The
men smoked in silence. Nature had taught them something of her large
reticence in their day-long companionship. Some few lounged across the
grass to have speech of the pilot, a grizzled mountain man, who had
been one of the Sublette's trappers, and had wise words to say of the
day's travel and the promise of the weather. But most of them lay on
the grass by the tents where they could see the stars through their
pipe smoke and hear the talk of their wives and the breathing of the
children curled in the blankets.
A youth brought an accordion from his stores and, sitting cross-legged
on the ground, began to play. He played "Annie Laurie," and a woman's
voice, her head a black outline against the west, sang the words. Then
there was a clamor of applause, sounding thin and futile in the
evening's suave quietness, and the player began a Scotch reel in the
production of which the accordion uttered asthmatic gasps as though
unable to keep up with its own proud pace. The tune was sufficiently
good to inspire a couple of dancers. The young girl called Lucy rose
with a partner--her brother-in-law some one told Susan--and facing one
another, hand on hip, heads high, they began to foot it lightly over
the blackening grass.
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