his condition. He had gotten up too soon; he
had ridden too far and hard, and now he felt that any moment he
might fall from his saddle. At last, far ahead over a barren
mesquite-dotted stretch of dusty ground, he espied a patch of
green and a little flat, red ranch-house. He headed his horse
for it and turned a face he tried to make cheerful for Jennie's
sake. She seemed both happy and sorry.
When near at hand he saw that the rancher was a thrifty" target="_blank" title="a.节俭的；兴旺的">thrifty farmer.
And thrift spoke for honesty. There were fields of alfalfa,
fruit-trees, corrals, windmill pumps, irrigation-ditches, all
surrounding a neat little adobe house. Some children were
playing in the yard. The way they ran at sight of Duane hinted
of both the loneliness and the fear of their isolated lives.
Duane saw a woman come to the door, then a man. The latter
looked keenly, then stepped outside. He was a sandy-haired,
freckled Texan.
"Howdy, stranger," he called, as Duane halted. "Get down, you
an' your woman. Say, now, air you sick or shot or what? Let
me--"
Duane, reeling in his saddle, bent searching eyes upon the
rancher. He thought he saw good will, kindness, honesty. He
risked all on that one sharp glance. Then he almost plunged
from the saddle.
The rancher caught him, helped him to a bench.
"Martha, come out here!" he called. "This man's sick. No; he's
shot, or I don't know blood-stains."
Jennie had slipped off her horse and to Duane's side. Duane
appeared about to faint.
"Air you his wife?" asked the rancher.
"No. I'm only a girl he saved from outlaws. Oh, he's so paler
Duane, Duane!"
"Buck Duane!" exclaimed the rancher, excitedly. "The man who
killed Bland an' Alloway? Say, I owe him a good turn, an' I'll
pay it, young woman."
The rancher's wife came out, and with a manner at once kind and
practical essayed to make Duane drink from a flask. He was not
so far gone that he could not recognize its contents, which he
refused, and weakly asked for water. When that was given him he
found his voice.
"Yes, I'm Duane. I've only overdone myself--just all in. The
wounds I got at Bland's are healing. Will you take this girl
in--hide her awhile till the excitement's over among the
outlaws?"
"I shore will," replied the Texan.
"Thanks. I'll remember you--I'll square it."
"What 're you goin' to do?"
"I'll rest a bit--then go back to the brakes."
"Young man, you ain't in any shape to travel. See here--any
rustlers on your trail?"
"I think we gave Bland's gang the slip."
"Good. I'll tell you what. I'll take you in along with the
girl, an' hide both of you till you get well. It'll be safe. My
nearest neighbor is five miles off. We don't have much
company."
"You risk a great deal. Both outlaws and rangers are hunting
me," said Duane.
"Never seen a ranger yet in these parts. An' have always got
along with outlaws, mebbe exceptin' Bland. I tell you I owe you
a good turn."
"My horses might betray you," added Duane.
"I'll hide them in a place where there's water an' grass.
Nobody goes to it. Come now, let me help you indoors."
Duane's last fading sensations of that hard day were the
strange feel of a bed, a relief at the removal of his heavy
boots, and of Jennie's soft, cool hands on his hot face.
He lay ill for three weeks before he began to mend, and it was
another week then before he could walk out a little in the dusk
of the evenings. After that his strength returned rapidly. And
it was only at the end of this long siege that he recovered his
spirits. During most of his illness he had been silent, moody.
"Jennie, I'll be riding off soon," he said, one evening. "I
can't impose on this good man Andrews much longer. I'll never
forget his kindness. His wife, too--she's been so good to us.
Yes, Jennie, you and I will have to say good-by very soon."
"Don't hurry away," she replied.
Lately Jennie had appeared strange to him. She had changed from
the girl he used to see at Mrs. Bland's house. He took her
reluctance to say good-by as another indication of her regret
that he must go back to the brakes. Yet somehow it made him
observe her more closely. She wore a plain, white dress made
from material Mrs. Andrews had given her. Sleep and good food
had improved her. If she had been pretty out there in the
outlaw den now she was more than that. But she had the same
paleness, the same strained look, the same dark eyes full of
haunting shadows. After Duane's realization of the change in
her he watched her more, with a growing certainty that he would
be sorry not to see her again.
"It's likely we won't ever see each other again," he said.
