"THE VIRGINIAN\n\nA Horseman Of The Plains\n\nBy Owen Wister\n\n\n\n\nTo THEODORE ROOSEVELT\n\nSome of these pages you have seen, some you have praised, one stands\nnew-written because you blamed it; and all, my dear critic, beg leave to\nremind you of their author's changeless admiration.\n\n\n\n\nTO THE READER\n\n\nCertain of the newspapers, when this book was first announced, made a\nmistake most natural upon seeing the sub-title as it then stood, A TALE\nOF SUNDRY ADVENTURES. \"This sounds like a historical novel,\" said one\nof them, meaning (I take it) a colonial romance. As it now stands, the\ntitle will scarce lead to such interpretation; yet none the less is this\nbook historical--quite as much so as any colonial romance. Indeed,\nwhen you look at the root of the matter, it is a colonial romance. For\nWyoming between 1874 and 1890 was a colony as wild as was Virginia one\nhundred years earlier. As wild, with a scantier population, and the\nsame primitive joys and dangers. There were, to be sure, not so many\nChippendale settees.\n\nWe know quite well the common understanding of the term \"historical\nnovel.\" HUGH WYNNE exactly fits it. But SILAS LAPHAM is a novel as\nperfectly historical as is Hugh Wynne, for it pictures an era and\npersonifies a type. It matters not that in the one we find George\nWashington and in the other none save imaginary figures; else THE\nSCARLET LETTER were not historical. Nor does it matter that Dr. Mitchell\ndid not live in the time of which he wrote, while Mr. Howells saw\nmany Silas Laphams with his own eyes; else UNCLE TOM'S CABIN were\nnot historical. Any narrative which presents faithfully a day and a\ngeneration is of necessity historical; and this one presents Wyoming\nbetween 1874 and 1890. Had you left New York or San Francisco at ten\no'clock this morning, by noon the day after to-morrow you could step out\nat Cheyenne. There you would stand at the heart of the world that is\nthe subject of my picture, yet you would look around you in vain for the\nreality. It is a vanished world. No journeys, save those which memory\ncan take, will bring you to it now. The mountains are there, far and\nshining, and the sunlight, and the infinite earth, and the air that\nseems forever the true fountain of youth, but where is the buffalo, and\nthe wild antelope, and where the horseman with his pasturing thousands?\nSo like its old self does the sage-brush seem when revisited, that you\nwait for the horseman to appear.\n\nBut he will never come again. He rides in his historic yesterday. You\nwill no more see him gallop out of the unchanging silence than you will\nsee Columbus on the unchanging sea come sailing from Palos with his\ncaravels.\n\nAnd yet the horseman is still so near our day that in some chapters of\nthis book, which were published separate at the close of the nineteenth\ncentury, the present tense was used. It is true no longer. In those\nchapters it has been changed, and verbs like \"is\" and \"have\" now read\n\"was\" and \"had.\" Time has flowed faster than my ink.\n\nWhat is become of the horseman, the cow-puncher, the last romantic figure\nupon our soil? For he was romantic. Whatever he did, he did with his\nmight. The bread that he earned was earned hard, the wages that he\nsquandered were squandered hard,--half a year's pay sometimes gone in a\nnight,--\"blown in,\" as he expressed it, or \"blowed in,\" to be perfectly\naccurate. Well, he will be here among us always, invisible, waiting his\nchance to live and play as he would like. His wild kind has been among\nus always, since the beginning: a young man with his temptations, a hero\nwithout wings.\n\nThe cow-puncher's ungoverned hours did not unman him. If he gave his\nword, he kept it; Wall Street would have found him behind the times.\nNor did he talk lewdly to women; Newport would have thought him\nold-fashioned. He and his brief epoch make a complete picture, for in\nthemselves they were as complete as the pioneers of the land or the\nexplorers of the sea. A transition has followed the horseman of the\nplains; a shapeless state, a condition of men and manners as unlovely as\nis that moment in the year when winter is gone and spring not come, and\nthe face of Nature is ugly. I shall not dwell upon it here. Those who\nhave seen it know well what I mean. Such transition was inevitable. Let\nus give thanks that it is but a transition, and not a finality.\n\nSometimes readers inquire, Did I know the Virginian? As well, I hope,\nas a father should know his son. And sometimes it is asked, Was such and\nsuch a thing true? Now to this I have the best answer in the world.\nOnce a cow-puncher listened patiently while I read him a manuscript.\nIt concerned an event upon an Indian reservation. \"Was that the Crow\nreservation?\" he inquired at the finish. I told him that it was no\nreal reservation and no real event; and his face expressed displeasure.\n\"Why,\" he demanded, \"do you waste your time writing what never happened,\nwhen you know so many things that did happen?\"\n\nAnd I could no more help telling him that this was the highest\ncompliment ever paid me than I have been able to help telling you about\nit here!\n\nCHARLESTON, S.C., March 31st, 1902\n\n\n\n\nTHE VIRGINIAN\n\n\n\n\nI. ENTER THE MAN\n\n\nSome notable sight was drawing the passengers, both men and women, to\nthe window; and therefore I rose and crossed the car to see what it was.\nI saw near the track an enclosure, and round it some laughing men, and\ninside it some whirling dust, and amid the dust some horses, plunging,\nhuddling, and dodging. They were cow ponies in a corral, and one of them\nwould not be caught, no matter who threw the rope. We had plenty of time\nto watch this sport, for our train had stopped that the engine might\ntake water at the tank before it pulled us up beside the station\nplatform of Medicine Bow. We were also six hours late, and starving for\nentertainment. The pony in the corral was wise, and rapid of limb. Have\nyou seen a skilful boxer watch his antagonist with a quiet, incessant\neye? Such an eye as this did the pony keep upon whatever man took the\nrope. The man might pretend to look at the weather, which was fine; or\nhe might affect earnest conversation with a bystander: it was bootless.\nThe pony saw through it. No feint hoodwinked him. This animal was\nthoroughly a man of the world. His undistracted eye stayed fixed upon\nthe dissembling foe, and the gravity of his horse-expression made the\nmatter one of high comedy. Then the rope would sail out at him, but he\nwas already elsewhere; and if horses laugh, gayety must have abounded in\nthat corral. Sometimes the pony took a turn alone; next he had slid in a\nflash among his brothers, and the whole of them like a school of playful\nfish whipped round the corral, kicking up the fine dust, and (I take it)\nroaring with laughter. Through the window-glass of our Pullman the thud\nof their mischievous hoofs reached us, and the strong, humorous curses\nof the cow-boys. Then for the first time I noticed a man who sat on the\nhigh gate of the corral, looking on. For he now climbed down with\nthe undulations of a tiger, smooth and easy, as if his muscles flowed\nbeneath his skin. The others had all visibly whirled the rope, some of\nthem even shoulder high. I did not see his arm lift or move. He appeared\nto hold the rope down low, by his leg. But like a sudden snake I saw the\nnoose go out its length and fall true; and the thing was done. As the\ncaptured pony walked in with a sweet, church-door expression, our train\nmoved slowly on to the station, and a passenger remarked, \"That man\nknows his business.\"\n\nBut the passenger's dissertation upon roping I was obliged to lose, for\nMedicine Bow was my station. I bade my fellow-travellers good-by, and\ndescended, a stranger, into the great cattle land. And here in less than\nten minutes I learned news which made me feel a stranger indeed.