Inez was a mustang—a small, wild-born thing, and the pet of the ’Dobe Walls. Those Indians who came calling at the ’Dobe Walls sniffed1 suspiciously at Inez and said she was the “White Man’s Medicine.” When put on the scales and weighed, Inez kicked the beam at seventy pounds, or about one-eighth of what she might have weighed had she lived out the life designed for her by Providence2, and escaped the dwarfing3 influences of bread and milk as furnished by Mr. Hanrahan’s black cook.
Inez’s share in the life of the ’Dobe Walls began in this way. The horse-hustler had found Inez and her little mustang mother visiting among the ponies4 when he went to make his morning round-up. The mother fled like a shadow, but Inez, then in her babyhood and something the size of a jackrabbit, fell into the hands of the horse-hustler. That personage of ponies rode into camp with Inez in his arms, and presented her as a common charge. She was adopted and made much of, and soon forgot her griefs and her little mother whinnying among the hills.
Except that she ceased to grow, civilization agreed with Inez. Whether from the fright of capture or the menu of the ’Dobe Walls, and although with time she slimmed and shaped up to be the silken image of a full-grown mustang, Inez stood no higher than nine hands. One might pick her up and carry her under one’s arm like a roll of blankets; and occasionally, for the fun of the thing, one did. To be thus transported, threw Inez into a temper; she was a petulant6 mustang, and when again on her four small hoofs7—as black as jet and as shiny—she ran open-mouthed after her tormentor8.
If time hung heavy Mr. Wright or Mr. Masterson would cinch a small saddle-tree onto Inez. Thereat, our peevish9 one arched her small spine10, dropped her velvet11 muzzle12 between her fetlocks—as slender as a woman’s wrists—and sunfished about the scene. Inez did not have to be trained to this trick; it was in her blood and she “bucked” by instinct.
The ’Dobe Walls consisted of Mr. Wright’s store, Mr. Kimball’s blacksmith shop, and Mr. Hanrahan’s saloon. This latter mart, of course. The West without a barroom would be London without a club. The ’Dobe Walls was a casual camp of prairie commerce, pitched on the banks of the Canadian, and meant for trade with the buffalo14 hunters, taking skins for calico, flour, fire-water, sugar, coffee, cartridges16 and guns. It lay two hundred miles to the back of no-where, and Dodge17, ten days’ journey away on the Arkansas, called itself the nearest civilization. The fixed18 population counted eleven at roll-call; but what with the coming and going of the buffalo hunters there were few moments of any day or night when a count of noses would not have shown more than a score. The public ate its meals in the saloon, which Mr. Hanrahan turned into a restaurant three times a day.
Inez came with the rest to these repasts, and stood about behind the benches and looked over the shoulders of her feeding friends. This she did because it was her privilege, and not by virtue19 of any tooth of hunger. If by design or accident the door were closed, Inez wheeled indignant tail and testified to a sense of injury with her heels. Since she broke a panel on one of these spiteful occasions, Mr. Hanrahan had been taught to open his portals with speed. The door being opened, Inez would enter, snorting her small opinion of him who had sought to bar her from her rights.
When it rained, Inez took shelter in the saloon. Also, she passed her hours of leisure there, for while Inez declined intoxicants and went committed to water as much as any temperance lecturer, the company she found in Mr. Hanrahan’s was to her liking21, being more unbuckled and at ease than were those busy ones of the stores—deep with their foolish barter22.
This was in the year when the Panhandle coyote rolled in fat from much buffalo meat, and a buffalo’s skin brought five dollars. The June night had been sweltering hot. In the store and about the clay floor of Mr. Hanrahan’s saloon, blanket-bedded and sound asleep, lay twenty-one men. Most of them were buffalo hunters, all were equal to death at four hundred yards with one of their heavy guns. There were no pickets23 since there were no suspicions; for were not the Comanche, the Arrapahoe, the Cheyenne, and the Kiowa their friends; and had not delegations24 of these aboriginal25 clans26 been smilingly about the ’Dobe Walls but the day before? The snores and deep-lunged breathings told of a sense of sure security.
