[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Smith grewhotand profane.The cowboy promptly slapped his face.Then Smith, like the foolhewas, went after his gun.He never got it out.It distressed Neale greatly that Larry had shot up a man—and a railroadman atthat.No matter what Larry said, Neale knew the shooting was on his account.This deed made the cowboy a marked man.It changed him, also, toward Neale,inasmuch as that he saw his wildness, was making small Neale's chances ofreturning to work.Larry never ceased importuning Neale to go back to hisjob.After shooting Smith the cowboy made one more eloquent appeal to Neale andthenleft for Cheyenne.Neale followed him.Cheyenne was just sobering up after its brief and tempestuous reign asheadquarters town, and though depleted and thin, it was now making a bid forpermanency.But the sting and wildness of life had departed with theconstruction operations, and now Benton had become the hub of the railwayuniverse.Neale boarded a train for Benton and watched with bitterness the familiarlandmarks he had learned to know so well while surveying the line.He was nolonger connected with the great project—no more a necessary part of thegreatmovement.Beyond Medicine Bow the grass and the green failed and the immense train offreight-cars and passenger-coaches, loaded to capacity, clattered on intoaridcountry.Gray and red, the drab and fiery colors of the desert lent theridgescharacter—forbidding and barren.Page 96 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlFrom a car window Neale got his first glimpse of the wonderful terminus city,and for once his old thrills returned.He recalled the distance—sevenhundred—no, six hundred and ninety-eight miles from Omaha.So farwestward wasBenton.It lay in the heart of barrenness, alkali, and desolation, on the face of thewindy desert, alive with dust-devils, sweeping along, yellow andfunnel-shaped—ahuge blocked-out town, and set where no town could ever live.Benton was preyfor sun, wind, dust, drought, and the wind was terribly and insupportablycold.No sage, no cedars, no grass, not even a cactus-bush, nothing green or livingtorelieve the eye, which swept across the gray and the white, through the dust,tothe distant bare and desolate hills of drab.The hell that was reported to abide at Benton was in harmony with itssetting.The immense train clattered and jolted to a stop.A roar of wind, a cloud ofpowdery dust, a discordant and unceasing din of voices, came through the openwindows of the car.The heterogeneous mass of humanity with which Neale hadtraveled jostled out, struggling with packs and bags.Neale, carrying his bag, stepped off into half a foot of dust.He saw adisintegrated crowd of travelers that had just arrived, and of travelersreadyto depart—soldiers, Indians, Mexicans, Negroes, loafers, merchants,tradesmen,laborers, an ever-changing and ever- remarkable spectacle of humanity.He sawstage-coaches with hawkers bawling for passengers bound to Salt Lake, Ogden,Montana, Idaho; he saw a wide white street—white with dust where it wasnotthronged with moving men and women, and lined by tents and canvas houses andclapboard structures, together with the strangest conglomeration of paintedandprinted signs that ever advertised anything in the world.A woman, well clad, young, not uncomely, but with hungry eyes like those of ahawk, accosted Neale.He drew away.In the din he had not heard what she said.Aboy likewise spoke to him; a greaser tried to take his luggage; a manjostlinghim felt of his pocket; and as Neale walked on he was leered at, importuned,jolted, accosted, and all but mobbed.So this was Benton.A pistol-shot pierced the din.Some one shouted.A wave of the crowdindicatedcommotion somewhere; and then the action and noise went on precisely asbefore.Neale crossed five intersecting streets; evidently the wide street he was onmust be the main one.In that walk of five blocks he saw thousands of persons, but they were notthesoldiers who protected the line, nor the laborers who made the road.Thesewerethe travelers, the business people, the stragglers, the nondescripts, theparasites, the criminals, the desperadoes, and the idlers—all who mustby hookor crook live off the builders.Neale was conscious of a sudden exhilaration.The spirit was still in him.Afterall, his defeated ambition counted for nothing in the great sum of this work.Page 97 