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Moon-Face and Other Stories-Part13_JACK LONDON(1876-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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There was nothing else for him to do. Yet he knew that he would have to rise

up, sooner or later, and face the danger that breathed at his back.



The minutes passed, and with the passage of each minute he knew that by so

much he was nearer the time when he must stand up, or else--and his wet shirt



went cold against his flesh again at the thought--or else he might receive

death as he stooped there over his treasure.



Still he squatted on his heels, rubbing dirt from gold and debating in just

what manner he should rise up. He might rise up with a rush and claw his way



out of the hole to meet whatever threatened on the even footing above ground.

Or he might rise up slowly and carelessly, and feign casually to discover the



thing that breathed at his back. His instinct and every fighting fibre of his

body favored the mad, clawing rush to the surface. His intellect, and the



craft thereof, favored the slow and cautious meeting with the thing that

menaced and which he could not see. And while he debated, a loud, crashing



noise burst on his ear. At the same instant he received a stunning blow on the

left side of the back, and from the point of impact felt a rush of flame



through his flesh. He sprang up in the air, but halfway to his feet collapsed.

His body crumpled in like a leaf withered in sudden heat, and he came down,



his chest across his pan of gold, his face in the dirt and rock, his legs

tangled and twisted because of the restricted space at the bottom of the hole.



His legs twitched convulsively several times. His body was shaken as with a

mighty ague. There was a slow expansion of the lungs, accompanied by a deep



sigh. Then the air was slowly, very slowly, exhaled, and his body as slowly

flattened itself down into inertness.



Above, revolver in hand, a man was peering down over the edge of the hole. He

peered for a long time at the prone and motionless body beneath him. After a



while the stranger sat down on the edge of the hole so that he could see into

it, and rested the revolver on his knee. Reaching his hand into a pocket, he



drew out a wisp of brown paper. Into this he dropped a few crumbs of tobacco.

The combination became a cigarette, brown and squat, with the ends turned in.



Not once did he take his eyes from the body at the bottom of the hole. He

lighted the cigarette and drew its smoke into his lungs with a caressing



intake of the breath. He smoked slowly. Once the cigarette went out and he

relighted it. And all the while he studied the body beneath him.



In the end he tossed the cigarette stub away and rose to his feet. He moved to

the edge of the hole. Spanning it, a hand resting on each edge, and with the



revolver still in the right hand, he muscled his body down into the hole.

While his feet were yet a yard from the bottom he released his hands and



dropped down.

At the instant his feet struck bottom he saw the pocket-miner's arm leap out,



and his own legs knew a swift, jerking grip that overthrew him. In the nature

of the jump his revolver-hand was above his head. Swiftly as the grip had



flashed about his legs, just as swiftly he brought the revolver down. He was

still in the air, his fall in process of completion, when he pulled the



trigger. The explosion was deafening in the confined space. The smoke filled

the hole so that he could see nothing. He struck the bottom on his back, and



like a cat's the pocket-miner's body was on top of him. Even as the miner's

body passed on top, the stranger crooked in his right arm to fire; and even in



that instant the miner, with a quick trust of elbow, struck his wrist. The

muzzle was thrown up and the bullet thudded into the dirt of the side of the



hole.

The next instant the stranger felt the miner's hand grip his wrist. The



struggle was now for the revolver. each man strove to turn it against the

other's body. The smoke in the hole was clearing. The stranger, lying on his



back, was beginning to see dimly. But suddenly he was blinded by a handful of

dirt deliberately flung into his eyes by his antagonist. In that moment of



shock his grip on the revolver was broken. In the next moment he felt a

smashing darkness descend upon his brain, and in the midst of the darkness



even the darkness ceased.

But the pocket-miner fired again and again, until the revolver was empty. Then



he tossed it from him and, breathing heavily, sat down on the dead man's legs.

The miner was sobbing and struggling for breath. "Measly skunk!" he panted;



"a-campin' on my trail an' lettin' me do the work, an' then shootin' me in the

back!"



He was half crying from anger and exhaustion, He peered at the face of the

dead man. It was sprinkled with loose dirt and gravel, and it was difficult to



distinguish the features.

"Never laid eyes on him before," the miner concluded his scrutiny. "Just a



common an' ordinary thief, damn him! An' he shot me in the back! He shot me in

the back!"






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