Suddenly a pattering racket of rub-a-dub-dub broke on the sleeping ears. It was Inez beating an ecstatic longroll with the door for a drum.
Mr. Masterson sat up and rubbed his eyes. He glanced towards the door; it was not closed. Inez, standing28 inside, continued to beat it with her hoofs by way of tocsin. Mr. Masterson through the open door could see by the blue light on the eastern-southern sky that the sun was coming up.
“What’s the matter with the baby?” thought Mr. Masterson. The “baby” was one of many titles given Inez. “What’s she kicking about? That Congo hasn’t fed her something that gives her a colic, has he?” Mr. Masterson arose to talk it over with Inez, and learn and locate her aches.
As Mr. Masterson drew near the door, his quick eye caught a movement under the cottonwoods that a half mile away fenced the Canadian. There were five layers of tan on Mr. Masterson’s face, each the work of a Panhandle summer. A moment was all he required to solve the mystery of that move beneath the cottonwoods.
“Indians!” shouted Mr. Masterson.
Then Mr. Masterson closed and barred the door. The door closed, he blazed away from a window with a six-shooter by way of general notice.
Every man jack5 of the twenty-one in store and bar-room was on his feet like magic. In that Western day, rather from habit than apprehension29, one would as soon think of going to bed without his blankets as without his guns. Once aroused, the ’Dobe Walls was instantly an armed fort.
The Indians made a gorgeous charge. There was a red line of them, five hundred strong—picked fighters of the Cheyennes, the Arrapahoes, the Kiowas, and the Comanches. To give them spirit and add éclat to the fray30, two hundred of their friends from the Pawnees and the Osages, had come to see the fight. These copper31 gentlemen of peace and curiosity were seated upon a near-by hill, like an audience at a bull fight.
It was a pageant32 to remember—that swoop33 of the red five hundred over the half mile of grassy34 flat between the cottonwoods and the ’Dobe Walls. Great war-bonnets35 of eagles’ feathers floated from every head. The manes and tails of the ponies streamed with ribbons. On they swept, each buck13 managing with his knees his saddleless, bridleless little war horse.
For a fortnight, the medicine man of the Comanches had starved and danced himself into a frenzy36. He had burned “medicine” tobacco, and occult grasses, and slips of sacred cedar37. Coming forth38 of his trances and his songs, he brought word that the Great Spirit would fight on the side of His red children. His medicine told him they might ride into the ’Dobe Walls and kill the palefaces in their sleep with clubs. There would be no resistance; it was no more than just riding in and stripping off the scalps.
Also, there were rifles and tons of cartridges which the Great Spirit designed for His red children. These would be as make-weight with the scalps, and pay His red children for the work of waging war. Thus preached the medicine man; and his hearers were prompt with their belief. And thereupon they made stealthy tryst39 on the Canadian that June morning, and without yelp40 or outcry or war-shout, swept down upon their prey41 as softly silent as spectres.
The medicine man’s medicine would have been true medicine, had not the counter medicine of the white man been hard at work. Inez was so wholly of the palefaces that she disdained42 an Indian. Let one but cross her ladyship to windward, and with squeal43 of protest she furnished notice of her displeasure. Inez had gotten the taint44 of that line of copper battle, and fled for refuge to Mr. Hanrahan’s saloon. It was her contempt for Indians, expressed on Mr. Hanrahan’s door, that brought out the ’Dobe Walls to defend its hair.
There was no such Eastern foolishness as a pane20 of glass in any of the buildings. The mud walls were perforated with openings eighteen inches square. These let in light and air. Also, they made portholes from which to shoot. Ten seconds after Mr. Masterson’s warning fusillade, two lynx-eyed gentlemen with buffalo guns were ready at each of those openings. They were a committee of reception likely to prove as warm as one might wish.
