Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 444 West Coast Gang Rap Pioneers!
The door closed behind him with a click.

Lionel—now "Arthur Morgan," of course—leaned against the door and let out a long breath.

From being robbed, to being kidnapped by this "poet," to enduring a bumpy, all-night ride across the cold, desolate Sierra Nevada Mountains...

Although he had just eaten some stewed beans, he was still exhausted both mentally and physically.

The room was very small and dimly lit, with the only window facing the town's dirty main street, which was covered in a thick layer of dust.

The room contained only two hardboard beds and a rickety wooden table, which were all the family's belongings.

The air was filled with a musty smell, the walls were stained yellow by cheap tobacco, and the bed sheets smelled like they hadn't been washed in a long time.

Black Knight had taken off his top hat and placed his short-barreled shotgun against the edge of the bed, within easy reach.

Then, with great seriousness, he pulled out the crumpled stack of papers again: "Here, Mr. Sorel."

He shoved the manuscript into Lionel's hands, his tone leaving no room for refusal: "We have plenty of time to talk about them."

"Once we get to San Francisco, I'll let you go. I mean it."

Lionel took the stack of papers; they felt heavier than lead.

He sat down in the chair, opened the first page, and saw crooked handwriting, spelling errors everywhere, and grammar that was completely haphazard.

Lionel mustered his strength and began to read; he had to appear to be seriously reading, as it concerned his chances of making it to San Francisco alive.

The title of the first poem is "My Wrath"—

You stole my gold!
They even said it was the law.

You've cornered me.

Treat it like a stray dog.

My gun can talk.
It said, "Hand over the stuff!"
Fear is the price you pay.

Justice is in my hands!

This is less a poem and more a naked declaration of violence, filled with clichés borrowed from cheap Western novels.

Lionel can't help but praise you as a true pioneer of West Coast gangsta rap!

But Lionel still has to rack his brains to comment according to current literary aesthetics: "Hmm, 'Stealed my gold'..."

Lionel pointed to the word with his finger: "'Steal'—perhaps 'take away' could be replaced with 'seize'? That sounds more powerful."

He couldn't think of any other comments.

Black Knight leaned closer, examining the word closely, his brow furrowed as if pondering a profound philosophical question.

He muttered to himself, "Take it away? Take it away?..."

Then his eyes lit up: "Yes! Take it away! That sounds even more ruthless! Mr. Sorel, you really know your stuff!"

A childlike joy spread across his face, and he even forgot to touch his hunting rifle.

Lionel breathed a sigh of relief, picked up the almost worn-out pencil on the table, crossed out "steal" on the paper, and wrote "take away".

He could only make these most basic modifications, fearing that too much change would anger this sensitive "poet".

He continued reading, raising his voice slightly: "'You cornered me like a stray dog.' That line is very vivid, full of, well, power."

Lionel was almost speaking against his conscience.

The next sentence made his cheeks burn even more: "My gun can talk; it says, 'Hand over the stuff!'"

This kind of unadorned language is so blunt it's embarrassing.

He quickly finished reading the last sentence, then paused and added, "'Fear is your price, justice is in my hands!'"

The ending is spirited, directly stating the theme and expressing the poet's confident assurance of victory.

Black Knight nodded repeatedly, his mustache bristling, clearly appreciating Lionel's "professional" comments.

He slammed his fist on the table and said, "I knew it! Those Pinkerton bastards and those idiots at the newspaper, they don't understand anything!"
This is real life! The real West!

Lionel managed a weak smile and turned to the next piece. This one was titled "The Wheel of Fortune."

I rode my horse across the wilderness.

The moon is my lamp.

I don't know what tomorrow will bring.

It's either getting rich or going to jail.

The money in the bag was making a jingling sound.
But I feel empty inside.

Maybe I should find a girl.
Forget about this terrible night.

This poem is slightly "milder" than the previous one, at least it doesn't directly mention guns and robbery, but it's still very pale, leaving Lionel at a loss for words.

But he picked up his pencil again: "'I don't know what tomorrow will bring,' perhaps we could add 'after' to 'what will bring'?"
"'Not sure how to get through tomorrow'? That sounds a bit better." "Black Knight" leaned closer, looking thoughtful: "'How to get through it'? Hmm, that sounds a bit better. Good job!"

He became happy again, stroking his beard and praising her.

Lionel continued reading: "'To get rich or to go to jail.' The phrase 'to go to jail' is too, too direct."

He couldn't find any other words to describe it, so he had to grit his teeth and read on: "'The money in the bag was jingling, but I felt empty inside.'"

This technique, called 'combining the real and the imagined,' moves from tangible money to personal subjective feelings, expressing the poet's inner loneliness and solitude.

