Full twenty minutes, only day before yesterday, the Judge had delayed his day’s outing at the mill where the Jim River doubles right around on its tracks, in order to make it perfectly1 clear to her that it was absolutely outside of the bounds of her duty, that it was altogether an affair on the side, that she could not be expected to go, and that the prosecuting2 attorney up there had merely asked her out of courtesy, in deference3 to her position. Of course he would be glad enough to get her, but let him get some one nearer home, or do without. It wasn’t at all necessary for the court reporter to hold herself in readiness to answer the call of anything outside her prescribed circuit duties. To be sure she would earn a trifle, but it was a hard trip, a hard country, and she had much better postpone4 her initial journey into the unknown until the regular term of court, when he could be with her. He had then thrown his minnow seine over his shoulders, taken his minnow pail in one hand and his reel case and lunch box in the other, and walked out to the road wagon5 awaiting him at the gate, and so off to his frolic, leaving her to fight it out for herself.
The Judge’s wife had not been so diplomatic, not by any means. She had dwelt long and earnestly, and no doubt to a large extent truly, on the uncivilized condition of their neighbors up the line; the roughness of accommodation, the boldness and license7 of the cowboys, the daring and insolence8 of the cattle thieves, the cunning and dishonesty of the Indians, and the uncouthness9 and viciousness of the half-breeds. She had ended by declaring eloquently11 that Louise would die of lonesomeness if, by God’s good providence12, she escaped a worse fate at the hands of one or all of the many evils she had enumerated13. Yes, it was very evident Aunt Helen had not wanted her to go. But Aunt Helen’s real reason had been that she held it so dizzily unconventional for her niece to go out to that wild and unholy land alone. She did not actually fear for her niece’s personal safety, and Louise more than half suspected the truth.
She had heard all the arguments before. They had little or no terrors for her now. They were the arguments used by the people back in her eastern home, those dear, dear people, her people—how far away she was!—when they had schemed and plotted so pathetically to keep her with them, the second one to break away from the slow, safe, and calm traditions of her kin14 in the place where generation after generation of her people had lived and died, and now lay waiting the Great Judgment15 in the peaceful country burying-ground.
She had listened to them dutifully, half-believingly, swallowed hard and followed her uncle, her father’s youngest brother, to the “Land of the Dakotahs,” the fair land of promise, right in the face of her fears and the loneliness that loomed16 before her—a thing with smirks17 and horns and devil’s eyes that would not be suppressed, but perched itself insolently19 before her, a heart-choking presence, magnified by the mist in her eyes, through all the long, long journey to the west country. It had left her for a while when she had crossed the Sioux and was on Dakota soil at last. It was such a glorious land through which she was passing, the fair region of the corn-belt, and such a prosperous land, and the fields spread so broadly. It had been a sunny day with clear skies, one of those days when distances are so infinite in South Dakota, the land of widespread spaces. It was indeed a fertile valley through which she was passing. There is none better on earth.
When her train had pulled out of Yankton, she reflected with a whimsical smile that she had not yet seen an Indian. To be sure, she had not really expected to see one in feathers and war-paint, but surely an Indian of some description—did not the traditions of her youth run that Dakota was the land of Indians and blizzards20? She well remembered—indeed, could she ever forget?—when, a tot of seven or eight, she had run out into the road to gaze after the carry-all that was taking her well-beloved young uncle away, away, into that dreadful land where blood ran like rivers and where people trimmed their clothes with scalps. She even remembered the feel of the warm, yellow dust up to her bare ankles and the dreadful lump that she couldn’t swallow when her uncle leaned out and waved his hat vigorously, crying out gayly:—
“Good-bye, little girl, good-bye. If they take my scalp, I’ll beg them as a special favor to send it back to you as a keepsake. Don’t forget to take good care of it. I was always rather proud of my yaller mop.”
He had said more; he had kept on calling to her till the big woods swallowed him. But she had understood nothing after that last awful charge. It had happened more than fifteen years before, but for many and many a day thereafter, sensitive mite22 that she had been, she would run and hide in the hay-mow whenever she saw her father or the boys coming from town with the mail. It was years before the horror of the expected packet containing the fair hair of her young uncle, dabbled23 with blood, fell away from her.
