En
Roughing it, de Mark Twain, los
viajeros se internan en Kansas. Llevan dos o tres mantas, pipas, tabaco y una
bolsa de monedas de plata. La carreta es tirada por seis caballos y el
conductor que se encarga de la correspondencia y de los pasajeros…
…We took two or
three blankets for protection against frosty weather in the mountains. In the
matter of luxuries we were modest—we took none along but some pipes and five
pounds of smoking tobacco. We had two large canteens to carry water in, between
stations on the Plains, and we also took with us a little shot-bag of silver
coin for daily expenses in the way of breakfasts and dinners.
By eight o'clock
everything was ready, and we were on the other side of the river. We jumped
into the stage, the driver cracked his whip, and we bowled away and left
"the States" behind us. It was a superb summer morning, and all the
landscape was brilliant with sunshine. There was a freshness and breeziness,
too, and an exhilarating sense of emancipation from all sorts of cares and
responsibilities, that almost made us feel that the years we had spent in the
close, hot city, toiling and slaving, had been wasted and thrown away. We were
spinning along through Kansas, and in the course of an hour and a half we were
fairly abroad on the great Plains. Just here the land was rolling—a grand sweep
of regular elevations and depressions as far as the eye could reach—like the
stately heave and swell of the ocean's bosom after a storm. And everywhere were
cornfields, accenting with squares of deeper green, this limitless expanse of
grassy land. But presently this sea upon dry ground was to lose its
"rolling" character and stretch away for seven hundred miles as level
as a floor!
Our coach was a
great swinging and swaying stage, of the most sumptuous description—an imposing
cradle on wheels. It was drawn by six handsome horses, and by the side of the
driver sat the "conductor," the legitimate captain of the craft; for
it was his business to take charge and care of the mails, baggage, express
matter, and passengers. We three were the only passengers, this trip. We sat on
the back seat, inside. About all the rest of the coach was full of mail
bags—for we had three days' delayed mails with us. Almost touching our knees, a
perpendicular wall of mail matter rose up to the roof. There was a great pile
of it strapped on top of the stage, and both the fore and hind boots were full.
We had twenty-seven hundred pounds of it aboard, the driver said—"a little
for Brigham, and Carson, and 'Frisco, but the heft of it for the Injuns, which
is powerful troublesome 'thout they get plenty of truck to read."
A Concord stagecoach |
But as he just
then got up a fearful convulsion of his countenance which was suggestive of a
wink being swallowed by an earthquake, we guessed that his remark was intended
to be facetious, and to mean that we would unload the most of our mail matter
somewhere on the Plains and leave it to the Indians, or whosoever wanted it.
We changed
horses every ten miles, all day long, and fairly flew over the hard, level
road. We jumped out and stretched our legs every time the coach stopped, and so
the night found us still vivacious and unfatigued.
After supper a
woman got in, who lived about fifty miles further on, and we three had to take
turns at sitting outside with the driver and conductor. Apparently she was not
a talkative woman. She would sit there in the gathering twilight and fasten her
steadfast eyes on a mosquito rooting into her arm, and slowly she would raise
her other hand till she had got his range, and then she would launch a slap at
him that would have jolted a cow; and after that she would sit and contemplate
the corpse with tranquil satisfaction—for she never missed her mosquito; she
was a dead shot at short range. She never removed a carcase, but left them
there for bait. I sat by this grim Sphynx and watched her kill thirty or forty
mosquitoes—watched her, and waited for her to say something, but she never did…
About an hour
and a half before daylight we were bowling along smoothly over the road—so
smoothly that our cradle only rocked in a gentle, lulling way, that was
gradually soothing us to sleep, and dulling our consciousness—when something
gave away under us! We were dimly aware of it, but indifferent to it. The coach
stopped. We heard the driver and conductor talking together outside, and
rummaging for a lantern, and swearing because they could not find it—but we had
no interest in whatever had happened, and it only added to our comfort to think
of those people out there at work in the murky night, and we snug in our nest
with the curtains drawn. But presently, by the sounds, there seemed to be an
examination going on, and then the driver's voice said:
"By George,
the thoroughbrace is broke!"… (From Roughing it,
by Mark Twain, chapter 2)
Topics
to debate
Travelling in
the Far West
Related
articles
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario
Deja aquí tus mensajes, comentarios o críticas. Serán bienvenidos