American essays; Short stories, American; Western stories
Nor did she once fly into a passion during the long days of his
convalescence; but when he had quite recovered, she proved that she had
not left her temper behind her in the South, where he, according to her
accusation, had left his tongue. There were days in which he seemed to
live only in a dream, so silent were his lips; but the office which had
been bestowed upon him, almost against his will, was ably and faithfully
filled--though a bend of the head or a single terse sentence was given,
where other men would have deemed volumes of speech necessary. It was no
wonder that his wife flew into a rage, when, as sometimes happened, she
had recounted to him the troubles and trials of the day--which were not
few--and found, at the end of an hour's harangue, that he had neither
heard nor understood a word of what she had said, but seemed to waken
from a trance at the little pettish shake she gave his arm. Then she
would accuse him of not loving her, bewail her sad lot, and vow to grow
silent and unloving like himself. After a season of storming on her
part, and utter silence on his, she would creep back to her old place
beside him, to find her kiss returned, and any cunningly devised
question, calculated and shaped toward reconciliation, answered by him,
kindly and calmly as ever.
One afternoon, while Cousin Ray sat in his office--silent, preoccupied,
and moody as usual--the din and confusion of an extensive dog-fight
disturbed his reveries. A cloud of dust and dogs rolled up to the
office-door, and the next moment the attorney of the Territory stood in
the street, a club in one hand and a "rock" in the other. A few
well-aimed blows soon freed "the under-dog in the fight" from his
half-dozen assailants; and with a half-sneaking, half-confident air, the
little ugly thing--part cur, part _coyote_, with a slight tinge of
sheep-dog--followed his deliverer to the office. When evening came, the
dog shyly, but persistently, followed his newly-elected master home; and
Mrs. Jenny, after first bitterly railing both at her husband and the
dog, proceeded to set supper before them with equal care and
conscientiousness. Next morning she found occasion to anathematize
Arizona in general and Tucson in particular; and, her eye falling on the
new acquisition, she instantly attacked him.
"Get away with you! Of all things in creation you're the ugliest, and
_your_ name should be Tucson, too."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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