Етюд у багряних тонах
On the great Alkali Plain.
“Itdon’tmatter. Itain’tquiteregular,butHewon’tmindthat,youbet. YousayoverthemonesthatyouusedtosayeverynightinthewaggonwhenwewasonthePlains.”
“Whydon’tyousaysomeyourself?”thechildasked,withwonderingeyes.
“Idisrememberthem,”heanswered. “Ihain’tsaidnonesinceIwashalftheheighto’thatgun. Iguessit’snevertoolate. Yousaythemout,andI’llstandbyandcomeinonthechoruses.”
“Thenyou’llneedtokneeldown,andmetoo,”shesaid,layingtheshawloutforthatpurpose. “You’vegottoputyourhandsuplikethis.Itmakesyoufeelkindo’good.”
Itwasastrangesighthadtherebeenanythingbutthebuzzardstoseeit. Sidebysideonthenarrowshawlkneltthetwowanderers,thelittleprattlingchildandthereckless,hardenedadventurer. Herchubbyface,andhishaggard,angularvisagewerebothturneduptothecloudlessheaveninheartfeltentreatytothatdreadbeingwithwhomtheywerefacetoface,whilethetwovoices—theonethinandclear,theotherdeepandharsh—unitedintheentreatyformercyandforgiveness. Theprayerfinished,theyresumedtheirseatintheshadowoftheboulderuntilthechildfellasleep,nestlinguponthebroadbreastofherprotector. Hewatchedoverherslumberforsometime,butNatureprovedtobetoostrongforhim. Forthreedaysandthreenightshehadallowedhimselfneitherrestnorrepose.