It is the vanity of the paleface to hold that he can whip twentyfold his weight in any alien race. He will prove this on the teeth of men red or yellow or black. No disaster drives this notion from his vainglorious45 pate46. He believes it, and thereon he transacts47 his wars. Upheld by it, his steady, cool ferocity of heart, makes his enemies believe it also; and in the end they abandon him as the creature indomitable and above defeat. That cocky conceit48 of himself has gotten the paleface into uncounted trouble; and then brought him victoriously49 through it.
The twenty-one who waited with the buffalo guns were full-breathed specimens50 of their race. Wherefore, the fear of being beaten at the old game of war, which their fathers had played for a thousand years, never once crossed their slope of thought. They would cord up those flambuoyant savages52; they would have a scalp to show and a new yarn53 to tell about their camp-fires. That was the most the coming trouble promised; looked on in that light, to repulse54 those savages was relaxation55.
The charging Indians were a minute covering the space between those river cottonwoods and the ’Dobe Walls where the buffalo guns so hopefully awaited them.
Every charging buck wore on his bow arm a round shield of double buffalo hide. It had been stripped from the shoulder of a bull, and would stop the bullet from a common rifle. The oncoming buck covered himself with this bull’s-hide buckler. His quiver of arrows stood up above his left shoulder. As he charged, he would whip his right hand toward the quiver. Each time he brought away an arrow by the feather-end. With one motion the arrow was thrown across the bow; drawing it to the head, he sent it singing on like a hornet. The charging line of five hundred was preceded by an arrow-flight as thick as stubble, for these red experts shot so fast that the seventh arrow would leave the bow while yet the first was in the air. In that opening charge they did not employ rifles. At ranges not to run over one hundred yards the arrow would do as well. Every one of those missiles came twanging off the bowstring with a vengeful force that would have sent it smoothly56, cleanly through a buffalo calf57. And they must save their rifles for long range, should the war take on that shape.
“Billy,” said Mr. Masterson to Mr. Dixon, his comrade of the loophole, “I’m going to hive that big one on the pinto pony58.” This to the end that Mr. Dixon pick out another target.
On came Mr. Masterson’s selection, shield held forward and arrows streaming from his bow like splinters of white light. Mr. Masterson’s finger, trained to wait instantly on his eye, unhooked his rifle the moment the shield showed through both sights. The great bullet struck the shield where the bunch of painted feathers floated. It went through bull’s-hide, arm, and savage51 shoulder behind the arm. The stricken one seemed to rise in the air like a kite; and then he struck the grass in a half-stunned heap to roll and clutch, and at last to lie still. Mr. Masterson snapped in another cartridge15, and laughed cheerfully.
“Did you see the look of surprise, Billy,” asked Mr. Masterson, “on my Indian’s face? That was because he found his shield no good. The bullet went through as though the shield were brown paper, and disturbed that Comanche’s military theories.”
Mr. Dixon, whom Mr. Masterson addressed, made no response. He had piled up an Indian of his own, and was watching him with the keenest interest, with intent to send another bullet into him if he moved, which he didn’t.
As Mr. Masterson peered forth on the heels of the charge, he counted a round dozen of the Indians, scattered59 carelessly about, not one of whom would ride again. The buffalo hunters had been sedulous60 to aim low and to see their hind-sights before they pressed the trigger. With the dozen Indians were half as many ponies, kicking and tossing in the death-heave.
The volley broke the teeth of that charge; the Indians split on the buildings to right and left, as the stone piers61 of a bridge split the river’s ice in the spring. They flashed by and ran into the low hills, a third of a mile to the rear. After the charge, those Osage-Pawnee spectators, on their hill of curious peace, lighted pipes; they saw that the fight was to be a long one.
“Bat,” exclaimed Mr. Dixon, pointing to where Mr. Masterson’s Indian lay waving his one good hand for a sign, “your buck ain’t dead. Why don’t you drill him ag’in?”
“Let him alone,” returned Mr. Masterson. “It’s like baiting a trap. If he lives long enough, you and I by being sharp can kill a dozen over him, for his people will swoop down and try to carry him off.”
