The Song of Hugh Glass. John G. Neihardt

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СКАЧАТЬ Jamie gave the lie unto his dread.

      “The old man’s camping out to-night,” he said,

      “Somewhere about the forks, as like as not;

      And there’ll be hunks of fresh meat steaming hot,

      And fighting stories by a dying fire!”

      The sunset reared a luminous phantom spire

      That, crumbling, sifted ashes down the sky.

      Now, pausing, Jamie sent a searching cry

      Into the twilit river-skirting brush,

      And in the vast denial of the hush

      The champing of the snaffled horse seemed loud.

      Then, startling as a voice beneath a shroud,

      A muffled boom woke somewhere up the stream

      And, like vague thunder hearkened in a dream,

      Drawled back to silence. Now, with heart abound,

      Keen for the quarter of the perished sound,

      The lad spurred gaily; for he doubted not

      His cry had brought Hugh’s answering rifle shot.

      The laggard air was like a voice that sang,

      And Jamie half believed he sniffed the tang

      Of woodsmoke and the smell of flesh a-roast;

      When presently before him, like a ghost,

      Upstanding, huge in twilight, arms flung wide,

      A gray form loomed. The wise horse reared and shied,

      Snorting his inborn terror of the bear!

      And in the whirlwind of a moment there,

      Betwixt the brute’s hoarse challenge and the charge,

      The lad beheld, upon the grassy marge

      Of a small spring that bullberries stooped to scan,

      A ragged heap that should have been a man,

      A huddled, broken thing—and it was Hugh!

      There was no need for any closer view.

      As, on the instant of a lightning flash

      Ere yet the split gloom closes with a crash,

      A landscape stares with every circumstance

      Of rock and shrub—just so the fatal chance

      Of Hugh’s one shot, made futile with surprise,

      Was clear to Jamie. Then before his eyes

      The light whirled in a giddy dance of red;

      And, doubting not the crumpled thing was dead

      That was a friend, with but a skinning knife

      He would have striven for the hated life

      That triumphed there: but with a shriek of fright

      The mad horse bolted through the falling night,

      And Jamie, fumbling at his rifle boot,

      Heard the brush crash behind him where the brute

      Came headlong, close upon the straining flanks.

      But when at length low-lying river banks—

      White rubble in the gloaming—glimmered near,

      A swift thought swept the mind of Jamie clear

      Of anger and of anguish for the dead.

      Scarce seemed the raging beast a thing to dread,

      But some foul-playing braggart to outwit.

      Now hurling all his strength upon the bit,

      He sank the spurs, and with a groan of pain

      The plunging horse, obedient to the rein,

      Swerved sharply streamward. Sliddering in the sand,

      The bear shot past. And suddenly the Grand

      Loomed up beneath and rose to meet the pair

      That rode a moment upon empty air,

      Then smote the water in a shower of spray.

      And when again the slowly ebbing day

      Came back to them, a-drip from nose to flank,

      The steed was scrambling up the further bank,

      And Jamie saw across the narrow stream,

      Like some vague shape of fury in a dream,

      The checked beast ramping at the water’s rim.

      Doubt struggled with a victor’s thrill in him.

      As, hand to buckle of the rifle-sheath,

      He thought of dampened powder; but beneath

      The rawhide flap the gun lay snug and dry.

      Then as the horse wheeled and the mark went by—

      A patch of shadow dancing upon gray—

      He fired. A sluggish thunder trailed away;

      The spreading smoke-rack lifted slow, and there,

      Floundering in a seethe of foam, the bear

      Hugged yielding water for the foe that slew!

      Triumphant, Jamie wondered what old Hugh

      Would think of such a “trick of getting game”!

      “Young eyes” indeed!—And then that memory came,

      Like a dull blade thrust back into a wound.

      One moment ’twas as though the lad had swooned

      Into a dream-adventure, waking there

      To sicken at the ghastly land, a-stare

      Like some familiar face gone strange at last.

      But as the hot tears came, the moment passed.

      Song snatches, broken СКАЧАТЬ