Gradually the awfulness of that dread21 expectation passed away. Now, that same dear uncle was a man of power and position in the new land that had graciously permitted him his scalp. Only last November he had been re?lected to his third term on the bench of his circuit with a big, heart-stirring majority. In the day of his prosperity he had not forgotten the little, tangle-haired girl who had cried so inconsolably when he went away, and the unaccountable horror in whose eyes he had tried to laugh away on that never-to-be-forgotten day when he had wrenched24 his heartstrings from their safe abiding-place and gone forth25 in quest of the pot of gold at the rainbow’s end—the first of many generations. Tradition knew no other since his ancestors had felled forests and built homes of hewn logs. Now he had sent for Louise. His court reporter had recently left him for other fields of labor26.
There was commotion27 among her people on receipt of the astounding28 proposition. She lived over again the dark days of the first flitting. It might well be her uncle had exaggerated the dangers of life in the new land. It was great fun to shock his credulous29 relatives. He had surely written them some enormous tales during those fifteen years and more. He used to chuckle30 heartily31 to himself at reading some of the sympathizing replies. But these tales were held in evidence against him now that he dared to want Louise. Every letter was brought out by Louise’s dear old grandmother and read to her over again. Louise did not half believe them, but they were gospel truth to her grandmother and almost so to her father and mother as well. She remembered the old spirit of fun rampant32 in her favorite uncle, and while his vivid pictures took all the color from her sensitive face, deep down in her heart she recognized them for what they were worth. The letters were a strange medley33 of grasshoppers34, blizzards, and Indians. But a ten-dollar per diem was a great temptation over a five-dollar per diem, and times were pretty hard on the old farm. More than all, the inexplicable35 something that had led her uncle to throw tradition to the four winds of heaven was calling her persistently36 and would not be denied. So she had written to him for the truth.
“My dear child,” he had answered, “I live in a little city whose civilization would make some of our good friends in the old home stare. As for grasshoppers, I believe there was some crazy talk ages ago, but in my day I do well to corner enough scrawny, scared specimens37 to land a fish in midsummer. Their appalling38 scarcity39 is a constant sorrow to me. Makes me plumb40 mad even yet to think of the hopeless hours I used to spend blistering41 my nose on White River, dangling42 for my finny favorite with dough-balls. Dough-balls—ugh! ‘Send us more grasshoppers, oh, Lord,’ is my daily prayer. As for your last question, I cannot answer it so well. Not enjoying the personal acquaintance of many Indians I cannot tell you much about them. I believe there are a few over on the Crow Creek43 Reservation and perhaps as many on Lower Brule. I wouldn’t be positive, but I think so. Occasionally I meet one coming from that direction. I have heard—mind, this is only hearsay—that there are a handful or so down on the Rosebud44 Reservation. I wouldn’t vouch45 for it. You can hear most anything in this day and generation. The few I have met seem mild enough. They appear to be rather afraid of me. Their chief occupations seem to be dog-eating and divorce-getting, so you can see for yourself how highly modern and civilized6 they are becoming. I am sure you will have no trouble.”
Louise had not altogether believed this rollicking letter, but it had helped her to her decision.
Wind City and still no Indians; but there was the dear hero of her childhood. He was much changed to be sure; his big joints46 had taken on more flesh and he had gained in dignity of deportment what he had lost in ease of movement. His once merry eyes had grown keen with the years of just judging. The lips that had laughed so much in the old days were set in lines of sternness. Judge Hammond Dale was a man who would live up to the tenets of his high calling without fear or favor, through good and evil report. Yet through all his gravity of demeanor47 and the pride of his integrity, Louise instinctively48 felt his kindliness49 and loved him for it. The loneliness fell away from her and a measure of content had come in its place, until the letter had come from the State’s attorney up in the Kemah County:—
My dear Miss Dale:—The eighteenth of August is the date set for the preliminary hearing of Jesse Black. Will you come and take the testimony50? I am very anxious that the testimony be taken by a competent reporter and shall be grateful to you if you decide to come.
The Judge will tell you about our poor accommodations. Let me recommend to your consideration some good friends of mine, the Willistons, father and daughter. They live three miles northwest of Kemah. The Judge will remember Williston, George Williston of the Lazy S. They are cultured people, though their way of living is necessarily primitive51. I am sure you will like it better there than at our shabby little hotel, which is a rendezvous52 for a pretty rough class of men, especially at court time.
If you decide to come, Mary Williston will meet you at Velpen. Please let me know your decision.
Very sincerely, Richard Gordon.
