Pardners E-Book

Rex Beach

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Almost all old quotes need to be corrected,” Joyce said in a tone that forbids arguing. „For example, the guy who mentioned marriages being made in heaven was definitely wrong. He meant partnerships. The same jobs don’t work for both, no more than you can build a stopwatch in a fraction of a second.

Leseprobe

Contents

Pardners

The Mule Driver And The Garrulous Mute

The Colonel And The Horse-Thief

The Thaw At Slisco’s

Bitter Root Billings, Arbiter

The Shyness Of Shorty

The Test

North Of Fifty-Three

Where Northern Lights Come Down O’ Nights

The Scourge

Pardners

“Most all the old quotations need fixing,” said Joyce in tones forbidding dispute. “For instance, the guy that alluded to marriages germinating in heaven certainly got off on the wrong foot. He meant pardnerships. The same works ain’t got capacity for both, no more’n you can build a split-second stop-watch in a stone quarry. No, sir! A true pardnership is the sanctifiedest relation that grows, is, and has its beans, while any two folks of opposite sect can marry and peg the game out someway. Of course, all pardnerships ain’t divine. To every one that’s heaven borned there’s a thousand made in–. There goes them cussed dogs again!”

He dove abruptly at the tent flap, disappearing like a palmed coin, while our canvas structure reeled drunkenly at his impact. The sounds of strife without rose shrilly into blended agony, and the yelps of Keno melted away down the gulch in a rapid and rabid diminuendo.

Inasmuch as I had just packed out from camp in a loose pair of rubber boots, and was nursing two gall blisters, I did not feel called upon to emulate this energy of arbitration, particularly in bare feet.

“That black malamoot is a walking delegate for strife,” he remarked, returning. “Sometime I’ll lose my temper–and that’s the kind of pardners me and Justus Morrow was.”

Never more do I interrupt the allegory of my mate, no matter how startling its structure. He adventures orally when and in the manner the spirit calls, without rote, form, or tone production. Therefore I kicked my blistered heels in the air and grunted aimless encouragement.

“I was prospectin’ a claim on Caribou Creek, and had her punched as full of holes as a sponge cake, when the necessity of a change appealed to me. I was out of everything more nourishing than hope and one slab of pay-streaked bacon, when two tenderfeet “mushed’ up the gulch, and invited themselves into my cabin to watch me pan. It’s the simplest thing known to science to salt a tenderfoot, so I didn’t have no trouble in selling out for three thousand dollars.

“You see, they couldn’t kick, ’cause some of us “old timers’ was bound to get their money anyhow–just a question of time; and their inexperience was cheap at the price. Also, they was real nice boys, and I hated to see ’em fall amongst them crooks at Dawson. It was a short-horned triumph, though. Like the Dead Sea biscuits of Scripture, it turned to ashes in my mouth. It wasn’t three days later that they struck it; right in my last shaft, within a foot of where I quit diggin’. They rocked out fifty ounces first day. When the news filtered to me, of course, I never made no holler. I couldn’t–that is, honestly–but I bought a six hundred dollar grub stake, loaded it aboard a dory, and–having instructed the trader regarding the disposition of my mortal, drunken remains, I fanned through that camp like a prairie fire shot in the sirloin with a hot wind.

“Of course, it wasn’t such a big spree; nothing gaudy or Swedelike; but them that should know, claimed it was a model of refinement. Yes, I have got many encomiums on its general proportions and artistic finish. One hundred dollars an hour for twenty-four hours, all in red licker, confined to and in me and my choicest sympathizers. I reckon all our booze combined would have made a fair sluice-head. Anyhow, I woke up considerable farther down the dim vistas of time and about the same distance down the Yukon, in the bottom of my dory, seekin’ new fields at six miles an hour. The trader had follered my last will and testament scrupulous, even to coverin’ up my legs.

“That’s how I drifted into Rampart City, and Justus Morrow.

“This here town was the same as any new camp; a mile long and eighteen inches wide, consisting of saloons, dance-halls, saloons, trading-posts, saloons, places to get licker, and saloons. Might not have been so many dancehalls and trading-posts as I’ve mentioned, and a few more saloons.

“I dropped into a joint called The Reception, and who’d I see playing “bank’ but “Single Out’ Wilmer, the worst gambler on the river. Mounted police had him on the woodpile in Dawson, then tied a can on him. At the same table was a nice, tender Philadelphia squab, ‘bout fryin’ size, and while I was watching, Wilmer pulls down a bet belonging to it. That’s an old game.

