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- Wydawca: KtoCzyta.pl
- Kategoria: Powieści przygodowe i historyczne
- Język: polski
„North of 36” is another magnificent novel by the author of „The Covered Wagon”. This is just a good old-fashioned western about the first cattle drive from Texas to Abilene. Emerson Hough (1857-1923) was an American author best known for writing western stories and historical novels. Hough’s literary career grew out of his taking camping trips and writing about them for publication. His body of work eventually included 27 novels and hundreds of short stories and articles. Hough’s early works included „The Singing Mouse Stories”, for children, and the nonfiction „The Story of the Cowboy”. He had his first major success in 1902 with his novel „The Mississippi Bubble”, which became a bestseller. Several of his works were adapted for film, including „North of 36” which was first published in 1923.
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Contents
CHAPTER I. IN THE MORNING
CHAPTER II. A NEW WORLD
CHAPTER III. THE ORPHAN OF DEL SOL
CHAPTER IV. THE FOOT OF THE TRAIL
CHAPTER V. MARRIAGE, COWS AND CARPETBAGS
CHAPTER VI. THE LONE HERD
CHAPTER VII. THE HERD CUTTERS
CHAPTER VIII. THE FISHHOOK
CHAPTER IX. THE TRAIL
CHAPTER X. IN DAYS OF OLD
CHAPTER XI. THE COURT ON THE TRAIL
CHAPTER XII. THE COW HUNTERS
CHAPTER XIII. “BRING AN IRON!”
CHAPTER XIV. A STRANGE ERRAND
CHAPTER XV. NORTHWARD HO!
CHAPTER XVI. IN THE NIGHT
CHAPTER XVII. MR. DALHART DECLARES
CHAPTER XVIII. FLOTSAM
CHAPTER XIX. THE CATTLE RIEVER
CHAPTER XX. TAKING TOLL
CHAPTER XXI. THE RUBICON
CHAPTER XXII. “TILL ABILENE”
CHAPTER XXIII. UNDER WHICH FLAG?
CHAPTER XXIV. THE MURDER
CHAPTER XXV. THE KILLER
CHAPTER XXVI. THE INDIAN NATIONS
CHAPTER XXVII. THE GAME OF THE GODS
CHAPTER XXVIII. A COLONEL OF CAVALRY
CHAPTER XXIX. A MAID’S MISTAKE
CHAPTER XXX. MANY TRANSACTIONS
CHAPTER XXXI. THE JONAH
CHAPTER XXXII. LAZYING ALONG
CHAPTER XXXIII. THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE TRAIL MAKER
CHAPTER XXXV. IN THE BEGINNING
CHAPTER XXXVI. ROLL ALONG, LITTLE DOGIES!
CHAPTER XXXVII. ABILENE
CHAPTER XXXVIII. ALAMO ARRIVES
CHAPTER XXXIX. THE WOMAN
CHAPTER XL. MR. RUDABAUGH APPEARS
CHAPTER XLI. EASTERN CAPITAL
CHAPTER XLII. TWENTY STRAIGHT ON THE PRAIRIE
CHAPTER XLIII. LOU GORE
CHAPTER XLIV. THE LOST SCRIP
CHAPTER XLV. THE MAN HUNT
CHAPTER XLVI. FAIR EXCHANGE
CHAPTER XLVII. THE COURT OF THE COMANCHES
CHAPTER XLVIII. THE GREAT LODESTONE
CHAPTER I. IN THE MORNING
“MEN–” Taisie meant to say “Good morning, men,” as usually she did if she came to the cook house door before they had finished breakfast. But this morning she hesitated, halted.
There had been the usual mealtime silence of the cattle hands, broken only by rasp or chatter of steel on tin; but as the tall girl’s shadow fell at the door of the log house Jim Nabours, foreman of Del Sol, rose at his place. Fifteen other men pushed back their chairs nervously, staring at the boss as though caught in some overt criminal act. In the occupation of eating a regulation breakfast of beef and beans, cattle hands, time out of mind, have asked no aid and invited no company.
But Taisie Lockhart was their hereditary chieftainess. Her father, Colonel Burleson Lockhart, these two years deceased–a strong man in his day, and a poignant–had owned the Laguna del Sol range, of unknown acreage. Likewise, he had owned no man knew how many thousand head of long-horned cattle, from calves to mossy horns; owned yonder branching and rambling building of log and adobe called the big house; owned the round pens and the live-oak groves, the mast-fed range hogs and the nuts that fed them; owned bunk houses and cook house and corrals. Yes, and owned faith of body and soul of every man that lived on Del Sol, from old Salazar to the gawkiest ranch boy to put his saddle under the shed.
Heiress to all this, as her father had owned lands and herds and men, so did Taisie Lockhart. But to her, orphaned and alone, came an added fealty from her men that amounted almost to fanaticism. Most of them had known and loved her from her childhood. In her young womanhood they enshrined her.
