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قراءة كتاب Santa Fé's Partner Being Some Memorials of Events in a New-Mexican Track-end Town

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Santa Fé's Partner
Being Some Memorials of Events in a New-Mexican Track-end Town

Santa Fé's Partner Being Some Memorials of Events in a New-Mexican Track-end Town

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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her aunt in Palomitas till her transportation come from Washington––and she just sick to get East and grab her little Willy in her arms. And the old gent 25 was that interested in it all, Hill said, it was a sight to see how he went on.

At Pojuaque the coach always made a noon stop, and the team was changed and the passengers got dinner at old man Bouquet’s. He was a Frenchman, old man Bouquet was; but he’d been in the Territory from ’way back, and he’d got a nice garden behind his house and things fixed up French style. His strongest hold was his wine-making. He made a first-class drink, as drinks of that sort go; and, for its kind, it was pretty strong. As his cooking was first-class too, Hill’s passengers––and the other folks that stopped for grub there––always wanted to make a good long halt.

Hill said it turned out the old gent knowed how to talk French, and that made old man Bouquet extra obliging––and he set up a rattling good dinner and fetched out some of the wine he said he was in the habit of keeping for his own drinking, seeing he’d got somebody in the house for once who really could tell the difference between good and bad. He fixed up a table out in the garden––aside 26 of that queer tree, all growed together, he thought so much of––and set down with ’em himself; and Hill said it was one of the pleasantest parties he’d ever been at in all his born days.

The Hen and the old gent got friendlier and friendlier––she being more cheerful when she’d been setting at table a while, and getting to talking so comical she kept ’em all on a full laugh. Now and then, though, she’d pull up sudden and kind of back away––making out she didn’t want it to show so much––and get her pocket-handkerchief to her eyes and snuffle; and then she’d pull herself together sort of conspicuous, and say she didn’t want to spoil the party, but she couldn’t help thinking how long it was likely to be before she’d see her little boy. And then the old gent would say that such tender motherliness did her credit, and hers was a sweet nature, and he’d hold her hand till she took it away.

Hill said the time passed so pleasant he forgot how it was going, and when he happened to think to look at his watch he found 27 he’d have to everlastingly hustle his mules to get over to Palomitas in time to ketch the Denver train. He went off in a tearing hurry to hitch up, and old man Bouquet went along to help him––the old gent saying he guessed he and Mrs. Chiswick would stay setting where they was, it being cool and comfortable in the garden, till the team was put to. They set so solid, Hill said, they didn’t hear him when he sung out to ’em he was ready; and he said he let his mouth go wide open and yelled like hell. (Hill always talked that careless way. He didn’t mean no harm by it. He said it was just a habit he’d got into driving mules.) They not coming, he went to hurry ’em, he said––and as he come up behind ’em the Hen was stuffing something into her frock, and the old gent was saying: “I want you to get quickly to your dear infant, my daughter. You can return at your convenience my trifling loan. And now I will give you a fatherly kiss––”

But he didn’t, Hill said––because the Hen heard Hill’s boots on the gravel and faced round so quick she spoiled his chance. He 28 seemed a little jolted, Hill said; but the Hen was so cool, and talked so pleasant and natural about what a nice dinner they’d been having, and what a fine afternoon it was, he braced up and got to talking easy too.

Then they all broke for the coach, and got away across the Tesuque River and on through the sandhills––with Hill cutting away at his mules and using words to ’em fit to blister their hides off––and when they fetched the Cañada they’d about ketched up again to schedule time. After the Mexican who kept the Santa Cruz post-office had made the mess he always did with the mail matter, and had got the cussing he always got from Hill for doing it, they started off again––coming slow through that bit of extra heavy road along by the Rio Grande, but getting to the deepo at Palomitas all serene to ketch the Denver train.

All the way over from Pojuaque, Hill said, he could see out of the corner of his eye the old gent was nudging up to the Hen with his shoulder, friendly and sociable; and he said he noticed the Hen was a good deal less particular 29 about making room. The old gent flushed up and got into a regular temper, Hill said, when Wood sung out as they pulled in to the deepo platform: “Where’d you get your Sage-Brush Hen from?”––and that way give her what stuck fast for her name.

As it turned out, they might a-kept on a-hashing as long as they’d a mind to at Pojuaque; and Hill might a-let his mules take it easy, without tiring himself swearing at ’em, on a dead walk––there being a wash-out in the Comanche Cañon, up above the Embudo, that held the train. It wasn’t much of a wash-out, the conductor said; but he said he guessed all hands likely’d be more comfortable waiting at Palomitas, where there was things doing, than they would be setting still in the cañon while the track-gang finished their job––and he said he reckoned the train wouldn’t start for about three hours.


The Hen and the old gent was standing on the deepo platform, where they’d landed 30 from the coach; and Hill said as he was taking his mails across to the express-car he heard him asking her once more if she hadn’t better come right along East to her lonely babe; and promising to take a father’s care of her all the way. The Hen seemed to be in two minds about it for a minute, Hill said, and then she thanked him, sweet as sugar, for his goodness to her in her time of trouble; and told him it would be a real comfort to go East with such a kind escort to take care of her––but she said it wouldn’t work, because she was expected in Palomitas, and not stopping there would be disappointing to her dear uncle and aunt.

It was after sundown and getting duskish, while they was talking; and she said she must be getting along. The old gent said he’d go with her; but she said he mustn’t think of it, as it was only a step to the parsonage and she knew the way. While he was keeping on telling her she really must let him see her safe with her relatives, up come Santa Fé Charley––and Charley sung out: “Hello, old girl. So you’ve got here! 31 I was looking for you on the coach, and I thought you hadn’t come.”

Hill said he begun to shake all over with laughing; being sure––for all Charley in his black clothes and white tie looked so toney––it would be a dead give away for her. But he said she only give a little jump when Santa Fé sung out to her, and didn’t turn a hair.

“Dear Uncle Charley, I am so glad to see you!” she said easy and pleasant; and then round she come to the old gent, and said as smooth as butter to him: “This is my uncle, the Baptist minister, sir, come to take me to the parsonage to my dear aunt. It’s almost funny to have so young an uncle! Aunt’s young too––you see, grandfather married a second time. We’re more like sister and brother––being so near of an age; and he always will talk to me free and easy, like he always did––though I tell him now he’s a minister it don’t sound well.” And then she whipped round to Charley, so quick he hadn’t time to get a word in edgeways, and said to him: “I hope Aunt Jane’s well, and didn’t 32 have to go up to Denver––as she said she

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