Lightning of Gold by Max Brand

Author:Max Brand
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing
Published: 2015-09-24T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Three

The nerves of Ranger had been growing more and more tense, and now the weight upon them had increased almost to the breaking point, but there was not a word said to follow up the subject for some time. The fish were duly roasted. They were drawn forth from the coals, and they were eaten as they were.

There was no fork, no knife. There was a little cold pone, badly baked, soggy, and stale, to eat with it. There was, otherwise, not even salt. For drink, they had water from the brook, which the boy brought in a leather water bag and poured out into bark cups, which leaked in little streams upon their hands, upon their knees. It was primitive living—far surpassing what Ranger had seen among the Indians, and even the rigors of the Arctic trail, where a man makes his flapjack with baking powder, grease, and flour, fries it, and washes it down with bitter black coffee or blacker tea. The fish seemed tasteless to him at first.

But, afterward, he began to enjoy a delicate flavor that even salt would have rendered imperceptible, rather than to underline and increase. There was the gamy taste of the fish itself, the freshness, the juice of life. And into this was baked the flavor of the cress and leaves in which the fish had been wrapped. The charred coverings fell away, but they imparted some of their aroma and pungency to the flesh. Yes, such a meal was not bad, aside from the bread. And the sauce of the open air, of a keen appetite, brought a relish for simple fare.

“This is the way you eat, mostly?” he asked.

“Well, when the berries are in season . . .” said the boy in a matter-of-fact tone.

He lay back upon the pine needles suddenly, and stretched out his arms, crosswise. He was looking at the sky with steady, unwinking eyes.

And Ranger, glad of the chance, looked freely, steadily upon the lad. It was true. He never before had seen a human being who interested him so much, nor one from whom he had learned so much, either. What was in the lesson he could not exactly say, except that it had something to do with the virtue of living close to the ground, of the ground, of being one with the beasts of prey and the beasts of the field. That was the lesson—a lesson of communion with Nature, of the savagery and strength and mystery of Nature. He only guessed at these things. He could not really comprehend them.

Looking around, he had found the eyes of old Crosson fixed steadily upon him, and the dweller in the wilderness did not avoid the answering glance of question. Instead, he leaned a little forward and probed deeply into the eyes of Lefty Ranger.

The latter grew uneasy. He felt his lids parting wider. He grew nervous.

Then old Crosson sighed and suddenly averted his glance. “Oliver,” he said.

“Aye, Father?” said the boy, still looking at the sky.

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