"gp08w10" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parker Gilbert)

I had a hand in her wedding. Holy, I knew her when she was a little
girl. We could talk together by signs. She was a good woman; she had
never guessed at evil. She was quick, too, like a flash, to read and
understand without words. A face was a book to her.

"Eh bien. One afternoon we were all standing outside the Post,
when we saw someone ride over the Long Divide. It was good for the eyes.
I cannot tell quite how, but horse and rider were so sharp and clear-cut
against the sky, that they looked very large and peculiar--there was
something in the air to magnify. They stopped for a minute on the top of
the Divide, and it seemed like a messenger out of the strange country at
the farthest north--the place of legends. But, of course, it was only a
traveller like ourselves, for in a half-hour she was with us.

"Yes, it was a girl dressed as a man. She did not try to hide it; she
dressed so for ease. She would make a man's heart leap in his mouth--
if he was like Macavoy, or the pious Mowley there."

Pierre's last three words had a touch of irony, for he knew that the
Trapper had a precious tongue for Scripture when a missionary passed that
way, and a bad name with women to give it point. Mowley smiled sourly;
but Macavoy laughed outright, and smacked his lips on his pipe-stem
luxuriously.

"Aw now, Pierre--all me little failin's--aw!" he protested.

Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning upon the other elbow, and,
cherishing his cigarette, presently continued:

"She had come far and was tired to death, so stiff that she could hardly
get from her horse; and the horse too was ready to drop. Handsome enough
she looked, for all that, in man's clothes and a peaked cap, with a
pistol in her belt. She wasn't big built--just a feathery kind of
sapling--but she was set fair on her legs like a man, and a hand that was
as good as I have seen, so strong, and like silk and iron with a horse.
Well, what was the trouble?--for I saw there was trouble. Her eyes had
a hunted look, and her nose breathed like a deer's in the chase. All at
once, when she saw Hilton's wife, a cry came from her and she reached out
her hands. What would women of that sort do? They were both of a kind.
They got into each other's arms. After that there was nothing for us men
but to wait. All women are the same, and Hilton's wife was like the
rest. She must get the secret first; then the men should know. We had
to wait an hour. Then Hilton's wife beckoned to us. We went inside.
The girl was asleep. There was something in the touch of Hilton's wife
like sleep itself--like music. It was her voice--that touch. She could
not speak with her tongue, but her hands and face were words and music.
Bien, there was the girl asleep, all clear of dust and stain; and that
fine hand it lay loose on her breast, so quiet, so quiet. Enfin, the
real story--for how she slept there does not matter--but it was good to
see when we knew the story."