\n\nMy baggage was lost; it had not come on my train; it was adrift\nsomewhere back in the two thousand miles that lay behind me. And by way\nof comfort, the baggage-man remarked that passengers often got astray\nfrom their trunks, but the trunks mostly found them after a while.\nHaving offered me this encouragement, he turned whistling to his\naffairs and left me planted in the baggage-room at Medicine Bow. I stood\ndeserted among crates and boxes, blankly holding my check, hungry and\nforlorn. I stared out through the door at the sky and the plains; but\nI did not see the antelope shining among the sage-brush, nor the great\nsunset light of Wyoming. Annoyance blinded my eyes to all things save\nmy grievance: I saw only a lost trunk. And I was muttering half-aloud,\n\"What a forsaken hole this is!\" when suddenly from outside on the\nplatform came a slow voice: \"Off to get married AGAIN? Oh, don't!\"\n\nThe voice was Southern and gentle and drawling; and a second voice came\nin immediate answer, cracked and querulous. \"It ain't again. Who says\nit's again? Who told you, anyway?\"\n\nAnd the first voice responded caressingly: \"Why, your Sunday clothes\ntold me, Uncle Hughey. They are speakin' mighty loud o' nuptials.\"\n\n\"You don't worry me!\" snapped Uncle Hughey, with shrill heat.\n\nAnd the other gently continued, \"Ain't them gloves the same yu' wore to\nyour last weddin'?\"\n\n\"You don't worry me! You don't worry me!\" now screamed Uncle Hughey.\n\nAlready I had forgotten my trunk; care had left me; I was aware of the\nsunset, and had no desire but for more of this conversation. For it\nresembled none that I had heard in my life so far. I stepped to the door\nand looked out upon the station platform.\n\nLounging there at ease against the wall was a slim young giant,\nmore beautiful than pictures. His broad, soft hat was pushed back; a\nloose-knotted, dull-scarlet handkerchief sagged from his throat; and one\ncasual thumb was hooked in the cartridge-belt that slanted across his\nhips. He had plainly come many miles from somewhere across the vast\nhorizon, as the dust upon him showed. His boots were white with it. His\noveralls were gray with it. The weather-beaten bloom of his face shone\nthrough it duskily, as the ripe peaches look upon their trees in a dry\nseason. But no dinginess of travel or shabbiness of attire could tarnish\nthe splendor that radiated from his youth and strength. The old man\nupon whose temper his remarks were doing such deadly work was combed and\ncurried to a finish, a bridegroom swept and garnished; but alas for age!\nHad I been the bride, I should have taken the giant, dust and all. He\nhad by no means done with the old man.\n\n\"Why, yu've hung weddin' gyarments on every limb!\" he now drawled, with\nadmiration. \"Who is the lucky lady this trip?\"\n\nThe old man seemed to vibrate. \"Tell you there ain't been no other! Call\nme a Mormon, would you?\"\n\n\"Why, that--\"\n\n\"Call me a Mormon? Then name some of my wives. Name two. Name one. Dare\nyou!\"\n\n\"--that Laramie wido' promised you--'\n\n\"Shucks!\"\n\n\"--only her doctor suddenly ordered Southern climate and--\"\n\n\"Shucks! You're a false alarm.\"\n\n\"--so nothing but her lungs came between you. And next you'd most got\nunited with Cattle Kate, only--\"\n\n\"Tell you you're a false alarm!\"\n\n\"--only she got hung.\"\n\n\"Where's the wives in all this? Show the wives! Come now!\"\n\n\"That corn-fed biscuit-shooter at Rawlins yu' gave the canary--\"\n\n\"Never married her. Never did marry--\"\n\n\"But yu' come so near, uncle! She was the one left yu' that letter\nexplaining how she'd got married to a young cyard-player the very day\nbefore her ceremony with you was due, and--\"\n\n\"Oh, you're nothing; you're a kid; you don't amount to--\"\n\n\"--and how she'd never, never forgot to feed the canary.\"\n\n\"This country's getting full of kids,\" stated the old man, witheringly.\n\"It's doomed.\" This crushing assertion plainly satisfied him. And he\nblinked his eyes with renewed anticipation. His tall tormentor continued\nwith a face of unchanging gravity, and a voice of gentle solicitude:\n\"How is the health of that unfortunate--\"\n\n\"That's right! Pour your insults! Pour 'em on a sick, afflicted woman!\"\nThe eyes blinked with combative relish.\n\n\"Insults? Oh, no, Uncle Hughey!\"\n\n\"That's all right! Insults goes!\"\n\n\"Why, I was mighty relieved when she began to recover her mem'ry. Las'\ntime I heard, they told me she'd got it pretty near all back. Remembered\nher father, and her mother, and her sisters and brothers, and her\nfriends, and her happy childhood, and all her doin's except only your\nface. The boys was bettin' she'd get that far too, give her time. But\nI reckon afteh such a turrable sickness as she had, that would be\nexpectin' most too much.\"\n\nAt this Uncle Hughey jerked out a small parcel. \"Shows how much you\nknow!\" he cackled. \"There! See that! That's my ring she sent me back,\nbeing too unstrung for marriage. So she don't remember me, don't she?\nHa-ha! Always said you were a false alarm.\"\n\nThe Southerner put more anxiety into his tone. \"And so you're a-takin'\nthe ring right on to the next one!\" he exclaimed. \"Oh, don't go to get\nmarried again, Uncle Hughey! What's the use o' being married?\"\n\n\"What's the use?\" echoed the bridegroom, with scorn. \"Hm! When you grow\nup you'll think different.\"\n\n\"Course I expect to think different when my age is different. I'm havin'\nthe thoughts proper to twenty-four, and you're havin' the thoughts\nproper to sixty.\"\n\n\"Fifty!\" shrieked Uncle Hughey, jumping in the air.\n\nThe Southerner took a tone of self-reproach. \"Now, how could I forget\nyou was fifty,\" he murmured, \"when you have been telling it to the boys\nso careful for the last ten years!\"\n\nHave you ever seen a cockatoo--the white kind with the top-knot--enraged\nby insult? The bird erects every available feather upon its person.\nSo did Uncle Hughey seem to swell, clothes, mustache, and woolly white\nbeard; and without further speech he took himself on board the Eastbound\ntrain, which now arrived from its siding in time to deliver him.\n\nYet this was not why he had not gone away before. At any time he could\nhave escaped into the baggage-room or withdrawn to a dignified distance\nuntil his train should come up. But the old man had evidently got a sort\nof joy from this teasing. He had reached that inevitable age when we are\ntickled to be linked with affairs of gallantry, no matter how.\n\nWith him now the Eastbound departed slowly into that distance whence\nI had come. I stared after it as it went its way to the far shores of\ncivilization. It grew small in the unending gulf of space, until all\nsign of its presence was gone save a faint skein of smoke against the\nevening sky. And now my lost trunk came back into my thoughts, and\nMedicine Bow seemed a lonely spot. A sort of ship had left me marooned\nin a foreign ocean; the Pullman was comfortably steaming home to port,\nwhile I--how was I to find Judge Henry's ranch? Where in this unfeatured\nwilderness was Sunk Creek? No creek or any water at all flowed here that\nI could perceive. My host had written he should meet me at the station\nand drive me to his ranch. This was all that I knew. He was not here.\nThe baggage-man had not seen him lately. The ranch was almost certain\nto be too far to walk to, to-night. My trunk--I discovered myself still\nstaring dolefully after the vanished East-bound; and at the same instant\nI became aware that the tall man was looking gravely at me,--as\ngravely as he had looked at Uncle Hughey throughout their remarkable\nconversation.