went to the door and opened it. She turned back
briefly and said, "An' don't you go pokin' into things that
don't concern you." She closed the door before Monday had time
to answer.
" Some punkins, that 'un," Webb said
admiringly. "Right peart for a woman, an' a white 'un at that.
Had me a Nez Percé wife oncet summat like that 'un. Lodge-poled the
bitch from Powder River t' Bayou Salade an' back again, for she
wouldn? quit. Finally swapped her off f'r a Hawkens gun 'n' three
pounds o' powder."
"What's she got her back up at me for?"
Monday said. "I didn't do nothin'."
"Nothin'," Webb muttered. After a moment he
added mysteriously, "Y' don't have to."
3
Webb and Monday unloaded the meat they had brought
down, and Mary put it all out on the counter for wrapping. There was
a stack of Oregon Spectator; in the cupboard, carefully collected
from the newspaper office when the paper was being run by Doc Newell.
They were reject sheets, crooked on the press or double impressions,
but most of them were still legible.
Webb watched with interest as Mary took the stack
down and began to roll up the chunks of meat. He grabbed a sheet from
the top, muttering, and took it to the fire.
"Goddam, coon, y' look like a English
gentleman," Monday said. "Y' do, now. Sittin' there with
y'r paper in front o' the fire, an' all."
" Jaybird," Webb said patiently, "y're
just a heap o' shit with teeth, 'n' for oncet I wish y'd cut out
clackin' the teeth 'n' lie there still."
" Hell, Webb," Monday said dubiously, "you
can't read now, can y'?"
Webb's proudest achievement was his reading, and it
was an almost sure way to make him come.
This time, though, there was no violence—though
Monday had seen knives drawn over the same question in the past. Webb
calmly turned the page. "This nigger c'n read slick," he
said equably. "He c'n read never mind what. If'n they c'n write
it, he c'n read it, 'n' that's truth."
Monday grinned at his back. Mary had turned slightly
around, and Monday winked at her. She smiled and turned back to the
wrapping of the meat. Webb crouched on his haunches in front of the
fire, the two long Piegan scalps dangling down between his knees as
he read. For a long moment there was only the sound of the crackling
fire and the rustling of the papers as Mary wrapped the meat.
Then Webb said angrily, "W'hat 'n hell's 'ova'
mean?" He looked accusingly at Monday as though the big man had
perpetrated the word himself.
Monday looked at him, surprised. "Means 'above,'
coon. Y' put y'r gun ova the mantel."
" That's over, y' damn dunghead," Webb
snapped. "Ova, o-v-a."
Monday rubbed his forehead. "I don't believe
that's a real word," he said finally. "It don't sound
right."
" It's got to be a word. Right here in the paper,
ain't it?"
Monday went over to the fire and looked at the column
where Webb was pointing. It was a long poem, fifteen or twenty
stanzas, with the title ADVENTURES OF A COLUMBIA SALMON. The paper
was several years old and yellowed, but the type was still legible
enough. Webb was on the second stanza:
' Tis a poor salmon, which a short time past
With thousands of her finny sisters came,
By
instinct taught, to seek and find at last,
The
place that gave her birth, there to remain
' Till
nature's offices had been discharged,
And fry
from out the ova had emerged.
" They got a literary association over to Oregon
City," Monday explained. "Call it the 'Falls Association,'
an' they're always doin' somethin' like that in the paper."
" Don't give a damn where it come from," Webb said querulously. "Just what's it
mean, ova?"
"That's what I'm sayin'," Monday said.
"It's literary. When they put stuff in you can't understand,
that's literary."
"If'n it's a word, this nigger c'n understand it
right off." Webb snorted.
"Well, you read better'n me," Monday
admitted. "What's this'n here mean?" He pointed to the
third line of the stanza, the word "instinct."
"Wagh!"' Webb snorted. "That's
'instinct'."
"Hell, I c'n sound it
briefly and said, "An' don't you go pokin' into things that
don't concern you." She closed the door before Monday had time
to answer.
" Some punkins, that 'un," Webb said
admiringly. "Right peart for a woman, an' a white 'un at that.
Had me a Nez Percé wife oncet summat like that 'un. Lodge-poled the
bitch from Powder River t' Bayou Salade an' back again, for she
wouldn? quit. Finally swapped her off f'r a Hawkens gun 'n' three
pounds o' powder."
"What's she got her back up at me for?"
Monday said. "I didn't do nothin'."
"Nothin'," Webb muttered. After a moment he
added mysteriously, "Y' don't have to."
3
Webb and Monday unloaded the meat they had brought
down, and Mary put it all out on the counter for wrapping. There was
a stack of Oregon Spectator; in the cupboard, carefully collected
from the newspaper office when the paper was being run by Doc Newell.
They were reject sheets, crooked on the press or double impressions,
but most of them were still legible.
Webb watched with interest as Mary took the stack
down and began to roll up the chunks of meat. He grabbed a sheet from
the top, muttering, and took it to the fire.
"Goddam, coon, y' look like a English
gentleman," Monday said. "Y' do, now. Sittin' there with
y'r paper in front o' the fire, an' all."
" Jaybird," Webb said patiently, "y're
just a heap o' shit with teeth, 'n' for oncet I wish y'd cut out
clackin' the teeth 'n' lie there still."
" Hell, Webb," Monday said dubiously, "you
can't read now, can y'?"
Webb's proudest achievement was his reading, and it
was an almost sure way to make him come.
This time, though, there was no violence—though
Monday had seen knives drawn over the same question in the past. Webb
calmly turned the page. "This nigger c'n read slick," he
said equably. "He c'n read never mind what. If'n they c'n write
it, he c'n read it, 'n' that's truth."
Monday grinned at his back. Mary had turned slightly
around, and Monday winked at her. She smiled and turned back to the
wrapping of the meat. Webb crouched on his haunches in front of the
fire, the two long Piegan scalps dangling down between his knees as
he read. For a long moment there was only the sound of the crackling
fire and the rustling of the papers as Mary wrapped the meat.
Then Webb said angrily, "W'hat 'n hell's 'ova'
mean?" He looked accusingly at Monday as though the big man had
perpetrated the word himself.
Monday looked at him, surprised. "Means 'above,'
coon. Y' put y'r gun ova the mantel."
" That's over, y' damn dunghead," Webb
snapped. "Ova, o-v-a."
Monday rubbed his forehead. "I don't believe
that's a real word," he said finally. "It don't sound
right."
" It's got to be a word. Right here in the paper,
ain't it?"
Monday went over to the fire and looked at the column
where Webb was pointing. It was a long poem, fifteen or twenty
stanzas, with the title ADVENTURES OF A COLUMBIA SALMON. The paper
was several years old and yellowed, but the type was still legible
enough. Webb was on the second stanza:
' Tis a poor salmon, which a short time past
With thousands of her finny sisters came,
By
instinct taught, to seek and find at last,
The
place that gave her birth, there to remain
' Till
nature's offices had been discharged,
And fry
from out the ova had emerged.
" They got a literary association over to Oregon
City," Monday explained. "Call it the 'Falls Association,'
an' they're always doin' somethin' like that in the paper."
" Don't give a damn where it come from," Webb said querulously. "Just what's it
mean, ova?"
"That's what I'm sayin'," Monday said.
"It's literary. When they put stuff in you can't understand,
that's literary."
"If'n it's a word, this nigger c'n understand it
right off." Webb snorted.
"Well, you read better'n me," Monday
admitted. "What's this'n here mean?" He pointed to the
third line of the stanza, the word "instinct."
"Wagh!"' Webb snorted. "That's
'instinct'."
"Hell, I c'n sound it
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