p&c.thunderhead-第26部分

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eek　were　abundant　new　grass　for　the　horses。　True　to　its　name；　Hard　Twist　canyon　veered　off　to　the　left；　making　such　a　sharp　turn　that　it　gave　the　illusion　of　dead…ending　in　a　wall　of　stone。　It　looked　ugly…choked　with　rocks；　dry　and　hot。　So　far　the　trip　had　been　an　easy　ride；　but　Nora　knew　that　could　not　last。　
　She　turned　her　horse　and　waited　while　the　others　straggled　up。　〃We'll　camp　here；〃　she　called　out。　
　The　group　gave　a　ragged　cheer。　Swire　helped　Black　off　his　horse；　and　the　scientist　limped　around　a　bit；　shaking　out　his　legs　and　plaining。　Holroyd　dismounted　by　himself；　only　to　fall　immediately　to　the　ground。　Nora　helped　him　to　a　tree　he　could　lean　against　until　he　got　his　legs　back。　
　〃I　don't　like　the　look　of　that　canyon；〃　Sloane　said；　ing　over　to　Nora。　〃What　if　I　scout　up　a　ways？〃　
　Nora　looked　at　the　younger　Goddard。　Her　dark　pageboy　had　been　tousled　by　the　wind；　but　the　disarray　only　enhanced　her　beauty；　and　the　golden　desert　light　made　her　amber　eyes　as　pale　as　a　cat's。　During　the　day　Nora　had　noticed　several　of　the　pany；　particularly　Black；　clandestinely　admiring　Sloane；　whose　tight　cotton　shirt；　unbuttoned　at　the　top　and　slightly　damp　with　perspiration；　left　little　to　the　imagination。　
　Nora　nodded。　〃Good　idea。　I'll　take　care　of　things　here　in　the　meantime。〃　
　After　assigning　the　camp　chores；　Nora　helped　Swire　unpack　and　unsaddle　the　horses。　They　lined　up　the　panniers；　saddles；　and　gear　on　the　sand；　taking　care　to　keep　the　high…tech　equipment；　in　its　waterproof　drysacks；　separate　from　the　rest。　Out　of　the　corner　of　her　eye；　Nora　noticed　Bonarotti；　armed　with　brush　hook；　digging　trowel；　buck　knife；　and　his　oversized　pistol；　marching　off　upcanyon　on　some　mysterious　errand；　khakis　still　miraculously　pressed　and　clean。　
　As　soon　as　the　horses　were　unpacked；　Swire　remounted　Mestizo。　During　the　ride；　he　had　talked　and　sung　to　the　horses　constantly；　making　up　verses　to　fit　the　small　events　of　the　day；　and　he　sang　another　as　Nora　watched　him　drive　the　sweaty　remuda　toward　the　creek：　
　O　my　poor　young　gelding　
　Do　you　see　yonder　mare？　
　Such　a　lovely　young　filly
　One　cannot　pare。　
　Too　bad　your　equipment　
　Is　in　disrepair。　
　Once　in　the　grass；　he　hobbled　several　of　the　lead　horses　and　tied　cowbells　around　their　necks；　then　unsaddled　Mestizo　and　staked　him　on　a　thirty…foot　rope。　At　last；　he　placed　himself　on　top　of　a　rock；　rolled　a　smoke；　pulled　out　a　greasy　little　notebook；　and　watched　the　horses　settle　down　to　their　evening　graze。　
　Nora　turned　back；　surveying　the　camp　with　satisfaction。　The　heat　of　the　day　had　abated；　and　a　cool　breeze　rose　up　from　the　purling　stream。　Doves　called　back　and　forth　across　the　canyon；　and　the　faint　smell　of　juniper　smoke　drifted　past。　Crickets　trilled　in　the　gathering　twilight。　Nora　sat　down　on　a　tumbled　rock；　knowing　that　she　should　be　using　the　last　of　the　light　to　write　in　her　journal；　but　savoring　the　moment　instead。　Black　sat　by　the　juniperwood　fire；　massaging　his　knees；　while　the　others；　the　work　of　setting　up　camp　done；　were　gathering　around；　waiting　for　a　pot　of　coffee　to　boil。　