The big double door was the weak point. To strengthen it, Mr. Hanrahan tore loose the tall rum counter, and piled it across. This uncovered Inez, who for all her hot temper was timid and had crept behind the counter, regarding it as a cave of refuge in this trying hour. Stripped of her defences, Inez, who felt the peril62 though she might not understand, scuttled63 to the rear of the room and pushed in among a thicket64 of stools and poker65 tables, which had been thrown there to have them out of the way.
There was a lull67, the Indians still hugging the hills. Taking advantage of it, Mr. Hanrahan sent round their morning whiskey to the people at the openings.
“After the next charge,” observed Mr. Hanrahan, who was not without wisdom concerning Indians, “they’ll be so sick they’ll give us time for breakfast.”
Then a thing occurred that struck the colour from more than one brown cheek. It was the clear, high note of a bugle68, sounding a rally, then a charge.
“This ain’t a band of whites painted up, is it?” said Mr. Wright. “If it’s another Mountain Meadow racket, boys, if we’re up against white men, we’re gone fawnskins!”
“One thing sure,” returned Mr. Masterson, “no Indian blew that bugle. Why, an Indian can’t even whistle.”
White or red, again came the swoop of the enemy. Again the buffalo guns broke them and crumpled69 them up. They flew on, however, and took position under the cottonwoods from which they had first charged. As Mr. Masterson foretold70, two riding side and side had made a dash for the wounded Indian, who still lifted up his arm. They would have gone to right and left of him and picked him up.
“Take the one to the left, Billy,” said Mr. Masterson.
Mr. Masterson and Mr. Dixon carefully added the rescue party to that one whom they came to save. “What did I tell you!” exulted71 Mr. Masterson, as he clicked in a fresh cartridge and closed the breech of his Sharp’s.
“Which you called the turn!” said Mr. Dixon, who having been three years from Boston, now spoke72 with a Brazos accent.
Again the mysterious bugle sang the tan-ta-ra-ra of a rally. The sound came from down in the fringe of cottonwoods; the bugler73, whoever he might be, had charged each time with the others.
As the bugle sounded, a big Osage, one of the pacific audience on the hill, started to ride over to the warriors74 forming their third line of battle beneath the trees. Doubtless he had thought of a word of advice to give his fighting friends, whereof they stood in need. He was gravely walking his pony across the space that lay between the red audience and the red actors in this drama of blood.
“It would be a good thing,” remarked Mr. Wright, who was the Ulysses of the ’Dobe Walls, “to break that Osage of his conversation habit right here. And yet, it won’t do to hurt him and bring the Osages upon us. Can’t you down his pony, Bat, and send him back on foot? You’re the best shot; and it would be a warning to the others, smoking on the hill, that we won’t tolerate foreign interference in this fight.”
Mr. Masterson notched75 up his hindsight for seven hundred yards. The rifle flashed; the Osage pony made a forward jump and fell. At that, the owner picked himself up, rearranged his blanket, and soberly strutted76 back to his tribal77 friends whom he had quitted. His said friends took their pipes out of their mouths and laughed widely over his discomfiture78. They were pleased thus to have his officiousness rebuked79. He should have kept his nose out of this scrimmage, which was not an Osage scrimmage.
The bugle called down the third charge. There came the low, thick patter of the hoofs, and soon the hail of steel-tipped arrows set in. The arrows broke against the mud walls of the building, and fell to the harmless ground. One glanced through an opening, lifting the long locks of a defender80.
“Tryin’ to cut your ha’r, Jim,” jested his window mate. “Don’t blame ’em; it needs trimmin’.”
“All the same,” retorted the one of the locks, “I nacherally trimmed the barber a lot;” and he pointed81 to a savage who was twisting out his life on the grass.
The arrow grazed Inez as it came clattering82 into her covert83 of stools and tables. Inez being dislodged, ran screaming to Mr. Masterson for protection. She knocked against that excellent marksman in time to spoil his shot, and save the life of a Kiowa on whose destruction he had set his heart.
