Lost Face Jack London (13 inch ebook reader .TXT) đ
- Author: Jack London
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But there was a gentle sound of heavy breathing, and I knew Lon McFane was asleep.
The Passing of Marcus OâBrienâIt is the judgment of this court that you vamose the campâ ââ ⊠in the customary way, sir, in the customary way.â
Judge Marcus OâBrien was absentminded, and Mucluc Charley nudged him in the ribs. Marcus OâBrien cleared his throat and went onâ â
âWeighing the gravity of the offence, sir, and the extenuating circumstances, it is the opinion of this court, and its verdict, that you be outfitted with three daysâ grub. That will do, I think.â
Arizona Jack cast a bleak glance out over the Yukon. It was a swollen, chocolate flood, running a mile wide and nobody knew how deep. The earth-bank on which he stood was ordinarily a dozen feet above the water, but the river was now growling at the top of the bank, devouring, instant by instant, tiny portions of the top-standing soil. These portions went into the gaping mouths of the endless army of brown swirls and vanished away. Several inches more, and Red Cow would be flooded.
âIt wonât do,â Arizona Jack said bitterly. âThree daysâ grub ainât enough.â
âThere was Manchester,â Marcus OâBrien replied gravely. âHe didnât get any grub.â
âAnd they found his remains grounded on the Lower River anâ half eaten by huskies,â was Arizona Jackâs retort. âAnd his killinâ was without provocation. Joe Deeves never did nothinâ, never warbled once, anâ jesâ because his stomach was out of order, Manchester ups anâ plugs him. You ainât givinâ me a square deal, OâBrien, I tell you that straight. Give me a weekâs grub, and I play even to win out. Three daysâ grub, anâ I cash in.â
âWhat for did you kill Ferguson?â OâBrien demanded. âI havenât any patience for these unprovoked killings. And theyâve got to stop. Red Cowâs none so populous. Itâs a good camp, and there never used to be any killings. Now theyâre epidemic. Iâm sorry for you, Jack, but youâve got to be made an example of. Ferguson didnât provoke enough for a killing.â
âProvoke!â Arizona Jack snorted. âI tell you, OâBrien, you donât savvy. You ainât got no artistic sensibilities. What for did I kill Ferguson? What for did Ferguson sing âThen I wisht I was a little birdâ? Thatâs what I want to know. Answer me that. What for did he sing âlittle bird, little birdâ? One little bird was enough. I could a-stood one little bird. But no, he must sing two little birds. I gave âm a chanst. I went to him almighty polite and requested him kindly to discard one little bird. I pleaded with him. There was witnesses that testified to that.â
âAnâ Ferguson was no jay-throated songster,â someone spoke up from the crowd.
OâBrien betrayed indecision.
âAinât a man got a right to his artistic feelinâs?â Arizona Jack demanded. âI gave Ferguson warninâ. It was violatinâ my own nature to go on listening to his little birds. Why, thereâs music sharps that fine-strung anâ keyed-up theyâd kill for heaps lessân I did. Iâm willinâ to pay for havinâ artistic feelinâs. I can take my medicine anâ lick the spoon, but three daysâ grub is drawinâ it a shade fine, thatâs all, anâ I hereby register my kick. Go on with the funeral.â
OâBrien was still wavering. He glanced inquiringly at Mucluc Charley.
âI should say, Judge, that three daysâ grub was a mite severe,â the latter suggested; âbut youâre runninâ the show. When we elected you judge of this here trial court, we agreed to abide by your decisions, anâ weâve done it, too, bâgosh, anâ weâre goinâ to keep on doinâ it.â
âMebbe Iâve been a trifle harsh, Jack,â OâBrien said apologeticallyâ ââIâm that worked up over those killings; anâ Iâm willing to make it a weekâs grub.â He cleared his throat magisterially and looked briskly about him. âAnd now we might as well get along and finish up the business. The boatâs ready. You go and get the grub, Leclaire. Weâll settle for it afterward.â
Arizona Jack looked grateful, and, muttering something about âdamned little birds,â stepped aboard the open boat that rubbed restlessly against the bank. It was a large skiff, built of rough pine planks that had been sawed by hand from the standing timber of Lake Linderman, a few hundred miles above, at the foot of Chilcoot. In the boat were a pair of oars and Arizona Jackâs blankets. Leclaire brought the grub, tied up in a flour-sack, and put it on board. As he did so, he whisperedâ ââI gave you good measure, Jack. You done it with provocation.â
âCast her off!â Arizona Jack cried.
Somebody untied the painter and threw it in. The current gripped the boat and whirled it away. The murderer did not bother with the oars, contenting himself with sitting in the stern-sheets and rolling a cigarette. Completing it, he struck a match and lighted up. Those that watched on the bank could see the tiny puffs of smoke. They remained on the bank till the boat swung out of sight around the bend half a mile below. Justice had been done.
The denizens of Red Cow imposed the law and executed sentences without the delays that mark the softness of civilization. There was no law on the Yukon save what they made for themselves. They were compelled to make it for themselves. It was in an early day that Red Cow flourished on the Yukonâ â1887â âand the Klondike and its populous stampedes lay in the unguessed future. The men of Red Cow did not even know whether their camp was situated in Alaska or in the Northwest Territory, whether they drew breath under the stars and stripes or under the British flag. No surveyor had ever happened along to give them their latitude and longitude. Red Cow was situated somewhere along the Yukon, and that was sufficient for them. So far as flags were concerned, they were beyond all jurisdiction. So far as the law was concerned, they were in No-Manâs land.
They
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