out if I want to,"
Monday said. "That's nothin'. Anybody c'n sound a word out if he
wants to. But what's it mean?"
"Iggerant child, y'are now. Instinct, that's
when you do something you don't know what y're doin'."
"That's just stupid, to my way o' thinkin',"
Monday said.
Webb stood, clutching the paper tightly in his fist
and glaring at Monday. "Nobody ast y' for y'r dunghead opinion,"
he said furiously. "Just do you know what 'ova' means."
"Don't get y'r back up, hoss," Monday said
placatingly. "Mary, 'ova' ain't a Shoshone word, is it?"
Mary thought for a moment. "No," she said,
shaking her head.
" What does it look like?" She came over to
the paper. Webb had partly crumpled it in his anger and they had to
smooth it out on the table.
"C'n she read?" Webb demanded of Monday
while Mary looked at the column.
"Hell, yes," Monday said with pride. "I
bet she c'n read better'n you."
"Never heard of a squaw could read," Webb
muttered. "Goes against nature."
Mary said, "I think maybe 'ova' means 'frying
pan.' See, is where they take the fry out of. "
" That's it, Mary got it!" Monday said.
"See, right there. 'Fry from out the ova.' That's it."
Webb puzzled at it for a moment. "Fry means baby
fish, don't you even know that?"
" Hell, yes. Ain't you ever had baby fish fried?
An' see there, it says about 'nature's offices'. That means when
you're hungry, don't it?"
Webb muttered something unintelligible, tracing the
lines with his finger again, trying out the meaning. Then he stood
straight and looked Monday square in the eye. "Then the son of a
bitch don' make any sense."
Monday shrugged. "That's account it's literary,
" he said affably. "Like I said. Listen, hoss, you don't
want t' worry too much about this literary stuff or you go crazy."
"The bastards," Webb growled, staring down
at the paper. "The dirty, lousy, rotten-men." Deliberately
he crumpled the sheet into a tiny ball in his fist, his teeth
clenched in anger. Slowly he bent to put the wadded ball on the
floor, his movement tense, almost shaking with rage. Methodically he
began to stamp on the paper, mashing it flat with his moccasins and
cursing in a steady stream.
"That ain't what God made words for!" he
snarled.
Monday started to laugh, and the sound only made Webb
more furious. He looked up at Monday, and for a moment Monday thought
he was going to be attacked. He held his hands helplessly in front of
him, weak with laughter, while the old man raged incomprehensibly.
Finally Webb stalked to the door, snatching his rifle
from beside the fire. He slammed the door back, and with one last
implacable curse stormed out into the night, to make his camp under
the open sky. Monday sat helpless at the table, unable to speak. Mary
went back to the counter, but she too was smiling. It had been a long
time since the cabin had been full of cursing and laughter.
After a few moments the door exploded inward,
slamming loudly back against the wall. Webb came in again, staring
challengingly at Monday. He went over and picked up the mutilated
newspaper and shoved it defiantly in the flap of his hunting shirt.
He stood for a second, arms belligerently akimbo, waiting for Monday
to say something. Seeing that the big man lacked the courage, Webb
spat in the fire and went out again. Monday put his head down in his
hands and began to shake again.
From the counter Mary said, "I think maybe he
eat it, now." Her hands deftly rolled the packages and put them
to one side.
" No." Monday gasped, wiping his eyes. "If
I know the coon, he just can't stand to quit without finding out how
it came out. How he is."
Mary smiled. "He is not like the others, that
one."
"He's still the same as ever, god damn him. Just
like he used to be."
" He is Absaroka?" Mary asked.
" No, he's white—he's livin' with the Crows, is
all."
Mary shrugged. "Was that I meant. It makes no
difference to the Absaroka. He lives there, he is Absaroka. Same as
when you were Shoshone."
" I expect," Monday said,
Monday said. "That's nothin'. Anybody c'n sound a word out if he
wants to. But what's it mean?"
"Iggerant child, y'are now. Instinct, that's
when you do something you don't know what y're doin'."
"That's just stupid, to my way o' thinkin',"
Monday said.
Webb stood, clutching the paper tightly in his fist
and glaring at Monday. "Nobody ast y' for y'r dunghead opinion,"
he said furiously. "Just do you know what 'ova' means."
"Don't get y'r back up, hoss," Monday said
placatingly. "Mary, 'ova' ain't a Shoshone word, is it?"
Mary thought for a moment. "No," she said,
shaking her head.
" What does it look like?" She came over to
the paper. Webb had partly crumpled it in his anger and they had to
smooth it out on the table.
"C'n she read?" Webb demanded of Monday
while Mary looked at the column.
"Hell, yes," Monday said with pride. "I
bet she c'n read better'n you."
"Never heard of a squaw could read," Webb
muttered. "Goes against nature."
Mary said, "I think maybe 'ova' means 'frying
pan.' See, is where they take the fry out of. "
" That's it, Mary got it!" Monday said.
"See, right there. 'Fry from out the ova.' That's it."
Webb puzzled at it for a moment. "Fry means baby
fish, don't you even know that?"
" Hell, yes. Ain't you ever had baby fish fried?
An' see there, it says about 'nature's offices'. That means when
you're hungry, don't it?"
Webb muttered something unintelligible, tracing the
lines with his finger again, trying out the meaning. Then he stood
straight and looked Monday square in the eye. "Then the son of a
bitch don' make any sense."
Monday shrugged. "That's account it's literary,
" he said affably. "Like I said. Listen, hoss, you don't
want t' worry too much about this literary stuff or you go crazy."
"The bastards," Webb growled, staring down
at the paper. "The dirty, lousy, rotten-men." Deliberately
he crumpled the sheet into a tiny ball in his fist, his teeth
clenched in anger. Slowly he bent to put the wadded ball on the
floor, his movement tense, almost shaking with rage. Methodically he
began to stamp on the paper, mashing it flat with his moccasins and
cursing in a steady stream.
"That ain't what God made words for!" he
snarled.
Monday started to laugh, and the sound only made Webb
more furious. He looked up at Monday, and for a moment Monday thought
he was going to be attacked. He held his hands helplessly in front of
him, weak with laughter, while the old man raged incomprehensibly.
Finally Webb stalked to the door, snatching his rifle
from beside the fire. He slammed the door back, and with one last
implacable curse stormed out into the night, to make his camp under
the open sky. Monday sat helpless at the table, unable to speak. Mary
went back to the counter, but she too was smiling. It had been a long
time since the cabin had been full of cursing and laughter.
After a few moments the door exploded inward,
slamming loudly back against the wall. Webb came in again, staring
challengingly at Monday. He went over and picked up the mutilated
newspaper and shoved it defiantly in the flap of his hunting shirt.
He stood for a second, arms belligerently akimbo, waiting for Monday
to say something. Seeing that the big man lacked the courage, Webb
spat in the fire and went out again. Monday put his head down in his
hands and began to shake again.
From the counter Mary said, "I think maybe he
eat it, now." Her hands deftly rolled the packages and put them
to one side.
" No." Monday gasped, wiping his eyes. "If
I know the coon, he just can't stand to quit without finding out how
it came out. How he is."
Mary smiled. "He is not like the others, that
one."
"He's still the same as ever, god damn him. Just
like he used to be."
" He is Absaroka?" Mary asked.
" No, he's white—he's livin' with the Crows, is
all."
Mary shrugged. "Was that I meant. It makes no
difference to the Absaroka. He lives there, he is Absaroka. Same as
when you were Shoshone."
" I expect," Monday said,
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