　There　was　the　sound　of　footsteps　crunching　on　sand　and　Bonarotti　came　swinging　back　down　the　canyon；　a　sack　thrown　over　his　back。　He　dropped　the　sack　on　the　cook　tarp　spread　out　by　the　fire。　He　slapped　a　grill　on　the　fire；　oiled　a　large　skillet；　tossed　in　some　minced　garlic　from　his　cabinet；　and　followed　this　with　rice　in　a　separate　pot　of　water。　Out　of　the　sack　tumbled　some　hideous；　unidentifiable　roots　and　bulbs；　bundles　of　herbs；　and　several　ears　of　prickly　pear　cactus。　As　he　worked；　Sloane　came　back　into　camp　from　her　reconnaissance；　clearly　tired　but　still　smiling；　and　sidled　over　to　watch　the　final　preparations。　Working　the　knives　with　terrifying　swiftness；　Bonarotti　diced　up　the　roots　and　threw　them　into　the　pot；　along　with　the　bulb　and　a　bundle　of　plants。　Then　he　singed　the　cactus　ears　on　the　grill；　skinned　and　julienned　them；　and　threw　them　into　the　sizzling　garlic。　He　gave　the　concoction　a　final　stir；　bined　it　with　the　rice；　and　removed　it　from　the　fire。　
　〃Risotto　with　prickly　pear；　sego　lily；　wild　potato；　bolitas；　and　romano　cheese；〃　he　announced　impassively。　
　There　was　a　silence。　
　〃What　are　you　waiting　for？〃　Sloane　cried。　〃Line　up　and　mangia　bene！〃　
　They　jumped　up；　grabbing　plates　from　the　kitchen　tarp。　The　cook　loaded　down　each　plate；　sprinkling　chopped　herbs　on　top。　They　settled　back　on　logs　by　the　fire。　
　〃Is　this　safe　to　eat？〃　Black　asked；　only　half　jokingly。　
　Sloane　laughed。　〃It　may　be　more　dangerous　for　you；　Doctor；　if　you　do　not　eat　it。〃　And　she　rolled　her　eyes　melodramatically　toward　Bonarotti's　revolver。　
　Black　gave　a　nervous　laugh　and　tasted　it。　Then　he　took　a　second　bite。　〃Why；　this　is　quite　good；〃　he　said；　filling　his　mouth。　
　〃Angels　and　ministers　of　grace　defend　us；〃　intoned　Smithback。　
　〃Damn　tasty　chuck；〃　mumbled　Swire。　
　Nora　took　a　bite；　and　found　her　mouth　filled　with　the　creamy　taste　of　arborio　rice　mingled　with　the　delicate　flavors　of　mushroom；　cheese；　savory　herbs；　and　some　indefinable　tangy　flavor　that　could　only　be　the　prickly　pear。　
　Bonarotti　accepted　the　praise　with　his　usual　lack　of　emotion。　The　canyon　fell　into　silence　while　the　serious　business　of　eating　began。　
　*　*　*
　Later；　as　the　expedition　made　ready　for　bed；　Nora　walked　off　to　check　on　the　horses。　She　found　Swire　in　his　usual　position；　notebook　open。　
　〃How　is　everything？〃　she　asked。　
　〃Mighty　fine〃　came　the　answer；　and　then　she　heard　a　rustle　as　Swire　removed　a　gingersnap　from　his　breast　pocket　and　inserted　it　into　his　face。　There　was　a　crunching　sound。　〃Want　one？〃　
　Nora　shook　her　head　and　sat　down　beside　him。　〃What　kind　of　a　notebook　are　you　keeping？〃　she　asked。　
　Swire　flicked　some　crumbs　off　his　mustache。　〃Just　some　poems；　is　all。　Cowboy　doggerel。　It's　a　sideline　of　mine。〃　
　〃Really？　May　I　see？〃　
　Swire　hesitated。　〃Well；〃　he　said；　〃they're　supposed　to　be　spoken；　not　read。　But　here；　help　yourself。〃　
