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The Spirit of the Border-Part18_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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creatures. Each deer, each squirrel, each grouse that he killed, taught him

some lesson.



He was always up with the lark to watch the sun rise red and grand over the

eastern hills, and chase away the white mist from the valleys. Even if he was



not hunting, or roaming the woods, if it was necessary for him to lie low in

camp awaiting Wetzel's return, he was always content. Many hours he idled away



lying on his back, with the west wind blowing softly over him, his eye on the

distant hills, where the cloud shadows swept across with slow, majestic



movement, like huge ships at sea.

If Wetzel and Joe were far distant from the cave, as was often the case, they



made camp in the open woods, and it was here that Joe's contentment was

fullest. Twilight shades stealing down over the camp-fire; the cheery glow of



red embers; the crackling of dry stocks; the sweet smell of wood smoke, all

had for the lad a subtle, potent charm.



The hunter would broil a venison steak, or a partridge, on the coals. Then

they would light their pipes and smoke while twilight deepened. The oppressive



stillness of the early evening hour always brought to the younger man a

sensation of awe. At first he attributed this to the fact that he was new to



this life; however, as the days passed and the emotion remained, nay, grew

stronger, he concluded it was imparted by this close communion with nature.



Deep solemn, tranquil, the gloaming hour brought him no ordinary fullness of

joy and clearness of perception.



"Do you ever feel this stillness?" he asked Wetzel one evening, as they sat

near their flickering fire.



The hunter puffed his pipe, and, like an Indian, seemed to let the question

take deep root.



"I've scalped redskins every hour in the day, 'ceptin' twilight," he replied.

Joe wondered no longer whether the hunter was too hardened to feel this



beautiful tranquillity. That hour which wooed Wetzel from his implacable

pursuit was indeed a bewitching one



There was never a time, when Joe lay alone in camp waiting for Wetzel, that he

did not hope the hunter would return with information of Indians. The man



never talked about the savages, and if he spoke at all it was to tell of some

incident of his day's travel. One evening he came back with a large black fox



that he had killed.

"What beautiful, glossy fur!" said Joe. "I never saw a black fox before."



"I've been layin' fer this fellar some time," replied Wetzel, as he began his

first evening task, that of combing his hair. "Jest back here in a clump of



cottonwoods there's a holler log full of leaves. Happenin' to see a blacksnake

sneakin' round, I thought mebbe he was up to somethin', so I investigated, an'



found a nest full of young rabbits. I killed the snake, an' arter that took an

interest in 'em. Every time I passed I'd look in at the bunnies, an' each time



I seen signs that some tarnal varmint had been prowlin' round. One day I

missed a bunny, an' next day another; so on until only one was left, a peart



white and gray little scamp. Somethin' was stealin' of 'em, an' it made me

mad. So yistidday an' to-day I watched, an' finally I plugged this black



thief. Yes, he's got a glossy coat; but he's a bad un fer all his fine looks.

These black foxes are bigger, stronger an' cunniner than red ones. In every



litter you'll find a dark one, the black sheep of the family. Because he grows

so much faster, an' steals all the food from the others, the mother jest takes



him by the nape of the neck an' chucks him out in the world to shift fer

hisself. An' it's a good thing."



The next day Wetzel told Joe they would go across country to seek new game

fields. Accordingly the two set out, and tramped industriously until evening.



They came upon a country no less beautiful than the one they had left, though

the picturesque cliffs and rugged hills had given way to a rolling land, the



luxuriance of which was explained by the abundant springs and streams. Forests

and fields were thickly interspersed with bubbling springs, narrow and deep



streams, and here and there a small lake with a running outlet.

Wetzel had said little concerning this region, but that little was enough to



rouse all Joe's eagerness, for it was to the effect that they were now in a

country much traversed by Indians, especially runners and hunting parties



travelling from north to south. The hunter explained that through the center

of this tract ran a buffalo road; that the buffalo always picked out the



straightest, lowest and dryest path from one range to another, and the Indians

followed these first pathfinders.



Joe and Wetzel made camp on the bank of a stream that night, and as the lad

watched the hunter build a hidden camp-fire, he peered furtively around half



expecting to see dark forms scurrying through the forest. Wetzel was extremely

cautious. He stripped pieces of bark from fallen trees and built a little hut



over his firewood. He rubbed some powder on a piece of punk, and then with

flint and steel dropped two or three sparks on the inflammable substance. Soon



he had a blaze. He arranged the covering so that not a ray of light escaped.




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