lin mclean-第41节

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music　began　to　reach　them。　At　the　foot　of　the　hill　they　saw　the　sparse

lights　and　shapes　of　the　town　where　ended　the　gray　strip　of　road。　The

many　soundsfeet；　voices；　and　musicgrew　clearer；　unravelling　from

their　muffled　confusion；　and　the　fiddling　became　a　tune　that　could　be

known。〃



〃There's　a　dance　to…night；〃　said　the　wife　to　the　husband。　〃Hurry。〃



He　drove　as　he　had　been　driving。　Perhaps　he　had　not　heard　her。



〃I'm　telling　you　to　hurry；〃　she　repeated。　〃My　new　dress　is　in　that　wagon。

There'll　be　folks　to　welcome　me　here　that's　older　friends　than　you。〃



She　put　her　horse　to　a　gallop　down　the　broad　road　toward　the　music　and

the　older　friends。　The　husband　spoke　to　his　horse；　cleared　his　throat　and

spoke　louder；　cleared　his　throat　again　and　this　time　his　sullen　voice

carried；　and　the　animal　started。　So　Lusk　went　ahead　of　Lin　McLean；

following　his　wife　with　the　new　dress　at　as　good　a　pace　as　he　might。　If

he　did　not　want　her　company；　perhaps　to　be　alone　with　the　cow…puncher　was

still　less　to　his　mind。



〃It　ain't　only　her　he's　stopped　caring　for；〃　mused　Lin；　as　he　rode　slowly

along。　〃He　don't　care　for　himself　any　more。〃





PART　III



To…day；　Drybone　has　altogether　returned　to　the　dust。　Even　in　that　day　its

hour　could　have　been　heard　beginning　to　sound；　but　its　inhabitants　were

rather　deaf。　Gamblers；　saloon…keepers；　murderers；　outlaws　male　and

female；　all　were　so　busy　with　their　cards；　their　lovers；　and　their

bottles　as　to　make　the　place　seem　young　and　vigorous；　but　it　was　second

childhood　which　had　set　in。



Drybone　had　known　a　wholesome　adventurous　youth；　where　manly　lives　and

deaths　were　plenty。　It　had　been　an　army　post。　It　had　seen　horse　and　foot；

and　heard　the　trumpet。　Brave　wives　had　kept　house　for　their　captains　upon

its　bluffs。　Winter　and　summer　they　had　made　the　best　of　it。　When　the　War

Department　ordered　the　captains　to　catch　Indians；　the　wives　bade　them

Godspeed。　When　the　Interior　Department　ordered　the　captains　to　let　the

Indians　go　again；　still　they　made　the　best　of　it。　You　must　not　waste

Indians。　Indians　were　a　source　of　revenue　to　so　many　people　in　Washington

and　elsewhere。　But　the　process　of　catching　Indians；　armed　with　weapons

sold　them　by　friends　of　the　Interior　Department；　was　not　entirely

harmless。　Therefore　there　came　to　be　graves　in　the　Drybone　graveyard。　The

pale　weather…washed　head…boards　told　all　about　it：　〃Sacred　to　the　memory

of　Private　So…and…So；　killed　on　the　Dry　Cheyenne；　May　6；　1875。〃　Or　it

would　be；　〃Mrs。　So…and…So；　found　scalped　on　Sage　Creek。〃　But　even　the

financiers　at　Washington　could　not　wholly　preserve　the　Indian　in

Drybone's　neighborhood。　As　the　cattle　by　ten　thousands　came　treading　with

the　next　step　of　civilization　into　this　huge　domain；　the　soldiers　were

taken　away。　Some　of　them　went　West　to　fight　more　Indians　in　Idaho；

Oregon；　or　Arizona。　The　battles　of　the　others　being　done；　they　went　East

in　better　coffins　to　sleep　where　their　mothers　or　their　comrades　wanted

them。　Though　wind　and　rain　wrought　changes　upon　the　hill；　the　ready…made

graves　and　boxes　which　these　soldiers　left　behind　proved　heirlooms　as

serviceable　in　their　way　as　were　the　tenements　that　the　living　had

bequeathed　to　Drybone。　Into　these　empty　barracks　came　to　dwell　and　do

business　every　joy　that　made　the　cow…puncher's　holiday；　and　every　hunted

person　who　was　baffling　the　sheriff。　For　the　sheriff　must　stop　outside

the　line　of　Drybone；　as　shall　presently　be　made　clear。　The　captain's

quarters　were　a　saloon　now；　professional　cards　were　going　in　the

adjutant's　office　night　and　day；　and　the　commissary　building　made　a　good

dance…hall　and　hotel。　Instead　of　guard…mounting；　you　would　see　a

horse…race　on　the　parade…ground；　and　there　was　no　provost…sergeant　to

gather　up　the　broken　bottles　and　old　boots。　Heaps　of　these　choked　the

rusty　fountain。　In　the　tufts　of　yellow；　ragged　grass　that　dotted　the

place　plentifully　were　lodged　many　aces　and　queens　and　ten…spots；　which

the　Drybone　wind　had　blown　wide　from　the　doors　out　of　which　they　had　been

thrown　when　a　new　pack　was　called　for　inside。　Among　the　grass　tufts　would

lie　visitors　who　had　applied　for　beds　too　late　at　the　dance…hall；　frankly

sleeping　their　whiskey　off　in　the　morning　air。



Above；　on　the　hill；　the　graveyard　quietly　chronicled　this　new　epoch　of

Drybone。　So…and…so　was　seldom　killed　very　far　out　of　town；　and　of　course

scalping　had　disappeared。　〃Sacred　to　the　memory　of　Four…ace　Johnston；

