Gold mines and mining -- California -- Fiction; Western stories
Once, only, he dreamed to advantage. Famishing, shipwrecked or marooned,
he fought with the big Pacific surf for rock-clinging mussels, and
carried them up the sands to the dry flotsam of the spring tides. Of
this he built a fire, and among the coals he laid his precious trove.
He watched the steam jet forth and the locked shells pop apart, exposing
the salmon-colored meat. Cooked to a turn--he knew it; and this time
there was no intruding presence to whisk the meal away. At last--so he
dreamed within the dream--the dream would come true. This time he
would eat. Yet in his certitude he doubted, and he was steeled for
the inevitable shift of vision until the salmon-colored meat, hot and
savory, was in his mouth. His teeth closed upon it. He ate! The miracle
had happened! The shock aroused him. He awoke in the dark, lying on his
back, and heard himself mumbling little piggish squeals and grunts of
joy. His jaws were moving, and between his teeth meat was crunching. He
did not move, and soon small fingers felt about his lips, and between
them was inserted a tiny sliver of meat. And in that he would eat no
more, rather than that he was angry, Labiskwee cried and in his arms
sobbed herself to sleep. But he lay on awake, marveling at the love and
the wonder of woman.
The time came when the last food was gone. The high peaks receded, the
divides became lower, and the way opened promisingly to the west.
But their reserves of strength were gone, and, without food, the time
quickly followed when they lay down at night and in the morning did not
arise. Smoke weakly gained his feet, collapsed, and on hands and knees
crawled about the building of a fire. But try as she would Labiskwee
sank back each time in an extremity of weakness. And Smoke sank down
beside her, a wan sneer on his face for the automatism that had made him
struggle for an unneeded fire. There was nothing to cook, and the
day was warm. A gentle breeze sighed in the spruce-trees, and from
everywhere, under the disappearing snow, came the trickling music of
unseen streamlets.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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