Mr. Masterson, a bit disgusted with the timorous84 Inez, picked her up and put her in a great empty bin85, wherein shelled corn had been kept. Inez became instantly engaged with the stray kernels86 which she found in the bottom, fumbling87 them and tasting them with her lips, half guessing they were good to eat.
There were no more swoops88; the Indians had lost faith in the charge as a manoeuvre89 of war. They leaped off their ponies, the most of them, and from the hills popped at the palefaces, looking from those openings in the ’Dobe Walls, with their rifles. The distance was a fair third of a mile, and the chance of a bullet finding its way to anyone’s disaster was as one in one thousand.
After the lapse90 of fifteen minutes Mr. Hanrahan’s black cook began tossing up a bacon and flap jack breakfast for the garrison91. Water was at hand; Mr. Hanrahan’s well had been dug cautiously inside the building for just such a day as this. While the garrison were at breakfast, a sentinel went through the manhole and watched from the roof. There was no disturbance92; the Indians kept discreetly93 to the hills, and put in time with a breakfast of their own. Fighting is hungry work, and will give folk white or red an edge.
After breakfast, Mr. Masterson lighted one of Mr. Hanrahan’s cigars, and took a look from a rear window. It was well into the morning. A long six hundred yards away a score or more of the younger savages, restless with a lack of years and sore to be thus knocked about on their first warpath by a huddle94 of buffalo hunters, were galloping95 hither and yon. Their war bonnets still flaunted96, and their ponies still streamed with ribbons; but where was that hot courage which had brought them a trio of times up to the muzzles97 of those buffalo guns? Mr. Masterson counted the distance with his eye; then he shook his head.
“Bob,” said he to Mr. Wright, “I can’t be sure at that range with my gun. It’s got buckhorn sights—coarse enough to drag a dog through ’em. Where’s that closed-sight gun you brought out last week, the one with the peep sight in the grip?”
“It’s here,” returned Mr. Wright, “but there’s no cartridges nearer than the store.”
“That’s all right,” said Mr. Masterson. “You boys cover me, and I’ll make a dash for the store. I want to see how they’re getting on over there, at that.”
Mr. Masterson went through one of the eighteen-inch openings. The distant Indians saw him, but appeared indifferent. There was a tall wall of mud between the store and Mr. Hanrahan’s saloon. There was a gate, but that had been closed and locked by Baldy Smith. Mr. Masterson’s plan was to crawl under the gate, being invited by an open space of at least a foot. It was better than climbing; were he to do the latter some far-off lucky savage might manage a cock-shot of him as he went over the top.
As Mr. Masterson stooped to dive beneath the gate, he shouted loudly to those in the store. He had no desire to be mowed98 down by his friends, upon a notion that he was some enterprising Indian, piercing their defences. At Mr. Masterson’s shout, a wounded Indian, who was lying low in a clump99 of weeds, sat up and with the utmost good will pumped three bullets at him from a Spencer seven-shooter. The bullets chucked into a pile of chips, heaped up where the cook was wont100 to chop his fire wood. They buried the crawling Mr. Masterson beneath a shower of bark and chips and splinters, but did no harm.
Mr. Masterson’s feelings were ruffled101 by the shower of chips. On reaching the store, his first care was to borrow a rifle, poke66 a hole in the mud wall and quiet that uneasy personage in weedy ambuscade.
“I don’t want him whanging away at me on my return,” explained Mr. Masterson.
There were five in the store. Young Thurston had been shot through the lungs. His days were down to minutes; parched102 with the death-fever, he lay calling for water.
There was no well in the store as in the forethoughtful Mr. Hanrahan’s saloon. The store pump was fifty yards away in the stark103, undefended open.
“I reckon now,” said Daddy Keeler, “I’ll go fetch a bucketful. I’m the gent to go, because my eyes are too old and dim to do anything at six hundred yards. I’d just waste cartridges.”
Daddy Keeler was called Daddy Keeler for two reasons. For one matter, he had passed sixty years; and for another, everybody loved him. In the West when a man is loved they give him a nickname.