"That's strange to think of. We've been through some hard days,
and I seem to have known you a long time."
Jennie appeared shy, almost sad, so Duane changed the subject
to something less personal.
Andrews returned one evening from a several days' trip to
Huntsville.
"Duane, everybody's talkie' about how you cleaned up the Bland
outfit," he said, important and full of news. "It's some
exaggerated, accordin' to what you told me; but you've shore
made friends on this side of the Nueces. I reckon there ain't a
town where you wouldn't find people to welcome you. Huntsville,
you know, is some divided in its ideas. Half the people are
crooked. Likely enough, all them who was so loud in praise of
you are the crookedest. For instance, I met King Fisher, the
boss outlaw of these parts. Well, King thinks he's a decent
citizen. He was tellin' me what a grand job yours was for the
border an' honest cattlemen. Now that Bland and Alloway are
done for, King Fisher will find rustlin' easier. There's talk
of Hardin movie' his camp over to Bland's. But I don't know how
true it is. I reckon there ain't much to it. In the past when a
big outlaw chief went under, his band almost always broke up
an' scattered. There's no one left who could run thet outfit."
"Did you hear of any outlaws hunting me?" asked Duane.
"Nobody from Bland's outfit is huntin' you, thet's shore,"
replied Andrews. "Fisher said there never was a hoss straddled
to go on your trail. Nobody had any use for Bland. Anyhow, his
- lately [´leitli]
ad.近来，不久前 (初中英语单词) - saddle [´sædl] n.鞍子 v.装鞍(于) (初中英语单词)
- lonely [´ləunli] a.孤独的；无人烟的 (初中英语单词)
- criminal [´kriminəl] a.犯罪的 n.罪犯 (初中英语单词)
- daylight [´deilait] n.日光；黎明 (初中英语单词)
- realization [,riəlai´zeiʃən] n.实现；认识 (初中英语单词)
- cheerful [´tʃiəful] a.快乐的；高兴的 (初中英语单词)
- keenly [´ki:nli] ad.敏锐地；强烈地 (初中英语单词)
- excitedly [ik´saitidli] ad.兴奋地，激动地 (初中英语单词)
- contents [´kɔ:ntents] n.容纳物；要旨 (初中英语单词)
- awhile [ə´wail] ad.少顷；片刻 (初中英语单词)
- betray [bi´trei] vt.背叛；辜负；暴露 (初中英语单词)
- relief [ri´li:f] n.救济；援救；减轻 (初中英语单词)
- illness [´ilnis] n.生病，不健康，疾病 (初中英语单词)
- impose [im´pəuz] v.课税；强加；利用 (初中英语单词)
- indication [,indi´keiʃən] n.指示；征兆，迹象 (初中英语单词)
- reckon [´rekən] v.计算；认为；估计 (初中英语单词)
- welcome [´welkəm] a.受欢迎的；可喜的 (初中英语单词)
- instance [´instəns] n.例子，实例，例证 (初中英语单词)
- respectable [ri´spektəbəl] a.可敬的；有身价的 (高中英语单词)
- liable [´laiəbəl] a.易于...的；有责任的 (高中英语单词)
- honesty [´ɔnisti] n.诚实，老实 (高中英语单词)
- loneliness [´ləunliniz] n.孤独，寂寞 (高中英语单词)
- removal [ri´mu:vəl] a.可移动的；可去除的 (高中英语单词)
- certainty [´sə:tənti] n.确实(性)；确信 (高中英语单词)
- outfit [´aut,fit] n.装备 vt.供给；装备 (高中英语单词)
- ridden [´ridn] ride 的过去分词 (英语四级单词)
- traveled [´trævəld] a.见面广的；旅客多的 (英语四级单词)
- gotten [´gɔtn] get的过去分词 (英语四级单词)
- thrift [θrift] n.节俭，节约 (英语四级单词)
- fisher [´fiʃə] n.捕鱼人(船)；鱼貂 (英语四级单词)
- outlaw [´autlɔ:] n.歹徒 vt.将...放逐 (英语四级单词)
- assured [ə´ʃuəd] a.确实的 n.被保险人 (英语六级单词)
- nightfall [´nait,fɔ:l] n.黄昏；傍晚 (英语六级单词)
- thrifty [´θrifti] a.节俭的；兴旺的 (英语六级单词)
- hunting [´hʌntiŋ] n.打猎 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
章节正文
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