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlHow many had failed! He thought of the nameless graves already dotting theslopes along the line and already forgotten.It would be something to livethrough the heyday of Benton,Under a sign, "Hotel," he entered a door in a clapboard house.The place wasascrude as an unfinished barn.Paying in advance for lodgings, he went to theroomshown him—a stall with a door and a bar, a cot and a bench, a bowl andapitcher.Through cracks he could see out over an uneven stretch of tents andhouses.Toward the edge of town stood a long string of small tents andseveralhuge ones, which might have been the soldiers' quarters.Neale went out in search of a meal and entered the first restaurant.It wasmerely a canvas house stretched over poles, with compartments at the back.Highwooden benches served as tables, low benches as seats.The floor was sand.Atone table sat a Mexican, an Irishman, and a Negro.The Irishman was drunk.TheNegro came to wait on Neale, and, receiving an order, went to the kitchen.TheIrishman sidled over to Neale."Say, did yez hear about Casey?" he inquired, in very friendly fashion."No, I didn't," replied Neale.He remembered Casey, the flagman, but probablythere were many Caseys in that camp."There wus a foight, out on the line, yisteddy," went on the fellow, "an' thedom' redskins chased the gang to the troop-train.Phwat do you think? Abulletknocked Casey's pipe out of his mouth, as he wus runnin', an' b'gorra, Caseysthopped fer it an' wus all shot up.""Is he dead?" inquired Neale."Not yit.No bullets can't kill Casey.""Was his pipe a short, black one?""It wus thot.""And did Casey have it everlastingly in his mouth?""He shlept in it."Neale knew that particular Casey, and he examined this loquacious Irishmanmoreclosely.He recognized him as Pat Shane, one of the trio he had known duringthesurvey in the hills two years ago.The recognition was like a stab to Neale.Memory of the Wyoming hills— of the lost Allie Lee—cut him to thequick.Shanehad aged greatly.There were scars on his face that Neale had not seenbefore."Mister, don't I know yez?" leered Shane, studying Neale with bleary eyes.Neale did not care to be remembered [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl trzylatki.xlx.pl
.Smith grewhotand profane.The cowboy promptly slapped his face.Then Smith, like the foolhewas, went after his gun.He never got it out.It distressed Neale greatly that Larry had shot up a man—and a railroadman atthat.No matter what Larry said, Neale knew the shooting was on his account.This deed made the cowboy a marked man.It changed him, also, toward Neale,inasmuch as that he saw his wildness, was making small Neale's chances ofreturning to work.Larry never ceased importuning Neale to go back to hisjob.After shooting Smith the cowboy made one more eloquent appeal to Neale andthenleft for Cheyenne.Neale followed him.Cheyenne was just sobering up after its brief and tempestuous reign asheadquarters town, and though depleted and thin, it was now making a bid forpermanency.But the sting and wildness of life had departed with theconstruction operations, and now Benton had become the hub of the railwayuniverse.Neale boarded a train for Benton and watched with bitterness the familiarlandmarks he had learned to know so well while surveying the line.He was nolonger connected with the great project—no more a necessary part of thegreatmovement.Beyond Medicine Bow the grass and the green failed and the immense train offreight-cars and passenger-coaches, loaded to capacity, clattered on intoaridcountry.Gray and red, the drab and fiery colors of the desert lent theridgescharacter—forbidding and barren.Page 96 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlFrom a car window Neale got his first glimpse of the wonderful terminus city,and for once his old thrills returned.He recalled the distance—sevenhundred—no, six hundred and ninety-eight miles from Omaha.So farwestward wasBenton.It lay in the heart of barrenness, alkali, and desolation, on the face of thewindy desert, alive with dust-devils, sweeping along, yellow andfunnel-shaped—ahuge blocked-out town, and set where no town could ever live.Benton was preyfor sun, wind, dust, drought, and the wind was terribly and insupportablycold.No sage, no cedars, no grass, not even a cactus-bush, nothing green or livingtorelieve the eye, which swept across the gray and the white, through the dust,tothe