\n\nTo see his eye thus fixing me and his thumb still hooked in his\ncartridge-belt, certain tales of travellers from these parts forced\nthemselves disquietingly into my recollection. Now that Uncle Hughey was\ngone, was I to take his place and be, for instance, invited to dance on\nthe platform to the music of shots nicely aimed?\n\n\"I reckon I am looking for you, seh,\" the tall man now observed.\n\n\n\n\nII. \"WHEN YOU CALL ME THAT, SMILE!\"\n\n\nWe cannot see ourselves as others see us, or I should know what\nappearance I cut at hearing this from the tall man. I said nothing,\nfeeling uncertain.\n\n\"I reckon I am looking for you, seh,\" he repeated politely.\n\n\"I am looking for Judge Henry,\" I now replied.\n\nHe walked toward me, and I saw that in inches he was not a giant. He was\nnot more than six feet. It was Uncle Hughey that had made him seem to\ntower. But in his eye, in his face, in his step, in the whole man,\nthere dominated a something potent to be felt, I should think, by man or\nwoman.\n\n\"The Judge sent me afteh you, seh,\" he now explained, in his civil\nSouthern voice; and he handed me a letter from my host. Had I not\nwitnessed his facetious performances with Uncle Hughey, I should have\njudged him wholly ungifted with such powers. There was nothing external\nabout him but what seemed the signs of a nature as grave as you could\nmeet. But I had witnessed; and therefore supposing that I knew him in\nspite of his appearance, that I was, so to speak, in his secret and\ncould give him a sort of wink, I adopted at once a method of easiness.\nIt was so pleasant to be easy with a large stranger, who instead of\nshooting at your heels had very civilly handed you a letter.\n\n\"You're from old Virginia, I take it?\" I began.\n\nHe answered slowly, \"Then you have taken it correct, seh.\"\n\nA slight chill passed over my easiness, but I went cheerily on with a\nfurther inquiry. \"Find many oddities out here like Uncle Hughey?\"\n\n\"Yes, seh, there is a right smart of oddities around. They come in on\nevery train.\"\n\nAt this point I dropped my method of easiness.\n\n\"I wish that trunks came on the train,\" said I. And I told him my\npredicament.\n\nIt was not to be expected that he would be greatly moved at my loss; but\nhe took it with no comment whatever. \"We'll wait in town for it,\" said\nhe, always perfectly civil.\n\nNow, what I had seen of \"town\" was, to my newly arrived eyes, altogether\nhorrible. If I could possibly sleep at the Judge's ranch, I preferred to\ndo so.\n\n\"Is it too far to drive there to-night?\" I inquired.\n\nHe looked at me in a puzzled manner.\n\n\"For this valise,\" I explained, \"contains all that I immediately need;\nin fact, I could do without my trunk for a day or two, if it is not\nconvenient to send. So if we could arrive there not too late by starting\nat once--\" I paused.\n\n\"It's two hundred and sixty-three miles,\" said the Virginian.\n\nTo my loud ejaculation he made no answer, but surveyed me a moment\nlonger, and then said, \"Supper will be about ready now.\" He took my\nvalise, and I followed his steps toward the eating-house in silence. I\nwas dazed.\n\nAs we went, I read my host's letter--a brief hospitable message. He was\nvery sorry not to meet me himself. He had been getting ready to drive\nover, when the surveyor appeared and detained him. Therefore in his\nstead he was sending a trustworthy man to town, who would look after\nme and drive me over. They were looking forward to my visit with much\npleasure. This was all.\n\nYes, I was dazed. How did they count distance in this country? You spoke\nin a neighborly fashion about driving over to town, and it meant--I\ndid not know yet how many days. And what would be meant by the term\n\"dropping in,\" I wondered. And how many miles would be considered really\nfar? I abstained from further questioning the \"trustworthy man.\" My\nquestions had not fared excessively well. He did not propose making me\ndance, to be sure: that would scarcely be trustworthy. But neither did\nhe propose to have me familiar with him. Why was this? What had I done\nto elicit that veiled and skilful sarcasm about oddities coming in on\nevery train? Having been sent to look after me, he would do so,\nwould even carry my valise; but I could not be jocular with him. This\nhandsome, ungrammatical son of the soil had set between us the bar of\nhis cold and perfect civility. No polished person could have done it\nbetter. What was the matter? I looked at him, and suddenly it came to\nme. If he had tried familiarity with me the first two minutes of our\nacquaintance, I should have resented it; by what right, then, had I\ntried it with him? It smacked of patronizing: on this occasion he had\ncome off the better gentleman of the two. Here in flesh and blood was\na truth which I had long believed in words, but never met before. The\ncreature we call a GENTLEMAN lies deep in the hearts of thousands that\nare born without chance to master the outward graces of the type.\n\nBetween the station and the eating-house I did a deal of straight\nthinking. But my thoughts were destined presently to be drowned in\namazement at the rare personage into whose society fate had thrown me.\n\nTown, as they called it, pleased me the less, the longer I saw it. But\nuntil our language stretches itself and takes in a new word of closer\nfit, town will have to do for the name of such a place as was Medicine\nBow. I have seen and slept in many like it since. Scattered wide, they\nlittered the frontier from the Columbia to the Rio Grande, from the\nMissouri to the Sierras. They lay stark, dotted over a planet of\ntreeless dust, like soiled packs of cards. Each was similar to the next,\nas one old five-spot of clubs resembles another. Houses, empty bottles,\nand garbage, they were forever of the same shapeless pattern. More\nforlorn they were than stale bones. They seemed to have been strewn\nthere by the wind and to be waiting till the wind should come again and\nblow them away. Yet serene above their foulness swam a pure and quiet\nlight, such as the East never sees; they might be bathing in the air of\ncreation's first morning. Beneath sun and stars their days and nights\nwere immaculate and wonderful.\n\nMedicine Bow was my first, and I took its dimensions, twenty-nine\nbuildings in all,--one coal shute, one water tank, the station, one\nstore, two eating-houses, one billiard hall, two tool-houses, one feed\nstable, and twelve others that for one reason and another I shall not\nname. Yet this wretched husk of squalor spent thought upon appearances;\nmany houses in it wore a false front to seem as if they were two stories\nhigh. There they stood, rearing their pitiful masquerade amid a fringe\nof old tin cans, while at their very doors began a world of crystal\nlight, a land without end, a space across which Noah and Adam might come\nstraight from Genesis. Into that space went wandering a road, over a\nhill and down out of sight, and up again smaller in the distance, and\ndown once more, and up once more, straining the eyes, and so away.\n\nThen I heard a fellow greet my Virginian. He came rollicking out of\na door, and made a pass with his hand at the Virginian's hat. The\nSoutherner dodged it, and I saw once more the tiger undulation of body,\nand knew my escort was he of the rope and the corral.\n\n\"How are yu' Steve?\" he said to the rollicking man. And in his tone I\nheard instantly old friendship speaking. With Steve he would take and\ngive familiarity.\n\nSteve looked at me, and looked away--and that was all. But it was\nenough. In no company had I ever felt so much an outsider. Yet I liked\nthe company, and wished that it would like me.\n\n\"Just come to town?\" inquired Steve of the Virginian.\n\n\"Been here since noon. Been waiting for the train.\"\n\n\"Going out to-night?\"\n\n\"I reckon I'll pull out to-morro'.\"\n\n\"Beds are all took,\" said Steve. This was for my benefit.\n\n\"Dear me,\" said I.\n\n\"But I guess one of them drummers will let yu' double up with him.