The boss of Laguna del Sol now stood framed in the doorway, in man’s garb of shirt and trousers–an assumption shocking in that land and day. This costume she deliberately had assumed when she took on a man’s duties in a business preëminently masculine. Obviously now, she was tall, slender, supple, rounded to a full physical inheritance of womanly charm unhardened by years of life in the saddle and under the sun. More; she was an actual beauty. Anywhere else she would have been a sensation. Here, she spoiled each unfinished breakfast.
Against the morning light the freckles of Anastasie Lockhart could not be seen. No matter. Every man of these could have told you the number and contour of them each and all. In a way, too, they could have told you that her freckles went with her hair. The light that shone through the mass of dark red hair–long and unconfined she wore it, clubbed between her shoulders with a shoestring–lighted a thousand fronds into a sort of aureole, halo, crown. Not that this, either, was needed. For long, Taisie Lockhart, orphan owner of Laguna del Sol–just south of Stephen Austin’s first settlement in old Texas it lay–had been traditional saint, angel, to every creature that bore boots and spurs within a hundred miles. Nay, more than that; across two states–old Texas and old Louisiana–so far as interchange of information then went, before the day of telegraph and rails, men, and even women, spoke in hushed tones of Taisie Lockhart; the former out of awe at her beauty, the latter out of pity for her fate.
An orphan, left alone at twenty, just as she came home from her convent schooling at the ancient city of New Orleans, with no woman relative and no female companions other than her servants, what could be the fate of such a girl, seventy-five miles from the nearest town, twenty-five from the nearest rancho, and the rumor of her beauty continually spreading league by league? On her shoulders rested all the responsibilities of what was or had been one of the largest and richest ranches of Central Texas, and thereto was the responsibility for what manner of beauty sets mad the hearts of men.
Every woman in all Texas, at least in all the Texas of Bexar, Guadalupe, Comal, Gonzales and Caldwell counties, was sorry for Taisie Lockhart. She was trying to hold together the property left her by the sudden death–through murder–of her father, Burleson Lockhart, frontiersman on the bloody borders of the Southwest since 1831. And every woman wondered what man she would marry. Every woman also demanded that she marry soon.
An Alabama man Burleson Lockhart’s father had been; he himself was Louisianian up to his young manhood; and since then Texan, from a time before the Texas Republic was born. Add to Burleson Lockhart’s six feet of fighting manhood the tender beauty of Anastasie Brousseau, gentle and beautiful Louisiana girl, willing to leave her own plantation home among the moss-hung bayou lands for the red borders of Comanche land–and behold Taisie, present mistress of Del Sol, motherless since six, educated by her father in compliance with her mother’s steady wish, and now owner of a vast property that to-day would mean many millions.
But to-day in Texas is not the day of 1867. Yonder was a country wild, almost lawless, unfettered, savage; moreover just then roughened and wholly disheartened by the Civil War. In truth, taking her as she stood, within half a foot of six feet, beautiful despite her boots and trousers, Taisie Lockhart was no more than a dead-broke heiress to a potential but wholly dormant wealth, or to possessions which but now had vanished.
And that was why she now broke down in her morning salutation, even when all her men arose and joined Jim Nabours in silent attention.
“Men–” began the tall girl once more, and once more failed.
Then Taisie Lockhart ignominiously leaned her red head on her brown hand against the gray cook house door jamb and shed genuine feminine tears. Which act made every man present wish that he could do violence to something or somebody.
The boss was crying! Well, why? Had anything–had anybody–The eye of each looked to his wall nail, where, in ranch etiquette, he had hung his gun before taking up his knife and fork.
Jim Nabours cleared his throat. His Adam’s apple struggled convulsively, walking up and down his brown and sinewy neck. Taisie knew he wanted to speak.
“Men,” she began yet again, at last desperately facing them with undried eyes, and stepping fully into the long room, “I’ve come to say good-by to you. I’ve–we’ve–you’ve got to go!”
The men stood, shocked. What could she mean? Go? Where? What? Quit the brand? Leave Laguna del Sol? Leave her, the boss? What did that mean? Not even Jim Nabours could break the horrified silence, and he had been foreman these five and twenty years.
“Boys,” said Taisie Lockhart at last, suddenly spreading out her hands, “I’m done! I’m broke! I–I can’t pay you any more!”
And then Taisie Lockhart, owner of perhaps fifty thousand acres of land and what had once been fifty thousand cows, broke down absolutely. She cast herself on the board bench at one side of the clothless table, sunk her glorious head on her flung arms and wept; wept like a child in need of comfort. And there was none in all the world to comfort her, unless sixteen lean and gawky cow hands could do so; which, now patently, they could not.
“Miss Taisie, what you mean?” began Jim Nabours, after a very long time.
“Broke!” whispered Anastasie Lockhart collegiately. “Broke at last! Boys, I’m clean busted and for fair!”