Also, there are no struggles for precedence in the West. Each man plays his part in peace or war as best dovetails with his pleasure. Not one in the beleaguered104 store would have hesitated to run the gauntlet of those savage rifles to bring water to young Thurston as he died. Yet not one would offer to take the place of Daddy Keeler. To do so would have been in violation105 of Panhandle proprieties106, and Daddy Keeler would have resented it to the death.
Daddy Keeler took a bucket and tossed it through an opening. For all his years and hair of gray, he was as active as a cat. He made no task of sliding through the opening after the bucket. The four who remained stood ready, should the sight of him cause a rush to cut him off. As, bucket in hand, he started for the pump, a frightened dog, in hiding behind a heap of lumber107, came forth and followed whiningly108.
The savages were not slow in getting to work. They didn’t charge; their stomachs were too weary for that. But their rifles cracked by twos and tens and twenties. The bullets zipped and whistled as thick as twilight109 bats.
The pump was sun-dried and slow; it cost two minutes to start the water from the cracked spout110, and five to fill the bucket. Smack111! smack! the pump was struck a dozen times, while in twenty places the well-platform was rasped or whitely splintered by the flying lead.
Daddy Keeler pumped doggedly112, and never raised his head; the creaking of the pump-handle matched with the low howling of the frightened dog. Daddy Keeler’s sombrero went whirling, the dog was shot down at his feet; still he pumped on. The bucket at last was filled. Daddy Keeler picked up his hat and fixed it on his head. Then he brought the bucket and passed it through the opening without spilling a drop. The next moment he had followed it, and never a mark upon him.
“It’s some hot out thar in the sun,” said Daddy Keeler, apologetically, wiping the great drops from his forehead. Then taking off his sombrero, and considering the double hole the bullet had left: “It was a forty-four did that; some of ’em’s shootin’ Winchesters.” For fourteen long, hot days the fight went on; now and then a charge, more often long-range shooting, whereat the buffalo hunters excelled. When the fight flagged the garrison played poker, leaving one to watch.
Every night one-half the garrison must dig graves for the dead—pony and Indian alike. The argument for these sexton labours was sanitary113, not sentimental114. In the blinding height of a Panhandle summer it is no good thing to be cordoned115 about with dead ponies and dead Indians. There was never a danger; your savage lies close, and will not move in the dark unless one crowd him. He is so much the Parthian that it is against his religion to fight in the night.
Before the burial parties tumbled an Indian into his sepulchre, they were at pains to have his scalp as an incontestable method of keeping accounts. On the fifteenth day, when the troops from Dodge relieved the siege, there were eighty topknots to tell the loss of the enemy.
Inez, when the fighting fell to long-range, cried to be lifted from her box. Inez did not fear bullets; arrows were a different commodity and set her nerves on edge. She could see them; besides, they smelled fearfully of Indians. As long as no arrow came spitting and splintering through the openings, Inez was without a care. She would have been content were it not for her rations116 of merely bread and water. This she thought squinted117 at parsimony118, and it aroused her spleen.
When the cavalry119 came riding down from Dodge the beaten remnant of that war party went squattering through the shallow reaches of the Canadian, and headed south for the Staked Plains. Then the visiting Osages and Pawnees, pipe in hand and blankets wrapped about them, came beamingly from their audience hill to offer congratulations.
“How!” said Black Feather, the Osage chief, extending his hand to Mr. Wright “How! Heep big fight!”
Then Black Feather went over the four score scalps, and whether by tint120 of plume121 or mark of braid, hidden to the white man, confidently told the tribe of each.
“Comanche!” grunted122 Black Feather, picking up a scalp; and then: “Kiowa, Cheyenne, Arrapahoe,” as he pawed the others over one by one.
“Who were right in this shindy?” asked the captain of cavalry.
That officer was curious to hear what Black Feather would say to the question. Black Feather, who believed firmly in the equities123 of force, did not hesitate.
“White man right,” said he. “The longest lance is right.”