　Nora　thumbed　through　the　battered　journal；　peering　closely　in　the　mixture　of　firelight　and　starlight。　There　were　bits　and　snatches　of　poems；　usually　no　more　than　ten　or　twelve　lines；　with　titles　like　〃Workin　up　a　Quit；〃　〃Ford　F…350；〃　〃Durango　Saturday　Night。〃　Then；　toward　the　back　of　the　journal；　she　found　poems　of　a　pletely　different　nature：　longer；　more　serious。　There　was　even　a　poem　that　appeared　to　be　in　Latin。　She　turned　back　to　one　called　〃Hurricane　Deck。〃　
　〃Is　this　about　Smithback's　horse？〃　
　Swire　nodded。　〃We　go　way　back；　that　horse　and　me。〃　
　He　came　tearing　down　the　draw　one　stormy　winter's　night；　
　A　brush…tailed　mustang；　full　of　piss　and　fight。　
　I　saddled　up　a　chaser　and　laid　a　rope　around　his　neck；　
　Corralled　him　and　christened　him　Hurricane　Deck。　
　　
　Hurricane　Deck；　Hurricane　Deck；　hard　on　the　eye　and　the　saddle；　
　You　whomper…jawed；　hay…bellied；　cold…backed　old　spraddle；　
　Only　a　blind　mare　could　love　your　snip…nosed　face；　
　Oh；　but　I　tell　you；　Hurricane　Deck　could　race。　
　I　trained　him　for　heeling；　took　him　on　the　road；　
　At　Amarillo　and　Santa　Fe　we　won　a　load；　
　He　served　me　well；　from　Salinas　to　Solitude；　
　But　Hurricane's　been　retired　to　loading　up　dudes。　
　〃I　need　to　work　on　the　last　stanza；〃　said　Swire。　〃It　don't　sound　right。　Ends　kind　of　sudden。〃　
　〃Did　you　really　catch　him　wild？〃　Nora　asked。　
　〃Sure　did。　One　summer　when　I　was　running　a　pack　string　at　the　T…Cross　up　in　Dubois；　Wyoming；　I　heard　talk　about　this　buckskin　mustang　that　nobody　could　catch。　He　was　an　outlaw；　never　branded；　always　broke　for　the　mountains　when　he　saw　riders。　Then　that　night　I　saw　him。　Lightning　spooked　him；　sent　him　right　past　the　bunkhouse。　I　chased　that　son　of　a　bitch　for　three　days。〃　
　〃Three　days？〃　
　〃I　kept　cutting　him　off　from　the　mountains；　circling　him　back　around　past　the　ranch。　Each　time　I　picked　up　a　fresh　mount。　I　wore　out　six　horses　afore　I　got　a　rope　on　him。　He's　some　horse。　The　son　of　a　bitch　can　jump　a　barbwire　fence　and　I've　seen　him　walk；　just　as　nice　as　you　please；　across　a　cattle　guard。〃　
　Nora　handed　back　the　journal。　〃I　think　these　are　excellent。〃　
　〃Aw；　horsehocky；〃　Swire　said；　but　he　looked　pleased。　
　〃Where'd　you　learn　the　Latin？〃　
　〃From　my　father；〃　came　the　answer。　〃He　was　a　minister；　always　after　me　to　read　this　and　study　that。　Got　it　into　his　head　that　if　I　knew　Latin；　I　wouldn't　raise　so　much　hell。　It　was　the　Third　Satire　of　Horace　that　finally　made　me　light　out　of　there。〃　
　He　fell　silent；　stroking　his　mustache；　looking　down　toward　the　cook。　〃He's　a　damn　fine　beanmaster；　but　he's　an　odd　son　of　a　bitch；　ain't　he？〃　
　Nora　followed　his　gaze　to　the　tall；　heavyset　figure　of　Bonarotti。　Postprandial　ablutions　pleted；　the　cook　was　now　preparing　himself　for　bed。　Nora　watched　as；　with　finicky　care；　Bonarotti　inflated　an　air　mattress；　applied　nocturnal　facial　creams；　and　readied　what　appeared　to　be　a　hairnet　and　a　facial　mask。　
　〃What's　he　doing　now？〃　Swire　muttered；　as　Bonarotti　began　working　his　fingers　into　his　ears。　
　〃The　croaking　of　the　frogs　disturbs　his　rest；〃　Sloane　Goddard　said；　emerging　from　the　darkness　and　taking　a　seat　beside　them。　She　laughed　her　low；　husky　laugh；　eyes　reflecting　the　distant　firelight。　〃So　he　brought　along　earplugs。　And　he's　got　a　little　s