Read Online Treasure Mountain (1972) by Louis - Sackett's 17 L'amour - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louis - Sackett's 17 L'amour
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side of the steamer. I watched it idly, but it was dark after the steamer's lights and I could make out nothing. A little later I heard the dip and splash of oars. The boat was pulling in alongside a keelboat moored below us.
It seemed to me that two men, perhaps three, left the boat. I was tired now, and walked slowly forward to our cabin.
The Tinker moved from the shadow of some barrels. "Did you see that boat?"
"Yes."
"Somebody could have gotten off on the river side."
"You're a suspicious man, Tinker."
"I am a living man, my friend."
We stood together in the darkness watching the water as our small steamer got underway. If we did not get aground too often we'd soon be riding out for Colorado. Yet river travel was a chancy thing, subject to sudden lows or highs along the river, unexpected sand bars, snags, and all drifting matter. A pilot had to be a bit of a magician to do it well, and navigating these branches of the Big River was doubly difficult. Nor did they dare to go too far upstream for they might suddenly be left high and dry as a sudden flood played out.
"Your pa, now. You never heard anything after New Orleans?" said the Tinker.
"We never heard from him from there that I recall, but my memory is hazy, and it wasn't long after that before I took off to make my way in the world. Then the war came along and blotted a lot of memories for us who fought."
We were silent for a while, listening to the river whispering along the hull.
There was a light on that keelboat downstream now.
"When somebody is around home there's talk, and the talk awakens memories, so a body has many a thing fresh in mind that otherwise might fade out.
"There are sons and daughters of the same folks who have altogether different memories, and each one thinks he remembers better. The last one at home, of course, has had his memories renewed by talk. I suspect Orrin or Tyrel would recall better than me. Especially Tyrel. He never forgets anything."
"Your pa may have been murdered."
"Maybe."
"I don't like the feel of it, Tell. There's something that doesn't feel right about it," he said.
"Could be Andre took off and left them in a bind--pulled out--and he's shamed Philip may find out and cut them off. From all I could gather, Andre, Paul, and Fanny have gone through everything they have. They're in a tight for cash, and they've got to set right with Philip or go to work."
"There's more to it," said the Tinker and went in to the cabin.
There was some stirring around on the keelboat aft of us. I didn't pay it much mind, only to notice.
The river rustled by our hull. The deck below was piled high with cargo. I'd seen these riverboats so piled with bales of cotton that folks in the cabins had to live by candlelight even at midday. That water down there had melted from high-mountain snows not long since. It had trickled down, pure and cold from up where the glaciers still live, where the rivers are born.
Soon I'd be riding where that water came from. Here it was muddy with earth, with death and plants and bugs, and with whatever man left in it. Far up there where the snows were the water was pure and cold.
No getting away from it, I was wilderness born and bred and never was I wishful to be far from it. I like to bed down where a man can look up at the stars, where he can taste the wind to test the weather, and where he can watch the wild things about their business.
When a man lives with the wilderness he comes to an acceptance of death as a part of living, he sees the leaves fall and rot away to build the soil for other trees and plants to be born. The leaves gather strength from sun and rain, gathering the capital on which they live to return it to the soil when they die.
Only for a time have they borrowed their life from the sum of things, using their small portion of sun, earth, and rain, some of the chemicals that go into their being--all to be paid back when death comes. All to be used again and again.
Feet rustled on the
It seemed to me that two men, perhaps three, left the boat. I was tired now, and walked slowly forward to our cabin.
The Tinker moved from the shadow of some barrels. "Did you see that boat?"
"Yes."
"Somebody could have gotten off on the river side."
"You're a suspicious man, Tinker."
"I am a living man, my friend."
We stood together in the darkness watching the water as our small steamer got underway. If we did not get aground too often we'd soon be riding out for Colorado. Yet river travel was a chancy thing, subject to sudden lows or highs along the river, unexpected sand bars, snags, and all drifting matter. A pilot had to be a bit of a magician to do it well, and navigating these branches of the Big River was doubly difficult. Nor did they dare to go too far upstream for they might suddenly be left high and dry as a sudden flood played out.
"Your pa, now. You never heard anything after New Orleans?" said the Tinker.
"We never heard from him from there that I recall, but my memory is hazy, and it wasn't long after that before I took off to make my way in the world. Then the war came along and blotted a lot of memories for us who fought."
We were silent for a while, listening to the river whispering along the hull.
There was a light on that keelboat downstream now.
"When somebody is around home there's talk, and the talk awakens memories, so a body has many a thing fresh in mind that otherwise might fade out.
"There are sons and daughters of the same folks who have altogether different memories, and each one thinks he remembers better. The last one at home, of course, has had his memories renewed by talk. I suspect Orrin or Tyrel would recall better than me. Especially Tyrel. He never forgets anything."
"Your pa may have been murdered."
"Maybe."
"I don't like the feel of it, Tell. There's something that doesn't feel right about it," he said.
"Could be Andre took off and left them in a bind--pulled out--and he's shamed Philip may find out and cut them off. From all I could gather, Andre, Paul, and Fanny have gone through everything they have. They're in a tight for cash, and they've got to set right with Philip or go to work."
"There's more to it," said the Tinker and went in to the cabin.
There was some stirring around on the keelboat aft of us. I didn't pay it much mind, only to notice.
The river rustled by our hull. The deck below was piled high with cargo. I'd seen these riverboats so piled with bales of cotton that folks in the cabins had to live by candlelight even at midday. That water down there had melted from high-mountain snows not long since. It had trickled down, pure and cold from up where the glaciers still live, where the rivers are born.
Soon I'd be riding where that water came from. Here it was muddy with earth, with death and plants and bugs, and with whatever man left in it. Far up there where the snows were the water was pure and cold.
No getting away from it, I was wilderness born and bred and never was I wishful to be far from it. I like to bed down where a man can look up at the stars, where he can taste the wind to test the weather, and where he can watch the wild things about their business.
When a man lives with the wilderness he comes to an acceptance of death as a part of living, he sees the leaves fall and rot away to build the soil for other trees and plants to be born. The leaves gather strength from sun and rain, gathering the capital on which they live to return it to the soil when they die.
Only for a time have they borrowed their life from the sum of things, using their small portion of sun, earth, and rain, some of the chemicals that go into their being--all to be paid back when death comes. All to be used again and again.
Feet rustled on the
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