As the critique deepened, Lionel gradually realized that "Black Jazz" had limited literary knowledge and was not difficult to appease, so he relaxed.

He put his past life's junior high school Chinese reading comprehension skills and his current life's ability to compile "The Montiel Scrolls" to good use, which often brought "Black Knight" to a smile.

"'Maybe I should find a girl to forget this terrible night.' This is a common way of coping, and it is reflected in many literary works."

For example, Balzac, for example, Dickens—do you know Dickens? Your poetry and his novels share some linguistic similarities—

You are all able to express profound inner feelings through simple language.

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While Lionel was furiously revising the poem for "Black Jazz," a completely different scene unfolded in the tavern's "storeroom."

Several men and a woman sat around a wooden crate filled with goods. A kerosene lamp sat on top of the crate, its dim light dancing on their faces.

Finn, the lean and wiry bartender, was bending over and reporting to the people at the table in a low voice.

“Mayor, Sheriff, boss, Mrs. Hawkins, Mr. Butcher… I heard them all, I heard them clearly!”

Those two guys, behind closed doors, kept chanting about 'law,' 'justice,' 'prison,' and 'price'... Yes, that phrase was 'Justice is in my hands!'"

Seated around the wooden box were the most powerful figures in Windbreak Town:
The mayor, Amos Greenwood, was around fifty years old, with sallow fingers, and constantly twirled the cigar in his hand;
Sheriff Buck Lavin, with white hair and beard and a scarred face, was a very strong man.
The tavern owner, Samuel Jenkins, was bald and pot-bellied, but very shrewd.
Mrs. Hawkins, the madam of "The Nest of Ease," the town's only brothel, was over forty years old, heavily made up, and still quite charming, holding a feather fan in her hand;

Walter Butcher, the butcher, was a burly man who reeked of grease and was a staunch supporter of the mayor.

"Law? Jail? 'Justice is in my hands'?" Mayor Greenwood stopped smoking his cigar.

He frowned, his tone unfriendly: "That's really what they said?"

Finn nodded vigorously: "Absolutely true! That younger one, Morgan, even said something about being 'very energetic' and 'confident of victory'..."

It sounds like they're discussing some kind of declaration or order!

Mrs. Hawkins, the brothel madam, half-covered her face with a feather fan and spoke softly: "I knew they were acting strangely. Our place is so remote, we rarely have outsiders."

The older one looks like a detective; the younger one is so refined, like a prosecutor! They must have been sent from above!

Butcher, the butcher, retorted gruffly, "Bullshit! Would those bigwigs in the state send a schoolteacher and a vagrant gunman?"

I think they're spies hired by the railway company! Those bastards from the 'Great Northern Railway' have been trying to take over that land in the east; they must have sent them to stir up trouble!

The tavern owner, Sam, wiped the sweat from his bald head, looking worried: "No matter which side they're on, coming to Windbreak Town at this time is definitely not a good thing."

Old Joe the blacksmith and Sneijder from the funeral home have been making a lot of noise lately, constantly shouting about 'change' and 'fair elections'.

What if these two strangers are actually reinforcements they hired...?

Sheriff Buck Raven scoffed, "Who cares who he is? If he dares to disrespect me..."

Mayor Greenwood pondered, "It's only been a few years since what happened in Lincoln County. If the higher-ups really want to take action against us, it's not impossible."

But if they're railway company employees, or just two desperate criminals passing by, we don't need to be so nervous.

He looked at the bartender, Finn. "What else did you hear? About their identities?"

Finn tried to recall: "They were quite careful with their words, but Morgan seemed to have mentioned 'Pinkton'? He didn't say it very loudly, I didn't hear it clearly."

It sounded like they were cursing? But then again, it didn't seem like it... I didn't dare get too close, afraid they'd notice.

Several people whispered almost simultaneously, "Pinkerton?"

The Pinkerton Detective Agency is infamous throughout the West for its ruthless methods, powerful connections, and frequent engagements with the government to handle "tricky" problems.

Mrs. Hawkins began to panic: "Could it be that the Pinkertons are investigating us? Good heavens!"

She didn't explicitly say what she was investigating, but everyone present knew perfectly well—the positions of mayor and sheriff of Windrise had remained unchanged since the civil war.

The group argued endlessly, and no one could convince the others.

Finally, Mayor Greenwood made a decision: "Alright, stop arguing. Raven, go upstairs."

Whether they're from the state, the railroad, Pinkerton, or fugitives... we have to find out what they're here for!
If they're just passing by, teach them a lesson and tell them to get lost. If they're here for the election…

He stubbed out his cigar in one swift motion: "Then we can't let them leave Windbreak Town alive. I'll show them what it means to be 'completely confident'!"

(First update, please vote with monthly tickets!)

(End of this chapter)