“ “Pardon me,’ says the broiler; “you have my checks.’

“ “What?’ growls “Single Out;’ “I knowed this game before you quit nursin’, Bright Eyes. I can protect my own bets.’

“ “That’s right,’ chimes the dealer, who I seen was “Curly’ Budd, Wilmer’s pardner.

“ “Lord!’ thinks I, “there’s a pair to draw to.’

“ “Do you really think you had ought to play this? It’s a man’s game,’ says Wilmer nasty.

“I expected to see the youngster dog it. Nothin’ of the kind.

“ “That’s my bet!’ he says again, and I noticed something dry in his voice, like the rustle of silk.

“Single Out just looks black and snarls at the dealer.

“ “Turn the cards!’

“ “Oh, very well,’ says the chechako, talking like a little girl.

“Somebody snickered and, thinks I “there’s sprightly doin’s hereabouts. I’ll tarry a while and see ’em singe the fowl. I like the smell of burning pin feathers; it clears my head.’

“Over in the far corner was another animal in knee panties, riggin’ up one of these flash-light, snappy-shot, photograft layouts. I found afterwards that he done it for a living; didn’t work none, just strayed around as co-respondent for an English newspaper syndicate, taking pictures and writing story things. I didn’t pay much attention to him hiding under his black cloth, ’cause the faro-table was full of bets, and it’s hard to follow the play. Well, bye-and-bye Wilmer shifted another stack belonging to the Easterner.

“The lad never begged his pardon nor nothin’. His fist just shot out and landed on the nigh corner of Wilmer’s jaw, clean and fair, and “Single Out’ done as pretty a headspin as I ever see–considering that it was executed in a cuspidore. ’Twas my first insight into the amenities of football. I’d like to see a whole game of it. They say it lasts an hour and a half. Of all the cordial, why-how-do-you-do mule kicks handed down in rhyme and story, that wallop was the adopted daddy.

“When he struck, I took the end of the bar like a steeplechaser, for I seen “Curly’ grab at the drawer, and I have aversions to witnessing gun plays from the front end. The tenderfoot riz up in his chair, and snatchin’ a stack of reds in his off mit, dashed ’em into “Curly’s’ face just as he pulled trigger. It spoiled his aim, and the boy was on to him like a mountain lion, follerin’ over the table, along the line of least resistance.

“It was like takin’ a candy sucker from a baby. “Curly’ let go of that “six’ like he was plumb tired of it, and the kid welted him over the ear just oncet. Then he turned on the room; and right there my heart went out to him. He took in the line up at a sweep of his lamps:

“ “Any of you gentlemen got ideas on the subject?’ he says, and his eyes danced like waves in the sunshine.

“It was all that finished and genteel that I speaks up without thinkin’, “You for me pardner!’

“Just as I said it, there come a swish and flash as if a kag of black powder had changed its state of bein’. I s’pose everybody yelled and dodged except the picture man. He says, “Thank you, gents; very pretty tableau.’

“It was the first flash-light I ever see, and all I recall now is a panorama of starin’ eyeballs and gaping mouths. When it seen it wasn’t torpedoed, the population begin crawlin’ out from under chairs and tables. Men hopped out like toads in a rain.

“I crossed the boy’s trail later that evening; found him watchin’ a dance at the Gold Belt. The photografter was there, too, and when he’d got his dog-house fixed, he says:

“ “Everybody take pardners, and whoop her up. I want this picture for the Weekly. Get busy, you, there!” We all joined in to help things; the orchestra hit the rough spots, and we went highfalutin’ down the centre, to show the English race how our joy pained us, and that life in the Klondyke had the Newport whirl, looking like society in a Siwash village. He got another good picture.

“Inside of a week, Morrow and I had joined up. We leased a claim and had our cabin done, waiting for snow to fall so’s to sled our grub out to the creek. He took to me like I did to him, and he was an educated lad, too. Somehow, though, it hadn’t gone to his head, leaving his hands useless, like knowledge usually does.

“One day, just before the last boat pulled down river, Mr. Struthers, the picture man, come to us–R. Alonzo Struthers, of London and ‘Frisco, he was–and showin’ us a picture, he says:

“ “Ain’t that great? Sunday supplements! Full page! Big display! eh?’