\"\nSteve was enjoying himself, I think. He had his saddle and blankets, and\nbeds were nothing to him.\n\n\"Drummers, are they?\" asked the Virginian.\n\n\"Two Jews handling cigars, one American with consumption killer, and a\nDutchman with jew'lry.\"\n\nThe Virginian set down my valise, and seemed to meditate. \"I did want a\nbed to-night,\" he murmured gently.\n\n\"Well,\" Steve suggested, \"the American looks like he washed the\noftenest.\"\n\n\"That's of no consequence to me,\" observed the Southerner.\n\n\"Guess it'll be when yu' see 'em.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm meaning something different. I wanted a bed to myself.\"\n\n\"Then you'll have to build one.\"\n\n\"Bet yu' I have the Dutchman's.\"\n\n\"Take a man that won't scare. Bet yu' drinks yu' can't have the\nAmerican's.\"\n\n\"Go yu'\" said the Virginian. \"I'll have his bed without any fuss. Drinks\nfor the crowd.\"\n\n\"I suppose you have me beat,\" said Steve, grinning at him\naffectionately. \"You're such a son-of-a---- when you get down to work.\nWell, so long! I got to fix my horse's hoofs.\"\n\nI had expected that the man would be struck down. He had used to the\nVirginian a term of heaviest insult, I thought. I had marvelled to hear\nit come so unheralded from Steve's friendly lips. And now I marvelled\nstill more. Evidently he had meant no harm by it, and evidently\nno offence had been taken. Used thus, this language was plainly\ncomplimentary. I had stepped into a world new to me indeed, and\nnovelties were occurring with scarce any time to get breath between\nthem. As to where I should sleep, I had forgotten that problem\naltogether in my curiosity. What was the Virginian going to do now? I\nbegan to know that the quiet of this man was volcanic.\n\n\"Will you wash first, sir?\"\n\nWe were at the door of the eating-house, and he set my valise inside.\nIn my tenderfoot innocence I was looking indoors for the washing\narrangements.\n\n\"It's out hyeh, seh,\" he informed me gravely, but with strong Southern\naccent. Internal mirth seemed often to heighten the local flavor of his\nspeech. There were other times when it had scarce any special accent or\nfault in grammar.\n\nA trough was to my right, slippery with soapy water; and hanging from\na roller above one end of it was a rag of discouraging appearance. The\nVirginian caught it, and it performed one whirling revolution on its\nroller. Not a dry or clean inch could be found on it. He took off his\nhat, and put his head in the door.\n\n\"Your towel, ma'am,\" said he, \"has been too popular.\"\n\nShe came out, a pretty woman. Her eyes rested upon him for a moment,\nthen upon me with disfavor; then they returned to his black hair.\n\n\"The allowance is one a day,\" said she, very quietly. \"But when folks\nare particular--\" She completed her sentence by removing the old towel\nand giving a clean one to us.\n\n\"Thank you, ma'am,\" said the cow-puncher.\n\nShe looked once more at his black hair, and without any word returned to\nher guests at supper.\n\nA pail stood in the trough, almost empty; and this he filled for me from\na well. There was some soap sliding at large in the trough, but I got my\nown. And then in a tin basin I removed as many of the stains of travel\nas I was able. It was not much of a toilet that I made in this first\nwash-trough of my experience, but it had to suffice, and I took my seat\nat supper.\n\nCanned stuff it was,--corned beef. And one of my table companions said\nthe truth about it. \"When I slung my teeth over that,\" he remarked, \"I\nthought I was chewing a hammock.\" We had strange coffee, and condensed\nmilk; and I have never seen more flies. I made no attempt to talk,\nfor no one in this country seemed favorable to me. By reason of\nsomething,--my clothes, my hat, my pronunciation, whatever it might be,\nI possessed the secret of estranging people at sight. Yet I was doing\nbetter than I knew; my strict silence and attention to the corned beef\nmade me in the eyes of the cow-boys at table compare well with the\nover-talkative commercial travellers.\n\nThe Virginian's entrance produced a slight silence. He had done wonders\nwith the wash-trough, and he had somehow brushed his clothes. With all\nthe roughness of his dress, he was now the neatest of us. He nodded to\nsome of the other cow-boys, and began his meal in quiet.\n\nBut silence is not the native element of the drummer. An average fish\ncan go a longer time out of water than this breed can live without\ntalking. One of them now looked across the table at the grave,\nflannel-shirted Virginian; he inspected, and came to the imprudent\nconclusion that he understood his man.\n\n\"Good evening,\" he said briskly.\n\n\"Good evening,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"Just come to town?\" pursued the drummer.\n\n\"Just come to town,\" the Virginian suavely assented.\n\n\"Cattle business jumping along?\" inquired the drummer.\n\n\"Oh, fair.\" And the Virginian took some more corned beef.\n\n\"Gets a move on your appetite, anyway,\" suggested the drummer.\n\nThe Virginian drank some coffee. Presently the pretty woman refilled his\ncup without his asking her.\n\n\"Guess I've met you before,\" the drummer stated next.\n\nThe Virginian glanced at him for a brief moment.\n\n\"Haven't I, now? Ain't I seen you somewhere? Look at me. You been in\nChicago, ain't you? You look at me well. Remember Ikey's, don't you?\"\n\n\"I don't reckon I do.\"\n\n\"See, now! I knowed you'd been in Chicago. Four or five years ago. Or\nmaybe it's two years. Time's nothing to me. But I never forget a face.\nYes, sir. Him and me's met at Ikey's, all right.\" This important point\nthe drummer stated to all of us. We were called to witness how well he\nhad proved old acquaintanceship. \"Ain't the world small, though!\" he\nexclaimed complacently. \"Meet a man once and you're sure to run on to\nhim again. That's straight. That's no bar-room josh.\" And the drummer's\neye included us all in his confidence. I wondered if he had attained\nthat high perfection when a man believes his own lies.\n\nThe Virginian did not seem interested. He placidly attended to his\nfood, while our landlady moved between dining room and kitchen, and the\ndrummer expanded.\n\n\"Yes, sir! Ikey's over by the stock-yards, patronized by all cattle-men\nthat know what's what. That's where. Maybe it's three years. Time never\nwas nothing to me. But faces! Why, I can't quit 'em. Adults or children,\nmale and female; onced I seen 'em I couldn't lose one off my memory, not\nif you were to pay me bounty, five dollars a face. White men, that is.\nCan't do nothing with niggers or Chinese. But you're white, all\nright.\" The drummer suddenly returned to the Virginian with this high\ncompliment. The cow-puncher had taken out a pipe, and was slowly rubbing\nit. The compliment seemed to escape his attention, and the drummer went\non.\n\n\"I can tell a man when he's white, put him at Ikey's or out loose here\nin the sage-brush.\" And he rolled a cigar across to the Virginian's\nplate.\n\n\"Selling them?\" inquired the Virginian.\n\n\"Solid goods, my friend. Havana wrappers, the biggest tobacco\nproposition for five cents got out yet. Take it, try it, light it, watch\nit burn. Here.\" And he held out a bunch of matches.\n\nThe Virginian tossed a five-cent piece over to him.\n\n\"Oh, no, my friend! Not from you! Not after Ikey's. I don't forget you.\nSee? I knowed your face right away. See? That's straight. I seen you at\nChicago all right.\"\n\n\"Maybe you did,\" said the Virginian. \"Sometimes I'm mighty careless what\nI look at.\"\n\n\"Well, py damn!\" now exclaimed the Dutch drummer, hilariously. \"I am\nploom disappointed. I vas hoping to sell him somedings myself.\"\n\n\"Not the same here,\" stated the American. \"He's too healthy for me. I\ngave him up on sight.