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- Джек Лондон
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When
I
started
to
crawl
along
the
packed
gear
with
which
the
wagon
was
laden
my
mother
said
in
a
tired
and
querulous
voice
,
"
Ca
n't
you
ever
be
still
a
minute
,
Jesse
?
"
That
was
my
name
,
Jesse
.
I
did
not
know
my
surname
,
though
I
heard
my
mother
call
my
father
John
.
I
have
a
dim
recollection
of
hearing
,
at
one
time
or
another
,
the
other
men
address
my
father
as
Captain
.
I
knew
that
he
was
the
leader
of
this
company
,
and
that
his
orders
were
obeyed
by
all
.
I
crawled
out
through
the
opening
in
the
canvas
and
sat
down
beside
my
father
on
the
seat
.
The
air
was
stifling
with
the
dust
that
rose
from
the
wagons
and
the
many
hoofs
of
the
animals
.
So
thick
was
the
dust
that
it
was
like
mist
or
fog
in
the
air
,
and
the
low
sun
shone
through
it
dimly
and
with
a
bloody
light
.
Not
alone
was
the
light
of
this
setting
sun
ominous
,
but
everything
about
me
seemed
ominous
--
the
landscape
,
my
father
's
face
,
the
fret
of
the
babe
in
my
mother
's
arms
that
she
could
not
still
,
the
six
horses
my
father
drove
that
had
continually
to
be
urged
and
that
were
without
any
sign
of
colour
,
so
heavily
had
the
dust
settled
on
them
.
The
landscape
was
an
aching
,
eye-hurting
desolation
.
Low
hills
stretched
endlessly
away
on
every
hand
.
Here
and
there
only
on
their
slopes
were
occasional
scrub
growths
of
heat-parched
brush
.
For
the
most
part
the
surface
of
the
hills
was
naked-dry
and
composed
of
sand
and
rock
.
Our
way
followed
the
sand-bottoms
between
the
hills
.
And
the
sand-bottoms
were
bare
,
save
for
spots
of
scrub
,
with
here
and
there
short
tufts
of
dry
and
withered
grass
.
Water
there
was
none
,
nor
sign
of
water
,
except
for
washed
gullies
that
told
of
ancient
and
torrential
rains
.
My
father
was
the
only
one
who
had
horses
to
his
wagon
.
The
wagons
went
in
single
file
,
and
as
the
train
wound
and
curved
I
saw
that
the
other
wagons
were
drawn
by
oxen
.
Three
or
four
yoke
of
oxen
strained
and
pulled
weakly
at
each
wagon
,
and
beside
them
,
in
the
deep
sand
,
walked
men
with
ox-goads
,
who
prodded
the
unwilling
beasts
along
.
On
a
curve
I
counted
the
wagons
ahead
and
behind
.
I
knew
that
there
were
forty
of
them
,
including
our
own
;
for
often
I
had
counted
them
before
.
And
as
I
counted
them
now
,
as
a
child
will
to
while
away
tedium
,
they
were
all
there
,
forty
of
them
,
all
canvas-topped
,
big
and
massive
,
crudely
fashioned
,
pitching
and
lurching
,
grinding
and
jarring
over
sand
and
sage-brush
and
rock
.
To
right
and
left
of
us
,
scattered
along
the
train
,
rode
a
dozen
or
fifteen
men
and
youths
on
horses
.
Across
their
pommels
were
long-barrelled
rifles
.
Whenever
any
of
them
drew
near
to
our
wagon
I
could
see
that
their
faces
,
under
the
dust
,
were
drawn
and
anxious
like
my
father
's
.
And
my
father
,
like
them
,
had
a
long-barrelled
rifle
close
to
hand
as
he
drove
.
Also
,
to
one
side
,
limped
a
score
or
more
of
foot-sore
,
yoke-galled
,
skeleton
oxen
,
that
ever
paused
to
nip
at
the
occasional
tufts
of
withered
grass
,
and
that
ever
were
prodded
on
by
the
tired-faced
youths
who
herded
them
.
Sometimes
one
or
another
of
these
oxen
would
pause
and
low
,
and
such
lowing
seemed
as
ominous
as
all
else
about
me
.
