Reborn in America, I am a legendary short seller on Wall Street.

Chapter 162 The Story of Mr. Dunbar

With the bond transfer that Larry had been longing for finally settled, Larry felt a great sense of relief.

Seeing that Larry was alright, Matthew smiled and leaned closer to him, saying, "Brother, I have to go to a banquet, so I'll be going now!"

Larry raised an eyebrow and asked, "By the way, I was going to ask you that anyway. Where are you staying in Boston? Should I arrange a hotel for you? What do you think of the hotel your landlord was staying at?"

Matthew suddenly seemed a little embarrassed, and after a couple of seconds he smiled and said, "Someone should be able to make arrangements. We'll talk about it after I attend the banquet."

After saying his piece, Matthew hurriedly said goodbye to Larry, opened the door and went outside. He found a carriage parked on the side of the street, exchanged a few words with the driver, got into the carriage, and drove away.

Larry thought Matthew seemed a little off today, but didn't think much of it, assuming he was just meeting up with friends in Boston.

After Matthew left, Mr. Dunbar took off his hat, smoothed his hair, and leaned closer to ask, "Larry, where are we going from here?"

Larry turned around and saw that the old man's clothes were quite wrinkled, as if they hadn't been washed for several days.

“Uncle Dunbar, you’ve been with me for several days now. There’s nothing much to do today, so why don’t you go back and get some rest?”

“Alright, I’ll take you home first.” Dunbar put his hat back on.

Larry nodded, then suddenly remembered that Mr. Dunbar's house was in the old South District, and the two of them were actually not far apart. So he went outside and hailed a horse-drawn carriage, and let Mr. Dunbar get in, and the two of them went back together.

As the carriage entered the alleys of the old southern city, it was already getting dark. Street vendors occupied half of the road and began hawking all kinds of cooked food. Two deep ruts in the street were filled with dirty water that had been spilled earlier. When the carriage wheels rolled over them, a plume of water vapor rose from the puddles.

Every time Larry arrived in the old South City, he felt very different, as if he had returned to the home he had to rush back to every day when he was first reborn.

The noisy alleys, crowded streets, and dilapidated houses may seem somewhat chaotic, but for Larry, they evoked a different kind of human warmth and life.

The carriage stopped at the entrance of the alley.

Mr. Dunbar was taken aback. He looked out the window, then turned to Larry and asked, "How did we end up at my place? I told you I'd take you there first."

Larry chuckled and patted Dunbar's knee. "Come on, it's no fun going home alone. Why don't you invite me over for dinner?"

Dunbar was taken aback for a moment, then nodded and said, "Great idea!"

Larry paid the fare, and the two got off the carriage. Dunbar led the way, walking Larry home, but Larry's eyes kept wandering to the food sold by the vendors in the alley.

Along the way, there were pickled beef and pickles sold by Eastern European Jewish immigrants, and Larry bought some.
The clam pies sold by the local fishermen were also quite good. These were made by mixing chopped clam meat into batter and deep-frying it. They were crispy on the outside and fresh on the inside, and they were sold wrapped in oil paper. Larry bought one too.

Then there's the traditional Protestant dish, honey-baked beans. This is a classic dish from the colonial era. Chickpeas or peas are slowly roasted in honey and lard until soft and tender, then kept warm in a tin bucket. The sweet and savory flavor makes this a classic Boston dinner staple.

In addition, Larry bought some freshly made butter rolls from Italian immigrant vendors. These are made in crispy, freshly baked rolls filled with sweet cheese and chocolate chips. Italian immigrants usually make them from carts on the street, and the crispy rolls often make a "crunch" sound when broken open, which often attracts the attention of children.

Then came the main course; Larry wanted to buy some snacks to go with his drinks. So he set his sights on Frankfurt smoked sausage and Italian meatballs, buying half a pound of each.

Mr. Dunbar watched Larry keep buying things, shook his head and chuckled, but did not stop him. Instead, he silently took the paper bag from Larry and held it in his arms.

With one hand free, Larry ran to an Irish vendor and bought pickled herring and a bottle of whiskey, finally preparing his dinner snacks.

The food and drinks cost Larry a total of $3.5.

Reaching the street corner, Mr. Dunbar stopped at a vendor and bought a bag full of "cracked pork fat." At that time, this stuff was equivalent to "pig's head meat" in China on the East Coast of the United States. Both were cheap animal fat byproducts and the most common homemade meat dish to accompany drinks in rural American households.

The two of them, with smiles on their faces, bought all the prepared food for dinner and walked towards Mr. Dunbar's residence.

Mr. Dunbar lived in a small house with a low gate that made a dying sound as the iron hinges creaked when the door was opened. The yard was not large and was very messy, with piles of split firewood and rusty iron cans in the corner near the cabin.

The little house was pitch black, looking like a scene from a horror movie.

The only living thing in the entire courtyard was a thick grapevine that had stubbornly pushed its way out of the hard soil, its withered branches covering a grape trellis hastily erected from rough wooden sticks. It was still early spring, but Larry could almost see, by the light of the distant lamps, that some of the grapevines' slender branches had already sprouted tiny buds.

Mr. Dunbar opened the door again, went into the small room, and lit the kerosene lamp.

This kerosene lamp is not a gas lamp; the light is much dimmer than a gas lamp, and it has a pungent smell of kerosene.