\"\n\nNow it was the American drummer whose bed the Virginian had in his eye.\nThis was a sensible man, and had talked less than his brothers in the\ntrade. I had little doubt who would end by sleeping in his bed; but how\nthe thing would be done interested me more deeply than ever.\n\nThe Virginian looked amiably at his intended victim, and made one or two\nremarks regarding patent medicines. There must be a good deal of money\nin them, he supposed, with a live man to manage them. The victim was\nflattered. No other person at the table had been favored with so much\nof the tall cow-puncher's notice. He responded, and they had a pleasant\ntalk. I did not divine that the Virginian's genius was even then at\nwork, and that all this was part of his satanic strategy. But Steve must\nhave divined it. For while a few of us still sat finishing our supper,\nthat facetious horseman returned from doctoring his horse's hoofs, put\nhis head into the dining room, took in the way in which the Virginian\nwas engaging his victim in conversation, remarked aloud, \"I've lost!\"\nand closed the door again.\n\n\"What's he lost?\" inquired the American drummer.\n\n\"Oh, you mustn't mind him,\" drawled the Virginian. \"He's one of those\nbox-head jokers goes around openin' and shuttin' doors that-a-way. We\ncall him harmless. Well,\" he broke off, \"I reckon I'll go smoke. Not\nallowed in hyeh?\" This last he addressed to the landlady, with especial\ngentleness. She shook her head, and her eyes followed him as he went\nout.\n\nLeft to myself I meditated for some time upon my lodging for the night,\nand smoked a cigar for consolation as I walked about. It was not a hotel\nthat we had supped in. Hotel at Medicine Bow there appeared to be none.\nBut connected with the eating-house was that place where, according\nto Steve, the beds were all taken, and there I went to see for myself.\nSteve had spoken the truth. It was a single apartment containing four or\nfive beds, and nothing else whatever. And when I looked at these beds,\nmy sorrow that I could sleep in none of them grew less. To be alone in\none offered no temptation, and as for this courtesy of the country, this\ndoubling up--!\n\n\"Well, they have got ahead of us.\" This was the Virginian standing at my\nelbow.\n\nI assented.\n\n\"They have staked out their claims,\" he added.\n\nIn this public sleeping room they had done what one does to secure a\nseat in a railroad train. Upon each bed, as notice of occupancy, lay\nsome article of travel or of dress. As we stood there, the two Jews came\nin and opened and arranged their valises, and folded and refolded their\nlinen dusters. Then a railroad employee entered and began to go to bed\nat this hour, before dusk had wholly darkened into night. For him, going\nto bed meant removing his boots and placing his overalls and waistcoat\nbeneath his pillow. He had no coat. His work began at three in the\nmorning; and even as we still talked he began to snore.\n\n\"The man that keeps the store is a friend of mine,\" said the Virginian;\n\"and you can be pretty near comfortable on his counter. Got any\nblankets?\"\n\nI had no blankets.\n\n\"Looking for a bed?\" inquired the American drummer, now arriving.\n\n\"Yes, he's looking for a bed,\" answered the voice of Steve behind him.\n\n\"Seems a waste of time,\" observed the Virginian. He looked thoughtfully\nfrom one bed to another. \"I didn't know I'd have to lay over here. Well,\nI have sat up before.\"\n\n\"This one's mine,\" said the drummer, sitting down on it. \"Half's plenty\nenough room for me.\"\n\n\"You're cert'nly mighty kind,\" said the cow-puncher. \"But I'd not think\no' disconveniencing yu'.\"\n\n\"That's nothing. The other half is yours. Turn in right now if you feel\nlike it.\"\n\n\"No. I don't reckon I'll turn in right now. Better keep your bed to\nyourself.\"\n\n\"See here,\" urged the drummer, \"if I take you I'm safe from drawing some\nparty I might not care so much about. This here sleeping proposition is\na lottery.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the Virginian (and his hesitation was truly masterly), \"if\nyou put it that way--\"\n\n\"I do put it that way. Why, you're clean! You've had a shave right now.\nYou turn in when you feel inclined, old man! I ain't retiring just yet.\"\n\nThe drummer had struck a slightly false note in these last remarks. He\nshould not have said \"old man.\" Until this I had thought him merely an\namiable person who wished to do a favor. But \"old man\" came in wrong.\nIt had a hateful taint of his profession; the being too soon with\neverybody, the celluloid good-fellowship that passes for ivory with nine\nin ten of the city crowd. But not so with the sons of the sagebrush.\nThey live nearer nature, and they know better.\n\nBut the Virginian blandly accepted \"old man\" from his victim: he had a\ngame to play. \"Well, I cert'nly thank yu',\" he said. \"After a while I'll\ntake advantage of your kind offer.\"\n\nI was surprised. Possession being nine points of the law, it seemed\nhis very chance to intrench himself in the bed. But the cow-puncher\nhad planned a campaign needing no intrenchments. Moreover, going to bed\nbefore nine o'clock upon the first evening in many weeks that a town's\nresources were open to you, would be a dull proceeding. Our entire\ncompany, drummer and all, now walked over to the store, and here my\nsleeping arrangements were made easily. This store was the cleanest\nplace and the best in Medicine Bow, and would have been a good store\nanywhere, offering a multitude of things for sale, and kept by a very\ncivil proprietor. He bade me make myself at home, and placed both of his\ncounters at my disposal. Upon the grocery side there stood a cheese too\nlarge and strong to sleep near comfortably, and I therefore chose the\ndry-goods side. Here thick quilts were unrolled for me, to make it soft;\nand no condition was placed upon me, further than that I should remove\nmy boots, because the quilts were new, and clean, and for sale. So\nnow my rest was assured. Not an anxiety remained in my thoughts. These\ntherefore turned themselves wholly to the other man's bed, and how he\nwas going to lose it.\n\nI think that Steve was more curious even than myself. Time was on the\nwing. His bet must be decided, and the drinks enjoyed. He stood against\nthe grocery counter, contemplating the Virginian. But it was to me that\nhe spoke. The Virginian, however, listened to every word.\n\n\"Your first visit to this country?\"\n\nI told him yes.\n\n\"How do you like it?\"\n\nI expected to like it very much.\n\n\"How does the climate strike you?\"\n\nI thought the climate was fine.\n\n\"Makes a man thirsty though.\"\n\nThis was the sub-current which the Virginian plainly looked for. But he,\nlike Steve, addressed himself to me.\n\n\"Yes,\" he put in, \"thirsty while a man's soft yet. You'll harden.\"\n\n\"I guess you'll find it a drier country than you were given to expect,\"\nsaid Steve.\n\n\"If your habits have been frequent that way,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"There's parts of Wyoming,\" pursued Steve, \"where you'll go hours and\nhours before you'll see a drop of wetness.\"\n\n\"And if yu' keep a-thinkin' about it,\" said the Virginian, \"it'll seem\nlike days and days.\"\n\nSteve, at this stroke, gave up, and clapped him on the shoulder with a\njoyous chuckle. \"You old son-of-a!\" he cried affectionately.\n\n\"Drinks are due now,\" said the Virginian. \"My treat, Steve. But I reckon\nyour suspense will have to linger a while yet.\"\n\nThus they dropped into direct talk from that speech of the fourth\ndimension where they had been using me for their telephone.\n\n\"Any cyards going to-night?\" inquired the Virginian.\n\n\"Stud and draw,\" Steve told him. \"Strangers playing.\"\n\n\"I think I'd like to get into a game for a while,\" said the Southerner.