What of that mysterious bugle, whereof the music so shook the men of buffaloes124? It was blown by a caitiff negro, a deserter from Uncle Sam’s swart cavalry. The third charge was the black bugler’s last. Striped and painted like the others, the burial party might never have known the race or colour of him had it not been for his want of a scalp lock. They took his bugle instead, and rolled him into the trench125 with the others.
“By the way, Bat,” remarked Mr. Wright, when two days after the fight, life at the ’Dobe Walls had gone back to old-time lines, “we forgot to thank you for seeing those Indians that time. They’d have cinched us, sure, if you hadn’t; killed us, as it were, on the nest. It ain’t too late to take a drink on it, is it?”
“The drink goes,” returned Mr. Masterson, drawing up to Mr. Hanrahan’s counter, which was again happily in its place; “the drink goes, but it ought to be for Inez. It was she who gave warning. If it hadn’t been for Inez every man of us would have gone with Thurston, and those eighty bucks126 might be riding yet. It was pretty work, Bob, to stand off five hundred Indians fourteen days, and only lose one man against their eighty.” Here Inez came mincingly127 through the door, like a fine lady thinking on her skirts. She nosed up to Mr. Masterson for a caress128. “That’s right,” said Mr. Masterson, patting her satin neck, “you’re just in time, Ladybird. We’re going to drink to the White Man’s Medicine, Inez, of the ’Dobe Walls.”
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1
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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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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dwarfing
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| n.矮化病 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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cartridge
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| n.弹壳，弹药筒；(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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17
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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19
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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20
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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21
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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22
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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23
pickets
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| 罢工纠察员( picket的名词复数 ) | |
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24
delegations
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| n.代表团( delegation的名词复数 )；委托，委派 | |
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25
aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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clans
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| 宗族( clan的名词复数 )； 氏族； 庞大的家族； 宗派 | |
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27
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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28
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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30
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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31
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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32
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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33
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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34
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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35
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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36
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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37
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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38
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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39
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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40
yelp
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| vi.狗吠 | |
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41
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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42
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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43
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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44
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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45
vainglorious
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| adj.自负的；夸大的 | |
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46
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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47
transacts
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的第三人称单数 )；交易，谈判 | |
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48
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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49
victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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50
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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51
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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52
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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53
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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54
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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55
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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56
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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57
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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58
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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59
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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60
sedulous
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| adj.勤勉的，努力的 | |
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61
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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62
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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63
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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64
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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65
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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66
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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67
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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68
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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69
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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70
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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73
bugler
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| 喇叭手； 号兵； 吹鼓手； 司号员 | |
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74
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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75
notched
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| a.有凹口的，有缺口的 | |
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76
strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
tribal
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| adj.部族的，种族的 | |
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78
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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79
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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81
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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82
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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83
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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84
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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85
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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86
kernels
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| 谷粒( kernel的名词复数 )； 仁； 核； 要点 | |
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87
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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88
swoops
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| 猛扑，突然下降( swoop的名词复数 ) | |
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89
manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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90
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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91
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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92
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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93
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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94
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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95
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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96
flaunted
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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97
muzzles
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| 枪口( muzzle的名词复数 )； （防止动物咬人的）口套； （四足动物的）鼻口部； （狗）等凸出的鼻子和口 | |
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98
mowed
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| v.刈，割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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100
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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101
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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102
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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103
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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104
beleaguered
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| adj.受到围困[围攻]的；包围的v.围攻( beleaguer的过去式和过去分词)；困扰；骚扰 | |
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105
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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106
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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107
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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108
whiningly
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109
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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110
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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111
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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112
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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113
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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114
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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115
cordoned
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| v.封锁，用警戒线围住( cordon的过去式 ) | |
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116
rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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117
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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118
parsimony
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| n.过度节俭，吝啬 | |
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119
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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120
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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121
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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122
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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123
equities
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| 普通股，股票 | |
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124
buffaloes
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| n.水牛（分非洲水牛和亚洲水牛两种）( buffalo的名词复数 )；（南非或北美的）野牛；威胁；恐吓 | |
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125
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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126
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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127
mincingly
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128
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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