distant bare and desolate hills of drab.The hell that was reported to abide at Benton was in harmony with itssetting.The immense train clattered and jolted to a stop.A roar of wind, a cloud ofpowdery dust, a discordant and unceasing din of voices, came through the openwindows of the car.The heterogeneous mass of humanity with which Neale hadtraveled jostled out, struggling with packs and bags.Neale, carrying his bag, stepped off into half a foot of dust.He saw adisintegrated crowd of travelers that had just arrived, and of travelersreadyto depart—soldiers, Indians, Mexicans, Negroes, loafers, merchants,tradesmen,laborers, an ever-changing and ever- remarkable spectacle of humanity.He sawstage-coaches with hawkers bawling for passengers bound to Salt Lake, Ogden,Montana, Idaho; he saw a wide white street—white with dust where it wasnotthronged with moving men and women, and lined by tents and canvas houses andclapboard structures, together with the strangest conglomeration of paintedandprinted signs that ever advertised anything in the world.A woman, well clad, young, not uncomely, but with hungry eyes like those of ahawk, accosted Neale.He drew away.In the din he had not heard what she said.Aboy likewise spoke to him; a greaser tried to take his luggage; a manjostlinghim felt of his pocket; and as Neale walked on he was leered at, importuned,jolted, accosted, and all but mobbed.So this was Benton.A pistol-shot pierced the din.Some one shouted.A wave of the crowdindicatedcommotion somewhere; and then the action and noise went on precisely asbefore.Neale crossed five intersecting streets; evidently the wide street he was onmust be the main one.In that walk of five blocks he saw thousands of persons, but they were notthesoldiers who protected the line, nor the laborers who made the road.Thesewerethe travelers, the business people, the stragglers, the nondescripts, theparasites, the criminals, the desperadoes, and the idlers—all who mustby hookor crook live off the builders.Neale was conscious of a sudden exhilaration.The spirit was still in him.Afterall, his defeated ambition counted for nothing in the great sum of this work.Page 97 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlHow many had failed! He thought of the nameless graves already dotting theslopes along the line and already forgotten.It would be something to livethrough the heyday of Benton,Under a sign, "Hotel," he entered a door in a clapboard house.The place wasascrude as an unfinished barn.Paying in advance for lodgings, he went to theroomshown him—a stall with a door and a bar, a cot and a bench, a bowl andapitcher.Through cracks he could see out over an uneven stretch of tents andhouses.Toward the edge of town stood a long string of small tents andseveralhuge ones, which might have been the soldiers' quarters.Neale went out in search of a meal and entered the first restaurant.It wasmerely a canvas house stretched over poles, with compartments at the back.Highwooden benches served as tables, low benches as seats.The floor was sand.Atone table sat a Mexican, an Irishman, and a Negro.The Irishman was drunk.TheNegro came to wait on Neale, and, receiving an order, went to the kitchen.TheIrishman sidled over to Neale."Say, did yez hear about Casey?" he inquired, in very friendly fashion."No, I didn't," replied Neale.He remembered Casey, the flagman, but probablythere were many Caseys in that camp."There wus a foight, out on the line, yisteddy," went on the fellow, "an' thedom' redskins chased the gang to the troop-train.Phwat do you think? Abulletknocked Casey's pipe out of his mouth, as he wus runnin', an' b'gorra, Caseysthopped fer it an' wus all shot up.""Is he dead?" inquired Neale."Not yit.No bullets can't kill Casey.""Was his pipe a short, black one?""It wus thot.""And did Casey have it everlastingly in his mouth?""He shlept in it."Neale knew that particular Casey, and he examined this loquacious Irishmanmoreclosely.He recognized him as Pat Shane, one of the trio he had known duringthesurvey in the hills two years ago.The recognition was like a stab to Neale.Memory of the Wyoming hills— of the lost Allie Lee—cut him to thequick.Shanehad aged greatly.There were scars on his face that Neale had not seenbefore."Mister, don't I know yez?" leered Shane, studying Neale with bleary eyes.Neale did not care to be remembered [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]