“It sure was. ‘Bout 9x9, and showing every detail of the Reception saloon. There was “Single Out’ analyzing the cuspidore and “Curly’ dozin’, as contorted and well-done as a pretzel. There was the crowd hiding in the corners, and behind the faro-table stood the kid, one hand among the scattered chips and cards, the other dominating the layout with “Curley’s’ “six.’ It couldn’t have looked more natural if we’d posed for it. It was a bully likeness, I thought, too, till I seen myself glaring over the bar. All that showed of William P. Joyce, bachelor of some arts and plenty of science, late of Dawson, was the white of his eyes. And talkin’ of white–say, I looked like I had washing hung out. Seemed like the draught had riz my hair up, too.

“ “Nothing like it ever seen,’ continues Struthers. “I’ll call it “The Winning Card,’ or “At Bay,’ or something like that. Feature it as a typical Klondyke card game. I’ll give you a two-page write-up. Why, it’s the greatest thing I ever did!’

“ “I’m sorry,’ says Morrow, thoughtful, “but you musn’t run it.’

“ “What! says he, and I thinks, “Oh, Lord! There goes my only show to get perpetufied in ink.’

“ “I can’t let you use it. My wife might see it.’

“ “Your wife!’ says I. “Are you married, pardner?’

“ “Yes, I’m married,’ and his voice sounded queer. “I’ve got a boy–too, see.’

“He took a locket from his flannel shirt and opened it. A curly-headed, dimpled little youngster laughed out at me.

“ “Well, I’m d–!’ and then I took off my hat, for in the other side was a woman–and, gentlemen, she wasa woman! When I seen her it made me feel blushy and ashamed. Gee! She was a stunner. I just stared at her till Struthers looked over my shoulder, and says, excited:

“ “Why, it’s Olive Troop, the singer!’

“ “Not any more,’ says Morrow, smiling.

“ “Oh! So you’re the fellow she gave up her art for? I knew her on the stage.’

“Something way deep down in the man grated on me, but the kid was lookin’ at the picture and never noticed, while hunger peered from his face.

“ “You can’t blame me,’ he says finally. “She’d worry to death if she saw that picture. The likeness is too good. You might substitute another face on my shoulders; that can be done, can’t it?’

“ “Why, sure; dead easy, but I’ll not run it at all if you feel that way,’ says the artist.

“Then, Morrow resumes, “You’ll be in Denver this fall, Struthers, eh? Well, I want you to take a letter to her. She’ll be glad to see an old friend like you, and to hear from me. Tell her I’m well and happy, and that I’ll make a fortune, sure. Tell her, too, that there won’t be any mail out of here till spring.’

“Now, I don’t claim no second sight in the matter of female features: I ain’t had no coachin’; not even as much as the ordinary, being raised on a bottle, but I’ve studied the ornery imprints of men’s thoughts, over green tables and gun bar’ls, till I can about guess whether they’ve drawed four aces or an invite to a funeral. I got another flash from that man I didn’t like, though his words were hearty. He left, soon after, on the last boat.

“Soon as ever the ground froze we began to sink. In those days steam thawers wasn’t dreamed of, so we slid wood down from the hills, and burned the ground with fires. It’s slow work, and we didn’t catch bed-rock till December, but when we did we struck it right. Four feet of ten-cent dirt was what she averaged. Big? Well, I wonder! It near drove Morrow crazy.

“ “Billy, old boy, this means I’ll see her next summer!’

“Whenever he mentioned her name, he spoke like a man in church or out of breath. Somehow it made me feel like takin’ off my cap–forty below at that, and my ears freeze terrible willing since that winter on the Porcupine.

“That evening, when I wasn’t looking, he sneaked the locket out of his shirt and stared at it, famished. Then he kissed it, if you might rehabilitate such a scandalous, hold-fast-for-the-corner performance by that name.

“ “I must let her know right away,’ says he. “How can I do it?’

“ “We can hire a messenger, and send him to Dawson,’ says I. “Everybody in camp will pay five dollars a letter, and he can bring back the outside mail. They have monthly service from there to the coast. He’ll make the trip in ninety days, so you’ll get news from home by the first of March. Windy Jim will go. He’d leave a good job and a warm camp any time to hit the trail. Just hitch up the dogs, crack a whip, and yell “Mush on!’ and he’ll get the snow-shoe itch, and water at the mouth for hardship.’

