The Girl of the Golden West by Giacomo Puccini, David Belasco Page B
Authors: Giacomo Puccini, David Belasco
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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he drawled
out.
At once the Girl was all sympathy.
"Oh, no you're not, Jack!" she protested, speaking as tenderly
as she dared without encouraging him.
Rance was quick to detect the change in her voice. Now he leaned
over the end of the bar and said in tones that still held hope:
"Once when I rode in here it was nothing but Jack, Jack, Jack
Rance. By the Eternal, I nearly got you then!"
"Did you?" The Girl was her saucy self again.
Rance ignored her manner, and went on:
"Then you went on that trip to Sacramento and Monterey and you
were different."
In spite of herself the Girl started, which Rance's quick eye
did not fail to note.
"Who's the man?" he blazed.
For answer the Girl burst out into a peal of laughter. It was
forced, and the man knew it.
"I suppose he's one o' them high-toned, Sacramento shrimps!" he
burst out gruffly; then he added meaningly: "Do you think he'd have
you?"
At those words a wondering look shone in the Girl's eyes, and
she asked in all seriousness:
"What's the matter with me? Is there anythin' 'bout me a
high-toned gent would object to?" And then as the full force of the
insult was borne in upon her she stepped out from behind the bar,
and demanded: "Look here, Jack Rance, ain't I always been a perfect
lady?"
Rance laughed discordantly.
"Oh, heaven knows your character's all right!" And so saying he
seated himself again at the table.
The girl flared up still more at this; she retorted:
"Well, that ain't your fault, Jack Rance!" But the words were
hardly out of her mouth than she regretted having spoken them. She
waited a moment, and then as he did not speak she murmured an
"Adios, Jack," and took up her position behind the bar where, if
Rance had been looking, he would have seen her start on hearing a
voice in the next room and fix her eyes in a sort of fascinated
wonder, on a man who, after parting the pelt curtain, came into the
saloon with just a suggestion of swagger in his bearing.
Chapter 7
"Where's the man who wanted to curl my hair?"
Incisive and harsh, with scarcely a trace of the musical tones
she recollected so well, as was Johnson's voice, it deceived the
Girl not an instant. Even before she was able to get a glimpse of
his face it did not fail to tell her that the
handsome
caballero
, with whom she had ridden on that
never-to-be-forgotten day on the Monterey road, was standing before
her. That his attire now, as might be expected, was wholly
different from what it had been then, it never occurred to her to
note; for, to tell the truth, she was vainly struggling to suppress
the joy that she felt at seeing him again, and before she was aware
of it there slipped through her lips:
"Why, howdy do, stranger!"
At the sound of her voice Johnson wheeled round in glad surprise
and amazement; but the quick look of recognition that he flashed
upon her wholly escaped the Sheriff whose attitude was indicative
of keen resentment at this intrusion, and whose eyes were taking in
the newcomer from head to foot.
"We're not much on strangers here," he blurted out at last.
Johnson turned on his heel and faced the speaker. An angry
retort rose to his lips, but he checked it. Although, perhaps, not
fully appreciating his action, he was, nevertheless, not unaware
that, from the point of view of the Polka, his refusal to take his
whisky straight might be regarded as nothing less than an insult.
And now that it was too late he was inclined, however much he
resented an attempt to interfere in a matter which he believed
concerned himself solely, to regret the provocation and challenging
words of his entrance if only because of a realisation that a
quarrel would be likely to upset his plans. On the other hand, with
every fraction of a second that passed he was conscious of becoming
more and more desirous of humbling the man standing before him and
scrutinising him so insolently; moreover, he felt intuitively that
the eyes of the Girl were on him as well as on the other principal
to this
out.
At once the Girl was all sympathy.
"Oh, no you're not, Jack!" she protested, speaking as tenderly
as she dared without encouraging him.
Rance was quick to detect the change in her voice. Now he leaned
over the end of the bar and said in tones that still held hope:
"Once when I rode in here it was nothing but Jack, Jack, Jack
Rance. By the Eternal, I nearly got you then!"
"Did you?" The Girl was her saucy self again.
Rance ignored her manner, and went on:
"Then you went on that trip to Sacramento and Monterey and you
were different."
In spite of herself the Girl started, which Rance's quick eye
did not fail to note.
"Who's the man?" he blazed.
For answer the Girl burst out into a peal of laughter. It was
forced, and the man knew it.
"I suppose he's one o' them high-toned, Sacramento shrimps!" he
burst out gruffly; then he added meaningly: "Do you think he'd have
you?"
At those words a wondering look shone in the Girl's eyes, and
she asked in all seriousness:
"What's the matter with me? Is there anythin' 'bout me a
high-toned gent would object to?" And then as the full force of the
insult was borne in upon her she stepped out from behind the bar,
and demanded: "Look here, Jack Rance, ain't I always been a perfect
lady?"
Rance laughed discordantly.
"Oh, heaven knows your character's all right!" And so saying he
seated himself again at the table.
The girl flared up still more at this; she retorted:
"Well, that ain't your fault, Jack Rance!" But the words were
hardly out of her mouth than she regretted having spoken them. She
waited a moment, and then as he did not speak she murmured an
"Adios, Jack," and took up her position behind the bar where, if
Rance had been looking, he would have seen her start on hearing a
voice in the next room and fix her eyes in a sort of fascinated
wonder, on a man who, after parting the pelt curtain, came into the
saloon with just a suggestion of swagger in his bearing.
Chapter 7
"Where's the man who wanted to curl my hair?"
Incisive and harsh, with scarcely a trace of the musical tones
she recollected so well, as was Johnson's voice, it deceived the
Girl not an instant. Even before she was able to get a glimpse of
his face it did not fail to tell her that the
handsome
caballero
, with whom she had ridden on that
never-to-be-forgotten day on the Monterey road, was standing before
her. That his attire now, as might be expected, was wholly
different from what it had been then, it never occurred to her to
note; for, to tell the truth, she was vainly struggling to suppress
the joy that she felt at seeing him again, and before she was aware
of it there slipped through her lips:
"Why, howdy do, stranger!"
At the sound of her voice Johnson wheeled round in glad surprise
and amazement; but the quick look of recognition that he flashed
upon her wholly escaped the Sheriff whose attitude was indicative
of keen resentment at this intrusion, and whose eyes were taking in
the newcomer from head to foot.
"We're not much on strangers here," he blurted out at last.
Johnson turned on his heel and faced the speaker. An angry
retort rose to his lips, but he checked it. Although, perhaps, not
fully appreciating his action, he was, nevertheless, not unaware
that, from the point of view of the Polka, his refusal to take his
whisky straight might be regarded as nothing less than an insult.
And now that it was too late he was inclined, however much he
resented an attempt to interfere in a matter which he believed
concerned himself solely, to regret the provocation and challenging
words of his entrance if only because of a realisation that a
quarrel would be likely to upset his plans. On the other hand, with
every fraction of a second that passed he was conscious of becoming
more and more desirous of humbling the man standing before him and
scrutinising him so insolently; moreover, he felt intuitively that
the eyes of the Girl were on him as well as on the other principal
to this
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