“That ain’t no ways what I mean, Miss Taisie!” went on the anguished foreman. “Broke ain’t nothing. Yore paw was broke; everybody in all Texas is and always has been. Pay? He didn’t; nobody does. But what I–now, what I mean is, what do you mean when you say we got to go? What have we done? What you got against us?”
“Nothing, Jim.”
“Why, good Lord! There ain’t a man here that wouldn’t–that wouldn’t–indeed, ma’am, there ain’t, not one of us that wouldn’t–So now then, you say we got to go? Why? You’d ought to tell us why, anyways, ma’am. That’s only fair.”
The girl’s somber eyes looked full into his as she raised her head, one clenched hand still on the table top, the quirt loop still around the wrist. She faced business disaster with the courage many a business man has lacked.
“That’s what makes me cry,” said she simply. “It’s because you won’t go easy when I tell you. It’s because you’ll be wanting to keep on working for me for nothing. I can’t stand that. If I can hire you I’ve got to pay you. When I can’t, I’m done. Well, I can’t any more. I’d sell my piano for this month’s pay. I’ve tried to, but I can’t.”
“What? You’d sell the Del Sol pianny? Why, Miss Taisie, what you mean? I helped freight her up here from Galveston. That’s the onliest pianny in Middle Texas, far’s I know. That’s branded T. L., that pianny! And you’d sell her to pay a lot of measly cow hands wages they didn’t no ways ever half earn? Why, ma’am!”
Again sundry evolutions of the Adam’s apple of Mr. Nabours.
“Oh, I don’t doubt you’d stay on, because you’ve all worked around here so long. You’d all be careless about your wages; you’d do anything for me, yes. That’s because you think I’m a girl. You think you have to. I’m not–you don’t. I’m a business man, like any one else. If I can’t make Del Sol pay I’ve got to give it up; that’s all.
“I’m four months behind now,” she added, “and not one of you has whimpered. The store’s naked and you know it. Some of you even may be out of tobacco, but you don’t complain. That’s what cuts me. You’re the finest bunch of hands that ever crossed leather, and I can’t pay you. All right! If I can’t, you can’t work for me.”
“But, Miss Taisie, ma’am,” struggled her foreman, “ ’tain’t nothing a-tall. What’s a few pesos one way or other? We can’t buy nothing, nohow, even if we had money, and don’t want to, noways.
“Besides, what’d become of us? Besides, what’d become of you? Have you ever thought of that? Didn’t I promise yore paw, and yore maw, too, that I’d look after you and yore interests long as we was both alive? Well, then?
“I ain’t got much savvy outside of cows, ma’am,” he went on; “but cows I do know well as the next. It’s all cows, this part of Texas, and we all know it. There ain’t no market and never will be. We can’t sell cows at six bits a head, or a hide, neither, and we all know that–everybody’s got cows that ain’t worth a damn, ma’am, of course. But what I mean is, if the T. L. can’t make a living there ain’t no ranch in Texas can. I don’t put my hands back of no outfit in the world, ma’am. We’ve run the T. L. on over twelve hundred head of loose stuff this winter, and I told the boys to pick the yearlings and twos careful.”
His eyes shifted, he perspired.
“We got plenty of water and all outdoors. We didn’t lose one per cent last summer, and winters was when we didn’t lose nothing. The increase is a crime, ma’am. If we’d hold a rodeo in our band–which we’d ought to–God knows how many we’d find in the T. L. I’d bet sixty-five thousand! And the mesquite full of long ears that no man claims. If we can’t do well no stockman in Texas can.”
His eyes avoided hers as he gave these Homerically mendacious figures. But he went on stoutly:
“Yet you talk of quitting! Why should you? The old Laguna is the richest range in Texas. Our grass sets ’em out a hundred and fifty a head heavier than them damned coasters from below, ma’am.
“And if you talk of turning off us men, where’d we go? What’d we do? I ask you that, anyways, ma’am.”
“If there was any market,” began Taisie, “it would be different. As it is, the more we brand the poorer we get.”
“Well, all right; we ain’t any poorer than our neighbors. Market? Of course there ain’t no market! Rockport has failed–canning cows don’t pay. Hides is low. There’s nothing in the steamship trade, and no use driving East since the war is over. Besides, with such good water and range as we got on Del Sol, why, nothing ever dies; so there ain’t no hides no more.
“As for long ears, slicks, we’re as good off as old Sam Maverick, that wouldn’t never bother to brand nothing hardly, and so found hisself swamped when the war was over. We got less unworked long-ear range west of us than anybody, but nobody tries to sell hides or cows now. The New Orleans market costs more to get a cow to than the cow comes to when he’s there. The steamships has us choked off of everything east of us; we can’t ship nothing and break even on it. Every one of us knows that, of course.”
“Too many cows!” Taisie’s head shook from side to side.
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