accidently　shot；　Sep。　4；　1885。〃　Perhaps　one　is　still　there　unaltered：

〃Sacred　to　the　memory　of　Mrs。　Ryan's　babe。　Aged　two　months。〃　This　unique

corpse　had　succeeded　in　dying　with　its　boots　off。



But　a　succession　of　graves　was　not　always　needed　to　read　the　changing

tale　of　the　place；　and　how　people　died　there；　one　grave　would　often　be

enough。　The　soldiers；　of　course；　had　kept　treeless　Drybone　supplied　with

wood。　But　in　these　latter　days　wood　was　very　scarce。　None　grew　nearer

than　twenty　or　thirty　milesnone；　that　is；　to　make　boards　of　a

sufficient　width　for　epitaphs。　And　twenty　miles　was　naturally　far　to　go

to　hew　a　board　for　a　man　of　whom　you　knew　perhaps　nothing　but　what　he

said　his　name　was；　and　to　whom　you　owed　nothing；　perhaps；　but　a　trifling

poker　debt。　Hence　it　came　to　pass　that　headboards　grew　into　a　sort　of

directory。　They　were　light　to　lift　from　one　place　to　another。　A　single

coat　of　white　paint　would　wipe　out　the　first　tenant's　name　sufficiently

to　paint　over　it　the　next　comer's。　By　this　thrifty　habit　the　original

boards　belonging　to　the　soldiers　could　go　round；　keeping　pace　with　the

new　civilian　population；　and　though　at　first　sight　you　might　be　puzzled

by　the　layers　of　names　still　visible　beneath　the　white　paint；　you　could

be　sure　that　the　clearest　and　blackest　was　the　one　to　which　the　present

tenant　had　answered。



So　there　on　the　hill　lay　the　graveyard；　steadily　writing　Drybone's

history；　and　making　that　history　lay　the　town　at　the　bottomone　thin

line　of　houses　framing　three　sides　of　the　old　parade　ground。　In　these

slowly　rotting　shells　people　rioted；　believing　the　golden　age　was　here；

the　age　when　everybody　should　have　money　and　nobody　should　be　arrested。

For　Drybone　soil；　you　see；　was　still　government　soil；　not　yet　handed　over

to　Wyoming；　and　only　government　could　arrest　there；　and　only　for

government　crimes。　But　government　had　gone；　and　seldom　worried　Drybone！

The　spot　was　a　postage…stamp　of　sanctuary　pasted　in　the　middle　of

Wyoming's　big　map；　a　paradise　for　the　Four…ace　Johnstons。　Only；　you　must

not　steal　a　horse。　That　was　really　wicked；　and　brought　you　instantly　to

the　notice　of　Drybone's　one　officialthe　coroner！　For　they　did　keep　a

coronerJudge　Slaghammer。　He　was　perfectly　illegal；　and　lived　next　door

in　Albany　County。　But　that　county　paid　fees　and　mileage　to　keep　tally　of

Drybone's　casualties。　His　wife　owned　the　dance…hall；　and　between　their

industries　they　made　out　a　living。　And　all　the　citizens　made　out　a

living。　The　happy　cow…punchers　on　ranches　far　and　near　still　earned　and

instantly　spent　the　high　wages　still　paid　them。　With　their　bodies　full　of

youth　and　their　pockets　full　of　gold；　they　rode　into　town　by　twenties；　by

fifties；　and　out　again　next　morning；　penniless　always　and　happy。　And　then

the　Four…ace　Johnstons　would　sit　card…playing　with　each　other　till　the

innocents　should　come　to　town　again。



To…night　the　innocents　had　certainly　come　to　town；　and　Drybone　was

furnishing　to　them　all　its　joys。　Their　many　horses　stood　tied　at　every

post　and　cornerpatient；　experienced　cow…ponies；　well　knowing　it　was　an

all…night　affair。　The　talk　and　laughter　of　the　riders　was　in　the　saloons；

they　leaned　joking　over　the　bars；　they　sat　behind　their　cards　at　the

tables；　they　strolled　to　the　post…trader's　to　buy　presents　for　their　easy

sweethearts　their　boots　were　keeping　audible　time　with　the　fiddle　at　Mrs。

Slaghammer's。　From　the　multitude　and　vigor　of　the　sounds　there；　the　dance

was　being　done　regularly。　〃Regularly〃　meant　that　upon　the　conclusion　of

each　set　the　gentleman　led　his　lady　to　the　bar　and　invited　her　to　choose

and　it　was　also　regular　that　the　lady　should　choose。　Beer　and　whiskey

were　the　alternatives。



Lin　McLean's　horse　took　him　across　the　square　without　guiding　from　the

cow…puncher；　who　sat　absently　with　his　hands　folded　upon　the　horn　of　his

saddle。　This　horse；　too；　was　patient　and　experienced；　and　could　not　know

what　remote　thoughts　filled　his　master's　mind。　He　looked　around　to　see

why　his　master　did　not　get　off　lightly；　as　he　had　done　during　so　many

gallant　years；　and　hasten　in　to　the　conviviality。　But　the　lonely

cow…puncher　sat　mechanically　identifying　the　horses　of　acquaintances。



〃Toothpick　Kid　is　here；〃　said　he；　〃and　Limber　Jim；　and　the　Doughie。　You'd

think　he'd　stay　away　after　the　trouble　heI　expect　that　pinto　is　Jerky

Bill's。〃



〃Go　home！〃　said　a　hearty　voice。



McLean　eagerly　turned。　For　the　moment　his　face　lighted　from　its

sombreness。　〃I'd　forgot　you'