the mountains(山脉)-第23部分
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the edges firmly enough to offer the required resistance to your knife。
Besidesif you get carelessyou'll scrape too hard： hence little holes in
the completed buckskin。 Alsoif you get carelessyou will probably
leave the finest； tiniest shreds of grain； and each of them means a hard
transparent spot in the product。 Furthermore； once having started in on
the job； you are like the little boy who caught the trolley： you cannot let go。
It must be finished immediately； all at one heat； before the hide stiffens。
Be it understood； your first enthusiasm has evaporated； and you are
thinking of fifty pleasant things you might just as well be doing。
Next you revel in grease；lard oil； if you have it； if not； then lard； or
the product of boiled brains。 This you must rub into the skin。 You rub
it in until you suspect that your finger…nails have worn away； and you
glisten to the elbows like an Eskimo cutting blubber。
By the merciful arrangement of those who invented buckskin； this
entitles you to a rest。 You take itfor several daysuntil your conscience
seizes you by the scruff of the neck。
Then you transport gingerly that slippery； clammy； soggy； snaky； cold
bundle of greasy horror to the bank of the creek； and there for endless
hours you wash it。 The grease is more reluctant to enter the stream than
you are in the early morning。 Your hands turn purple。 The others go by
on their way to the trout…pools； but you are chained to the stake。
By and by you straighten your back with creaks； and walk home like a
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stiff old man； carrying your hide rid of all superfluous oil。 Then if you
are just learning how； your instructor examines the result。
〃That's all right；〃 says he cheerfully。 〃Now when it dries； it will be
buckskin。〃
That encourages you。 It need not。 For during the process of drying
it must be your pastime constantly to pull and stretch at every square inch
of that boundless skin in order to loosen all the fibres。 Otherwise it
would dry as stiff as whalebone。 Now there is nothing on earth that
seems to dry slower than buckskin。 You wear your fingers down to the
first joints； and； wishing to preserve the remainder for future use； you
carry the hide to your instructor。
〃Just beginning to dry nicely；〃 says he。
You go back and do it some more； putting the entire strength of your
body； soul； and religious convictions into the stretching of that buckskin。
It looks as white as paper； and feels as soft and warm as the turf on a
southern slope。 Nevertheless your tyrant declares it will not do。
〃It looks dry； and it feels dry；〃 says he； 〃but it isn't dry。 Go to it！〃
But at this point your outraged soul arches its back and bucks。 You
sneak off and roll up that piece of buckskin； and thrust it into the alforja。
You KNOW it is dry。 Then with a deep sigh of relief you come out of
prison into the clear； sane； lazy atmosphere of the camp。
〃Do you mean to tell me that there is any one chump enough to do
that for a dollar a hide？〃 you inquire。
〃Sure；〃 say they。
〃Well； the Fool Killer is certainly behind on his dates；〃 you conclude。
About a week later one of your companions drags out of the alforja
something crumpled that resembles in general appearance and texture a
rusted five…gallon coal…oil can that has been in a wreck。 It is only
imperceptibly less stiff and angular and cast…iron than rawhide。
〃What is this？〃 the discoverer inquires。
Then quietly you go out and sit on a high place before recognition
brings inevitableand sickening chaff。 For you know it at a glance。 It
is your buckskin。
Along about the middle of that century an old prospector with four
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burros descended the Basin Trail and went into camp just below us。
Towards evening he sauntered in。
I sincerely wish I could sketch this man for you just as he came down
through the fire…lit trees。 He was about six feet tall； very leanly built；
with a weather…beaten face of mahogany on which was superimposed a
sweeping mustache and beetling eye… brows。 These had originally been
brown； but the sun had bleached them almost white in remarkable contrast
to his complexion。 Eyes keen as sunlight twinkled far down beneath the
shadows of the brows and a floppy old sombrero hat。 The usual flannel
shirt； waistcoat； mountain…boots； and six…shooter completed the outfit。
He might have been forty； but was probably nearer sixty years of age。
〃Howdy； boys；〃 said he； and dropped to the fireside； where he
promptly annexed a coal for his pipe。
We all greeted him； but gradually the talk fell to him and Wes。 It was
commonplace talk enough from one point of view： taken in essence it was
merely like the inquiry and answer of the civilized man as to another's
itinerary〃Did you visit Florence？ Berlin？ St。 Petersburg？〃and then the
comparing of impressions。 Only here again that old familiar magic of
unfamiliar names threw its glamour over the terse sentences。
〃Over beyond the Piute Monument；〃 the old prospector explained；
〃down through the Inyo Range； a leetle north of Death Valley〃
〃Back in seventy…eight when I was up in Bay Horse Canon over by
Lost River〃
〃Was you ever over in th' Panamit Mountains？ North of th'
Telescope Range？〃
That was all there was to it； with long pauses for drawing at the pipes。
Yet somehow in the aggregate that catalogue of names gradually
established in the minds of us two who listened an impression of long
years； of wide wilderness； of wandering far over the face of the earth。
The old man had wintered here； summered a thousand miles away； made
his strike at one end of the world； lost it somehow； and cheerfully tried for
a repetition of his luck at the other。 I do not believe the possibility of
wealth； though always of course in the background； was ever near enough
his hope to be considered a motive for action。 Rather was it a dream；
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remote； something to be gained to…morrow； but never to…day； like the
mediaeval Christian's idea of heaven。 His interest was in the search。
For that one could see in him a real enthusiasm。 He had his smattering of
theory； his very real empirical knowledge； and his superstitions； like all
prospectors。 So long as he could keep in grub； own a little train of burros；
and lead the life he loved； he was happy。
Perhaps one of the chief elements of this remarkable interest in the
game rather than the prizes of it was his desire to vindicate his guesses or
his conclusions。 He liked to predict to himself the outcome of his
solitary operations； and then to prove that prediction through laborious
days。 His life was a gigantic game of solitaire。 In fact； he mentioned a
dozen of his claims many years apart which he had developed to a certain
point；〃so I could see what they was；〃and then abandoned in favor of
fresher discoveries。 He cherished the illusion that these were properties
to whose completion some day he would return。 But we knew better； he
had carried them to the point where the result was no longer in doubt and
then； like one who has no interest in playing on in an evidently prescribed
order； had laid his cards on the table to begin a new game。
This man was skilled in his profession； he had pursued it for thirty odd
years； he was frugal and industrious； undoubtedly of his long series of
discoveries a fair percentage were valuable and are producing…properties
to…day。 Yet he confessed his bank balance to be less than five hundred
dollars。 Why was this？ Simply and solely because he did not care。 At
heart it was entirely immaterial to him whether he ever owned a dollar
above his expenses。 When he sold his claims； he let them go easily； loath
to bother himself with business details； eager to get away from the fuss
and nuisance。 The few hundred dollars he received he probably sunk in
unproductive mining work； or was fleeced out of in the towns。 Then
joyfully he turned back to his beloved mountains and the life of his slow
deep delight and his pecking away before the open doors of fortune。 By
and by he would