So here she was, going into the Indian country at last. A big State, South Dakota, and the phases of its civilization manifold. Having come so far, to refuse to go on seemed like turning back with her hand already on the plough, so with a stout53 heart she had wired Richard Gordon that she would go. But it was pretty hard now, to be sure, and pretty dreary54, coming into Velpen knowing that she would see no one she knew in all the wide, wide world. The thought choked her and the impish demon55, Loneliness, he of the smirk18 and horns and devil’s eyes, loomed leeringly before her again. Blindly, she picked up her umbrella, suit-case, and rain-coat.
“Homesick?” asked the kindly56 brakeman, with a consolatory57 grin as he came to assist her with her baggage.
She bit her lip in mortification58 to think she had carried her feelings so palpably on her sleeve. But she nodded honestly.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” sympathized the brakeman. His rough heart had gone out to the slim, fair-haired young creature with the vague trouble in her eyes.
“Thank you,” said Louise, gratefully.
There was a moment’s bewilderment on the station platform. There was no one anywhere who seemed to be Mary—no one who might be looking for her. It was evening, too, the lonesome evening to those away from home, when thoughts stab and memories sap the courage. Some one pushed her rudely aside. She was in the way of the trucks.
“Chuck it! None o’ your sass, my lad! There’s my fist. Heft it if you don’t put no stock in its looks. Git out o’ this, I say!”
The voice was big and convincing. The man wasn’t so big, but some way he looked convincing, too. The truckman stepped aside, but with plucky59 temerity60 answered back.
“Get out yourself! Think you own the whole cattle country jest ’cause you herd61 a few ornery, pink-eyed, slab-sided critters for your salt? Well, the railroad ain’t the range, le’ me tell you that. Jest you run your own affairs, will you?”
“Thanky. Glad to. And as my affairs is at present a lady, I’ll thank you to jest trundle this here railroad offspring to the back o’ this here lady—the back, I say—back ain’t front, is it? Wasn’t where I was eddicated. That’s better. And ef you ain’t satisfied, why, I belong to the Three Bars. Ever hear o’ the Three Bars? Ef I’m out, jest leave word with the Boss, will you? He’ll see I git the word. Yes, sir, you ol’ hoss thief, I belong to the Three Bars.”
The encounter was not without interested spectators. Louise’s brakeman was grinning broadly at the discomfiture62 of his fellow-employee. Louise herself had forgotten her predicament in the sudden whirlwind of which she was the innocent storm-centre.
The cowboy with the temper, having completely routed the enemy to the immense satisfaction of the onlookers63, though why, no one knew exactly, nor what the merits of the case, turned abruptly64 to Louise.
“I don’t know,” said Louise, smiling fearlessly at her champion, though inwardly quaking at the intuition that had flashed upon her that this strange, uncouth10 man had come to take the place of Mary. “The boldness and license of the cowboys,” her aunt had argued. There could be no doubt of the boldness. Would the rest of the statement hold good?
“I think maybe I am, though I am Louise Dale, the new court reporter. I expected Miss Mary Williston to meet me.”
“Then you are her,” said the man, with renewed cheerfulness, seizing her suit-case and striding off. “Come along. We’ll git some supper afore we start. You’re dead tired, more’n likely. It’ll be moonlight so’t won’t matter ef we are late a gittin’ home.”
“Court reporter! I’ll be doggoned!” muttered the brakeman. “The new girl from down East. A pore little white lamb among a pack o’ wolves and coyotes, and homesick a’ready. No wonder! I’ll be takin’ you back to-morrow, I’m thinkin’, young lady.”
He didn’t know the “little white lamb” who had come to help Paul Langford and Dick Gordon in their big fight.
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1
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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uncouthness
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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13
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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16
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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17
smirks
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| n.傻笑，得意的笑( smirk的名词复数 )v.傻笑( smirk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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18
smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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blizzards
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| 暴风雪( blizzard的名词复数 )； 暴风雪似的一阵，大量（或大批） | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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22
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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23
dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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24
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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32
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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33
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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35
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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38
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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41
blistering
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| adj.酷热的；猛烈的；使起疱的；可恶的v.起水疱；起气泡；使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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42
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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43
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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44
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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45
vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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46
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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47
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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48
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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49
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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50
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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51
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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52
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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54
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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55
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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56
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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57
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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58
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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59
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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60
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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61
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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62
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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63
onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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64
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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65
assertive
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| adj.果断的，自信的，有冲劲的 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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