However, Mr. Dunbar's room didn't smell much better than kerosene; it had a dusty smell of someone who hadn't lived there for a long time. "Put your things here!" Mr. Dunbar took a wad of cotton cloth and wiped the dust off the wooden table.

Larry placed the food he was carrying on the wooden table, and then put the whiskey a little further away from the table, before he had time to take a quick look around Mr. Dunbar's cottage.

This doesn't look like a small cabin; it looks more like a prisoner-of-war camp. The furnishings and furniture are too rudimentary.

The canvas of a worn-out cot was dented into a human-shaped indentation. Scattered on the peeling paint on the writing desk were colorful gemstone necklaces and bison horn gunpowder cartridges, very common among Western frontiers twenty years ago. In addition, there was a cavalry badge with bullet holes on the table.

This is the typical cramped room of a middle-aged, single veteran.

Larry pursed his lips and looked around the other corners of the room, but was suddenly stunned by the lifelike charcoal sketch on the wall.

This sketch covers an entire wall. On a pure white painted surface, charcoal pencils use simple yet highly artistic and vivid lines to depict a herd of bison galloping across the grasslands. Grasslands, rivers, bison, and the boundless blank space seem to remind the viewer that this is not a wall, but a gateway to another dimension leading directly to the western grasslands.

In the foreground of the sketch, two horses, one white and one black, seem to come alive as they gallop, ridden by a man and a woman, both dressed as indigenous Native Americans.

What's amazing is that the entire drawing is outlined with thick charcoal lines, except for the white horse ridden by the Indian woman, which has a touch of indigo deliberately applied to its neck.

Larry was stunned by the charcoal sketch. Looking at the lifelike galloping horses, bison, and vast grasslands, he couldn't help but exclaim in amazement.

“Without this painting, Uncle Dunbar, this place wouldn’t be worthy of you,” Larry said, gesturing in the air with his finger to mimic the movement of a charcoal pencil.

"But with this painting, I regret not moving here to live with you."

Dunbar plopped down on the stool, picked up two dented and scarred military-grade metal cups, and poured whiskey into them.

“Have a seat, Mr. Livingston!” Dunbar placed a glass of wine across the table, then opened the various food packages and spread the food out on the table.

Larry stared at the painting on the wall for a long time before reluctantly sitting down opposite Mr. Dunbar.

Under the flickering light of the kerosene lamp, Dunbar raised his glass, his weathered face appearing even more elongated in the light and shadow.

The two clinked their glasses together and then took a sip from each other's mouths.

Dunbar stroked the embossed "Kentucky" logo on the bottle, his Adam's apple bobbing as if he were swallowing a pebble.

“Thirteen years ago, when I left the reserve, I specially wrapped a handful of soil from the Sioux cemetery in bison hide… Now it’s in that tin can on the windowsill.” He pointed to a rusty tin can on the windowsill.

Larry didn't speak, letting the whiskey slowly sip from his mouth as he listened quietly to Mr. Dunbar's story.

Dunbar continued, “During the Civil War, I fought bravely and eventually became a captain, guarding the ‘land of civilization’ on the Indian Reservation… At first, I thought the savages on the other side were a bunch of ruthless demons, until I saw my comrades scalping Sioux women for a reward…”

“I admit that the Indians were also scalping the white people, but that’s not fair. Because every time we made them retreat from the reservation, we would trample on their new borders, hunt the bison they depended on for survival, and steal the animal skins they used to trade for supplies. Then, when our people were really causing trouble, there were always Indian warriors who would stand up and kill those bastards and scalp them.”
But what did this bring? It meant that we, the pioneers, would retaliate in kind, scalp their people, and then redraw the boundaries with their tribal elders, forcing them to retreat again and again…”

Dunbar tossed his hat onto his cot and looked at Larry with a sigh, “In the Civil War, I was a hero; but on the reservation, I ended up joining the Sioux. Because for the first time, I felt ashamed of my military uniform. I united the tribes and repelled an attack by the white settlers, and at that time I even thought I could single-handedly bring peace between the settlers and the Sioux tribes, and prevent further conflict…”

Larry listened quietly without saying a word.

"But it was no use... The railway cut through the grasslands, and now the children on the reservation are forced to cut their hair and learn English. I remember the chief of the Ten Bears tribe saying on his deathbed that when darkness swallows the last glimmer of light, those white men in top hats will return..."

Mr. Dunbar shrugged. “He was right. The tribe was found, and the white soldiers killed many people. I was treated as a traitor, my right earlobe was cut off, and I was thrown into prison. But I escaped… I ran all the way back to Boston along the railroad… And now I sit here, smelling the stinking sewers of Boston, but I often dream of the heartbeat of the earth as bison run.”

After he finished speaking, Mr. Dunbar fell into a long silence.

Larry pursed his lips, remained silent for a moment, and then asked, "Do you miss her?"

Mr. Dunbar looked up abruptly, staring at Larry in surprise, and asked, "Who?"

Larry pointed to the only patch of indigo against the pristine white wall, and to the woman riding a white horse, and said softly, "She..."

Dunbar's face immediately showed a look of astonishment. After a long silence, a tear rolled down his cheek, following the crisscrossing wrinkles on his face...

“She’s in my dreams…” Mr. Dunbar sighed softly and downed the wine in his glass in one gulp.

(End of this chapter)