\n\"Strangers, yu' say?\"\n\nAnd then, before quitting the store, he made his toilet for this little\nhand at poker. It was a simple preparation. He took his pistol from its\nholster, examined it, then shoved it between his overalls and his shirt\nin front, and pulled his waistcoat over it. He might have been combing\nhis hair for all the attention any one paid to this, except myself. Then\nthe two friends went out, and I bethought me of that epithet which\nSteve again had used to the Virginian as he clapped him on the shoulder.\nClearly this wild country spoke a language other than mine--the word\nhere was a term of endearment. Such was my conclusion.\n\nThe drummers had finished their dealings with the proprietor, and they\nwere gossiping together in a knot by the door as the Virginian passed\nout.\n\n\"See you later, old man!\" This was the American drummer accosting his\nprospective bed-fellow.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" returned the bed-fellow, and was gone.\n\nThe American drummer winked triumphantly at his brethren. \"He's all\nright,\" he observed, jerking a thumb after the Virginian. \"He's easy.\nYou got to know him to work him. That's all.\"\n\n\"Und vat is your point?\" inquired the German drummer.\n\n\"Point is--he'll not take any goods off you or me; but he's going to\ntalk up the killer to any consumptive he runs across. I ain't done with\nhim yet. Say,\" (he now addressed the proprietor), \"what's her name?\"\n\n\"Whose name?\"\n\n\"Woman runs the eating-house.\"\n\n\"Glen. Mrs. Glen.\"\n\n\"Ain't she new?\"\n\n\"Been settled here about a month. Husband's a freight conductor.\"\n\n\"Thought I'd not seen her before. She's a good-looker.\"\n\n\"Hm! Yes. The kind of good looks I'd sooner see in another man's wife\nthan mine.\"\n\n\"So that's the gait, is it?\"\n\n\"Hm! well, it don't seem to be. She come here with that reputation. But\nthere's been general disappointment.\"\n\n\"Then she ain't lacked suitors any?\"\n\n\"Lacked! Are you acquainted with cow-boys?\"\n\n\"And she disappointed 'em? Maybe she likes her husband?\"\n\n\"Hm! well, how are you to tell about them silent kind?\"\n\n\"Talking of conductors,\" began the drummer. And we listened to his\nanecdote. It was successful with his audience; but when he launched\nfluently upon a second I strolled out. There was not enough wit in\nthis narrator to relieve his indecency, and I felt shame at having been\nsurprised into laughing with him.\n\nI left that company growing confidential over their leering stories,\nand I sought the saloon. It was very quiet and orderly. Beer in quart\nbottles at a dollar I had never met before; but saving its price, I\nfound no complaint to make of it. Through folding doors I passed from\nthe bar proper with its bottles and elk head back to the hall with its\nvarious tables. I saw a man sliding cards from a case, and across the\ntable from him another man laying counters down. Near by was a second\ndealer pulling cards from the bottom of a pack, and opposite him a\nsolemn old rustic piling and changing coins upon the cards which lay\nalready exposed.\n\nBut now I heard a voice that drew my eyes to the far corner of the room.\n\n\"Why didn't you stay in Arizona?\"\n\nHarmless looking words as I write them down here. Yet at the sound of\nthem I noticed the eyes of the others directed to that corner. What\nanswer was given to them I did not hear, nor did I see who spoke. Then\ncame another remark.\n\n\"Well, Arizona's no place for amatures.\"\n\nThis time the two card dealers that I stood near began to give a part of\ntheir attention to the group that sat in the corner. There was in me a\ndesire to leave this room. So far my hours at Medicine Bow had seemed\nto glide beneath a sunshine of merriment, of easy-going jocularity. This\nwas suddenly gone, like the wind changing to north in the middle of a\nwarm day. But I stayed, being ashamed to go.\n\nFive or six players sat over in the corner at a round table where\ncounters were piled. Their eyes were close upon their cards, and one\nseemed to be dealing a card at a time to each, with pauses and betting\nbetween. Steve was there and the Virginian; the others were new faces.\n\n\"No place for amatures,\" repeated the voice; and now I saw that it was\nthe dealer's. There was in his countenance the same ugliness that his\nwords conveyed.\n\n\"Who's that talkin'?\" said one of the men near me, in a low voice.\n\n\"Trampas.\"\n\n\"What's he?\"\n\n\"Cow-puncher, bronco-buster, tin-horn, most anything.\"\n\n\"Who's he talkin' at?\"\n\n\"Think it's the black-headed guy he's talking at.\"\n\n\"That ain't supposed to be safe, is it?\"\n\n\"Guess we're all goin' to find out in a few minutes.\"\n\n\"Been trouble between 'em?\"\n\n\"They've not met before. Trampas don't enjoy losin' to a stranger.\"\n\n\"Fello's from Arizona, yu' say?\"\n\n\"No. Virginia. He's recently back from havin' a look at Arizona. Went\ndown there last year for a change. Works for the Sunk Creek outfit.\" And\nthen the dealer lowered his voice still further and said something\nin the other man's ear, causing him to grin. After which both of them\nlooked at me.\n\nThere had been silence over in the corner; but now the man Trampas spoke\nagain.\n\n\"AND ten,\" said he, sliding out some chips from before him. Very strange\nit was to hear him, how he contrived to make those words a personal\ntaunt. The Virginian was looking at his cards. He might have been deaf.\n\n\"AND twenty,\" said the next player, easily.\n\nThe next threw his cards down.\n\nIt was now the Virginian's turn to bet, or leave the game, and he did\nnot speak at once.\n\nTherefore Trampas spoke. \"Your bet, you son-of-a--.\"\n\nThe Virginian's pistol came out, and his hand lay on the table, holding\nit unaimed. And with a voice as gentle as ever, the voice that sounded\nalmost like a caress, but drawling a very little more than usual, so\nthat there was almost a space between each word, he issued his orders\nto the man Trampas: \"When you call me that, SMILE.\" And he looked at\nTrampas across the table.\n\nYes, the voice was gentle. But in my ears it seemed as if somewhere the\nbell of death was ringing; and silence, like a stroke, fell on the large\nroom. All men present, as if by some magnetic current, had become aware\nof this crisis. In my ignorance, and the total stoppage of my thoughts,\nI stood stock-still, and noticed various people crouching, or shifting\ntheir positions.\n\n\"Sit quiet,\" said the dealer, scornfully to the man near me. \"Can't you\nsee he don't want to push trouble? He has handed Trampas the choice to\nback down or draw his steel.\"\n\nThen, with equal suddenness and ease, the room came out of its\nstrangeness. Voices and cards, the click of chips, the puff of tobacco,\nglasses lifted to drink,--this level of smooth relaxation hinted no more\nplainly of what lay beneath than does the surface tell the depth of the\nsea.\n\nFor Trampas had made his choice. And that choice was not to \"draw his\nsteel.\" If it was knowledge that he sought, he had found it, and no\nmistake! We heard no further reference to what he had been pleased\nto style \"amatures.\" In no company would the black-headed man who had\nvisited Arizona be rated a novice at the cool art of self-preservation.\n\nOne doubt remained: what kind of a man was Trampas? A public back-down\nis an unfinished thing,--for some natures at least. I looked at his\nface, and thought it sullen, but tricky rather than courageous.\n\nSomething had been added to my knowledge also. Once again I had heard\napplied to the Virginian that epithet which Steve so freely used. The\nsame words, identical to the letter. But this time they had produced a\npistol. \"When you call me that, SMILE!\" So I perceived a new example of\nthe old truth, that the letter means nothing until the spirit gives it\nlife.