“Not being house-broke and tame myself, I ain’t authority on the joys of getting mail from home, but, next to it, I judge, comes writing to your family. Anyhow, the boy shined up like new money, and there was from one to four million pages in his hurried note. I don’t mean to say that he was grouchy at any time. No, sir! He was the nickel-plated sunbeam of the whole creek. Why, I’ve knowed him to do the cooking for two weeks at a stretch, and never kick–and wash the dishes, too,–which last, as anybody knows, is crucifyin’er than that smelter test of the three Jews in the Scripture. Underneath all of his sunshine, though, I saw hints of an awful, aching, devilish, starvation. It made me near hate the woman that caused it.

“He was a wise one, too. I’ve seen him stirring dog-feed with one hand and spouting “Gray’s Elegy’ with the other. I picked up a heap of knowledge from him, for he had American history pat. One story I liked particular was concerning the origin of placer mining in this country, about a Greaser, Jason Somebody, who got the gold fever and grub-staked a mob he called the Augerknots–carpenters, I judge, from the mess they made of it. They chartered a schooner and prospected along Asy Miner, wherever that is. I never seen any boys from there, but the formation was wrong, like Texas, probably, ’cause they sort of drifted into the sheep business. Of course, that was a long ways back, before the ’49 rush, but the way he told it was great.

“Well, two weeks after Windy left we worked out of that rich spot and drifted into barren ground. Instead of a fortune, we’d sunk onto the only yellow spot in the whole claim. We cross-cut in three places, and never raised a colour, but we kept gophering around till March, in hopes.

“ “Why did I write that letter?’ he asked one day. “I’d give anything to stop it before it gets out. Think of her disappointment when she hears I’m broke!’

“ “Nobody can’t look into the ground,’ says I. “I don’t mind losin’ out myself, for I’ve done it for twenty years and I sort of like it now, but I’m sorry for the girl.’

“ “It means another whole season,’ he says. “I wanted to see them this summer, or bring them in next fall.’

“ “Sufferin’ sluice-boxes! Are you plumb daffy? Bring a woman into the Yukon–and a little baby.’

“ “She’d follow me anywhere. She’s awful proud; proud as a Kentucky girl can be, and those people would make your uncle Lucifer look like a cringing cripple, but she’d live in an Indian hut with me.’

“ “Sure! And follerin’ out the simile, nobody but a Siwash would let her. If she don’t like some other feller better while you’re gone, what’re you scared about?’

“He never answered; just looked at me pityfyin’, as much as to say, “Well, you poor, drivelin, old polyp!’

“One day Denny, the squaw-man, drove up the creek:

“ “Windy Jim is back with the mail,’ says he, and we hit for camp on the run. Only fifteen mile, she is, but I was all in when we got there, keepin’ up with Justus. His eyes outshone the snow-glitter and he sang–all the time he wasn’t roasting me for being so slow–claimed I was active as a toad-stool. A man ain’t got no license to excite hisself unless he’s struck pay dirt–or got a divorce.

“ “Gi’me my mail, quick!’ he says to Windy, who had tinkered up a one-night stand post-office and dealt out letters, at five dollars per let.’

“ “Nothing doing,’ says Windy.

“ “Oh, yes there is,’ he replies, still smiling; “she writes me every week.’

“ “I got all there was at Dawson,’ Windy give back, “and there ain’t a thing for you!’

“I consider the tragedy of this north country lies in its mail service. Uncle Sam institutes rural deliveries, so the bolomen can register poisoned arrowheads to the Igorrotes in exchange for recipes to make roulade of naval officer, but his American miners in Alaska go shy on home news for eight months every year.

“That was the last mail we had till June.

“When the river broke we cleaned up one hundred and eighty-seven dollars’ worth of lovely, yellow dust, and seven hundred and thirty-five dollars in beautiful yellow bills from the post.

“The first boat down from Dawson brought mail, and I stood beside him when he got his. He shook so he held on to the purser’s window. Instead of a stack of squares overrun with female chiropody, there was only one for him–a long, hungry sport, with indications of a law firm in the northwest corner. It charmed him like a rattler. He seemed scared to open it. Two or three times he tried and stopped.

“ “They’re dead,’ thinks I; and, sure enough, when he’d looked, I knew it was so, and felt for his hand. Sympathy don’t travel by word of mouth between pardners. It’s the grip of the hand or the look of the eye.

“ “What cause?’ says I.

“He turned, and s’help me, I never want to see the like again. His face was plumb grey and dead, like wet ashes, while his eyes scorched through, all dry and hot. Lines was sinkin’ into it as I looked.