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The Lost Wagon By: Jim Kjelgaard (1910-1959) |
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by JIM KJELGAARD Jacket by Al Orbaan Endpapers by Gerald McCann Lithographed in U.S.A. [Transcriber Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Dodd, Mead & Company, New York Copyright, 1955 by Jim Kjelgaard All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
without permission in writing from the publisher Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 55 7136 Printed in the United States of America For Alma and Rob Zaun
The characters, incidents and situations in this book are imaginary and
have no relation to any person or actual happening
Contents
I Pondering II The Discussion III The Destroyers IV Mountain Man V The Start VI The Party VII Independence VIII The River IX Storm X Snedeker's XI Winter XII Barbara and Ellis XIII Spring XIV The Mule XV The Meadows XVI The Farm XVII Besieged
The Lost Wagon
CHAPTER ONE Pondering
When he had guided his plow halfway down the furrow, a bar winged fly
alighted just above Joe Tower's right ear. He felt it crawling, its
presence irritating through the sweat that beaded his forehead and
dampened his temples, and he knew that he should swat it away. When it
was ready to do so the fly would bite him, and bar winged flies drew
blood when they bit. He did not raise his hand because once again the devils which, at
sporadic intervals, tormented him, were having a field day. The fly was
a counter irritant. He wanted it to bite. It was a time to be hurt
because, after the fly bit him, there would be that much more
satisfaction in smashing it. At the same time he kept a wary eye on the mules. Though he was
sometimes confused by the facts and affairs of his personal world, at
the moment he had no doubt whatever about one thing. He hated all mules
in general and these two in particular. They were big, sleek roan brutes
with an air of innocence that was somehow imparted by their wagging ears
and doleful expressions, but was entirely belied by the devil in their
eyes. Twice within the past fifteen minutes they had balked, stepped
over their traces, snarled their harnesses and kicked at him when he
sought to untangle them. He had escaped injury because he knew mules.
All his life he had handled animals, and most of the time he knew what
they were going to do before they did it. He felt the fly crawling around, and gloated silently as he awaited its
bite. He mustn't harm the mules because a man simply never hurt his
animals. But he could swat the fly, and so doing he could relieve all
his pent up anger at the mules and, this afternoon, at the world in
general. Not for a second did he take his eyes from the mules, and they seemed to
know that he was watching them. Muscles rippled beneath taut hides as
they strained into their collars and pulled as though they had never had
any thought except getting the plowing done. Joe Tower's already tense
nerves began to scream. The fly didn't bite and the mules didn't balk,
and unless something happened very soon, he felt that he would be
reduced to babbling idiocy. Nothing happened except that the already hot sun seemed to become a
little hotter on his sweat drenched shirt and his perspiring head and
arms. But he had been scorched by so much sun and had sweated so many
gallons that he never thought about it any more. Sun and sweat were a
part of things, like snow and ice. Nobody escaped them and nobody could
do anything about them, and Joe wasn't sure that anybody should want to.
If the sun didn't shine the crops wouldn't grow. Or if the sun did
shine, and there was no snow to melt and fill subterranean reservoirs,
the crops wouldn't grow anyhow. This basic reasoning should be obvious
to anyone at all. The rich brown earth turned cleanly as the plow wounded it, and the
scorching sun burned a healing scab over the wound... Continue reading book >>
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