\n\n\n\n\nIII. STEVE TREATS\n\n\nIt was for several minutes, I suppose, that I stood drawing these silent\nmorals. No man occupied himself with me. Quiet voices, and games of\nchance, and glasses lifted to drink, continued to be the peaceful order\nof the night. And into my thoughts broke the voice of that card-dealer\nwho had already spoken so sagely. He also took his turn at moralizing.\n\n\"What did I tell you?\" he remarked to the man for whom he continued to\ndeal, and who continued to lose money to him.\n\n\"Tell me when?\"\n\n\"Didn't I tell you he'd not shoot?\" the dealer pursued with complacence.\n\"You got ready to dodge. You had no call to be concerned. He's not the\nkind a man need feel anxious about.\"\n\nThe player looked over at the Virginian, doubtfully. \"Well,\" he said, \"I\ndon't know what you folks call a dangerous man.\"\n\n\"Not him!\" exclaimed the dealer with admiration. \"He's a brave man.\nThat's different.\"\n\nThe player seemed to follow this reasoning no better than I did.\n\n\"It's not a brave man that's dangerous,\" continued the dealer. \"It's the\ncowards that scare me.\" He paused that this might sink home.\n\n\"Fello' came in here las' Toosday,\" he went on. \"He got into some\nmisunderstanding about the drinks. Well, sir, before we could put him\nout of business, he'd hurt two perfectly innocent onlookers. They'd no\nmore to do with it than you have,\" the dealer explained to me.\n\n\"Were they badly hurt?\" I asked.\n\n\"One of 'em was. He's died since.\"\n\n\"What became of the man?\"\n\n\"Why, we put him out of business, I told you. He died that night. But\nthere was no occasion for any of it; and that's why I never like to\nbe around where there's a coward. You can't tell. He'll always go to\nshooting before it's necessary, and there's no security who he'll\nhit. But a man like that black-headed guy is (the dealer indicated the\nVirginian) need never worry you. And there's another point why there's\nno need to worry about him: IT'D BE TOO LATE.\"\n\nThese good words ended the moralizing of the dealer. He had given us\na piece of his mind. He now gave the whole of it to dealing cards.\nI loitered here and there, neither welcome nor unwelcome at present,\nwatching the cow-boys at their play. Saving Trampas, there was scarce\na face among them that had not in it something very likable. Here were\nlusty horsemen ridden from the heat of the sun, and the wet of the\nstorm, to divert themselves awhile. Youth untamed sat here for an idle\nmoment, spending easily its hard-earned wages. City saloons rose into\nmy vision, and I instantly preferred this Rocky Mountain place. More\nof death it undoubtedly saw, but less of vice, than did its New York\nequivalents.\n\nAnd death is a thing much cleaner than vice. Moreover, it was by no\nmeans vice that was written upon these wild and manly faces. Even where\nbaseness was visible, baseness was not uppermost. Daring, laughter,\nendurance--these were what I saw upon the countenances of the cow-boys.\nAnd this very first day of my knowledge of them marks a date with me.\nFor something about them, and the idea of them, smote my American heart,\nand I have never forgotten it, nor ever shall, as long as I live. In\ntheir flesh our natural passions ran tumultuous; but often in their\nspirit sat hidden a true nobility, and often beneath its unexpected\nshining their figures took on heroic stature.\n\nThe dealer had styled the Virginian \"a black-headed guy.\" This did well\nenough as an unflattered portrait. Judge Henry's trustworthy man, with\nwhom I was to drive two hundred and sixty-three miles, certainly had a\nvery black head of hair. It was the first thing to notice now, if one\nglanced generally at the table where he sat at cards. But the eye came\nback to him--drawn by that inexpressible something which had led the\ndealer to speak so much at length about him.\n\nStill, \"black-headed guy\" justly fits him and his next performance. He\nhad made his plan for this like a true and (I must say) inspired devil.\nAnd now the highly appreciative town of Medicine Bow was to be treated\nto a manifestation of genius.\n\nHe sat playing his stud-poker. After a decent period of losing and\nwinning, which gave Trampas all proper time for a change of luck and\na repairing of his fortunes, he looked at Steve and said amiably: \"How\ndoes bed strike you?\"\n\nI was beside their table, learning gradually that stud-poker has in\nit more of what I will call red pepper than has our Eastern game. The\nVirginian followed his own question: \"Bed strikes me,\" he stated.\n\nSteve feigned indifference. He was far more deeply absorbed in his bet\nand the American drummer than he was in this game; but he chose to take\nout a fat, florid gold watch, consult it elaborately, and remark, \"It's\nonly eleven.\"\n\n\"Yu' forget I'm from the country,\" said the black-headed guy. \"The\nchickens have been roostin' a right smart while.\"\n\nHis sunny Southern accent was again strong. In that brief passage with\nTrampas it had been almost wholly absent. But different moods of the\nspirit bring different qualities of utterance--where a man comes by\nthese naturally. The Virginian cashed in his checks.\n\n\"Awhile ago,\" said Steve, \"you had won three months' salary.\"\n\n\"I'm still twenty dollars to the good,\" said the Virginian. \"That's\nbetter than breaking a laig.\"\n\nAgain, in some voiceless, masonic way, most people in that saloon had\nbecome aware that something was in process of happening. Several left\ntheir games and came to the front by the bar.\n\n\"If he ain't in bed yet--\" mused the Virginian.\n\n\"I'll find out,\" said I. And I hurried across to the dim sleeping room,\nhappy to have a part in this.\n\nThey were all in bed; and in some beds two were sleeping. How they could\ndo it--but in those days I was fastidious. The American had come in\nrecently and was still awake.\n\n\"Thought you were to sleep at the store?\" said he.\n\nSo then I invented a little lie, and explained that I was in search of\nthe Virginian.\n\n\"Better search the dives,\" said he. \"These cow-boys don't get to town\noften.\"\n\nAt this point I stumbled sharply over something.\n\n\"It's my box of Consumption Killer,\" explained the drummer; \"Well, I\nhope that man will stay out all night.\"\n\n\"Bed narrow?\" I inquired.\n\n\"For two it is. And the pillows are mean. Takes both before you feel\nanything's under your head.\"\n\nHe yawned, and I wished him pleasant dreams.\n\nAt my news the Virginian left the bar at once; and crossed to the\nsleeping room. Steve and I followed softly, and behind us several\nmore strung out in an expectant line. \"What is this going to be?\" they\ninquired curiously of each other. And upon learning the great novelty\nof the event, they clustered with silence intense outside the door where\nthe Virginian had gone in.\n\nWe heard the voice of the drummer, cautioning his bed-fellow. \"Don't\ntrip over the Killer,\" he was saying. \"The Prince of Wales barked his\nshin just now.\" It seemed my English clothes had earned me this title.\n\nThe boots of the Virginian were next heard to drop.\n\n\"Can yu' make out what he's at?\" whispered Steve.\n\nHe was plainly undressing. The rip of swift unbuttoning told us that the\nblack-headed guy must now be removing his overalls.\n\n\"Why, thank yu', no,\" he was replying to a question of the drummer.\n\"Outside or in's all one to me.\"\n\n\"Then, if you'd just as soon take the wall--\"\n\n\"Why, cert'nly.\" There was a sound of bedclothes, and creaking.\n\"This hyeh pillo' needs a Southern climate,\" was the Virginian's next\nobservation.\n\nMany listeners had now gathered at the door. The dealer and the player\nwere both here. The storekeeper was present, and I recognized the agent\nof the Union Pacific Railroad among the crowd. We made a large company,\nand I felt that trembling sensation which is common when the cap of a\ncamera is about to be removed upon a group.\n\n\"I should think,\" said the drummer's voice, \"that you'd feel your knife\nand gun clean through that pillow.\"\n\n\"I do,\" responded the Virginian.\n\n\"I should think you'd put them on a chair and be comfortable.\"\n\n\"I'd be uncomfortable, then.\"\n\n\"Used to the feel of them, I suppose?\"\n\n\"That's it. Used to the feel of them. I would miss them, and that would\nmake me wakeful.\"\n\n\"Well, good night.\"\n\n\"Good night. If I get to talkin' and tossin', or what not, you'll\nunderstand you're to--\"\n\n\"Yes, I'll wake you.\"\n\n\"No, don't yu', for God's sake!\"\n\n\"Not?\"\n\n\"Don't yu' touch me.\"\n\n\"What'll I do?\"\n\n\"Roll away quick to your side. It don't last but a minute.\" The\nVirginian spoke with a reassuring drawl.\n\nUpon this there fell a brief silence, and I heard the drummer clear his\nthroat once or twice.\n\n\"It's merely the nightmare, I suppose?\" he said after a throat clearing.\n\n\"Lord, yes. That's all. And don't happen twice a year. Was you thinkin'\nit was fits?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! I just wanted to know. I've been told before that it was not\nsafe for a person to be waked suddenly that way out of a nightmare.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have heard that too. But it never harms me any. I didn't want\nyou to run risks.\"\n\n\"Me?\"\n\n\"Oh, it'll be all right now that yu' know how it is.\" The Virginian's\ndrawl was full of assurance.\n\nThere was a second pause, after which the drummer said:--\n\n\"Tell me again how it is.\"\n\nThe Virginian answered very drowsily: \"Oh, just don't let your arm or\nyour laig touch me if I go to jumpin' around. I'm dreamin' of Indians\nwhen I do that. And if anything touches me then, I'm liable to grab my\nknife right in my sleep.\"\n\n\"Oh, I understand,\" said the drummer, clearing his throat. \"Yes.\"\n\nSteve was whispering delighted oaths to himself, and in his joy applying\nto the Virginian one unprintable name after another.\n\nWe listened again, but now no further words came. Listening very hard,\nI could half make out the progress of a heavy breathing, and a restless\nturning I could clearly detect. This was the wretched drummer. He was\nwaiting. But he did not wait long. Again there was a light creak, and\nafter it a light step. He was not even going to put his boots on in\nthe fatal neighborhood of the dreamer. By a happy thought Medicine Bow\nformed into two lines, making an avenue from the door. And then the\ncommercial traveller forgot his Consumption Killer. He fell heavily over\nit.\n\nImmediately from the bed the Virginian gave forth a dreadful howl.\n\nAnd then everything happened at once; and how shall mere words narrate\nit? The door burst open, and out flew the commercial traveller in his\nstockings. One hand held a lump of coat and trousers with suspenders\ndangling, his boots were clutched in the other. The sight of us stopped\nhis flight short. He gazed, the boots fell from his hand; and at his\nprofane explosion, Medicine Bow set up a united, unearthly noise and\nbegan to play Virginia reel with him. The other occupants of the beds\nhad already sprung out of them, clothed chiefly with their pistols, and\nready for war. \"What is it?\" they demanded. \"What is it?\"\n\n\"Why, I reckon it's drinks on Steve,\" said the Virginian from his bed.\nAnd he gave the first broad grin that I had seen from him.\n\n\"I'll set 'em up all night!\" Steve shouted, as the reel went on\nregardless. The drummer was bawling to be allowed to put at least his\nboots on. \"This way, Pard,\" was the answer; and another man whirled him\nround. \"This way, Beau!\" they called to him; \"This way, Budd!\" and\nhe was passed like a shuttle-cock down the line. Suddenly the leaders\nbounded into the sleeping-room. \"Feed the machine!\" they said. \"Feed\nher!\" And seizing the German drummer who sold jewellery, they flung him\ninto the trough of the reel. I saw him go bouncing like an ear of corn\nto be shelled, and the dance ingulfed him. I saw a Jew sent rattling\nafter him; and next they threw in the railroad employee, and the other\nJew; and while I stood mesmerized, my own feet left the earth. I shot\nfrom the room and sped like a bobbing cork into this mill race, whirling\nmy turn in the wake of the others amid cries of, \"Here comes the Prince\nof Wales!\" There was soon not much English left about my raiment.\n\nThey were now shouting for music. Medicine Bow swept in like a cloud of\ndust to where a fiddler sat playing in a hall; and gathering up fiddler\nand dancers, swept out again, a larger Medicine Bow, growing all\nthe while. Steve offered us the freedom of the house, everywhere. He\nimplored us to call for whatever pleased us, and as many times as we\nshould please. He ordered the town to be searched for more citizens to\ncome and help him pay his bet. But changing his mind, kegs and bottles\nwere now carried along with us. We had found three fiddlers, and these\nplayed busily for us; and thus we set out to visit all cabins and houses\nwhere people might still by some miracle be asleep. The first man put\nout his head to decline. But such a possibility had been foreseen by\nthe proprietor of the store. This seemingly respectable man now came\ndragging some sort of apparatus from his place, helped by the Virginian.\nThe cow-boys cheered, for they knew what this was. The man in his window\nlikewise recognized it, and uttering a groan, came immediately out and\njoined us. What it was, I also learned in a few minutes. For we found\na house where the people made no sign at either our fiddlers or our\nknocking. And then the infernal machine was set to work. Its parts\nseemed to be no more than an empty keg and a plank. Some citizen\ninformed me that I should soon have a new idea of noise; and I nerved\nmyself for something severe in the way of gunpowder. But the Virginian\nand the proprietor now sat on the ground holding the keg braced, and two\nothers got down apparently to play see-saw over the top of it with the\nplank. But the keg and plank had been rubbed with rosin, and they drew\nthe plank back and forth over the keg. Do you know the sound made in\na narrow street by a dray loaded with strips of iron? That noise is a\nlullaby compared with the staggering, blinding bellow which rose from\nthe keg. If you were to try it in your native town, you would not merely\nbe arrested, you would be hanged, and everybody would be glad, and the\nclergyman would not bury you. My head, my teeth, the whole system of my\nbones leaped and chattered at the din, and out of the house like drops\nsquirted from a lemon came a man and his wife. No time was given them.\nThey were swept along with the rest; and having been routed from their\nown bed, they now became most furious in assailing the remaining homes\nof Medicine Bow. Everybody was to come out. Many were now riding horses\nat top speed out into the plains and back, while the procession of the\nplank and keg continued its work, and the fiddlers played incessantly.\n\nSuddenly there was a quiet. I did not see who brought the message; but\nthe word ran among us that there was a woman--the engineer's woman\ndown by the water-tank--very sick. The doctor had been to see her from\nLaramie. Everybody liked the engineer. Plank and keg were heard no more.\nThe horsemen found it out and restrained their gambols. Medicine Bow\nwent gradually home. I saw doors shutting, and lights go out; I saw\na late few reassemble at the card tables, and the drummers gathered\nthemselves together for sleep; the proprietor of the store (you could\nnot see a more respectable-looking person) hoped that I would be\ncomfortable on the quilts; and I heard Steve urging the Virginian to\ntake one more glass.\n\n\"We've not met for so long,\" he said.\n\nBut the Virginian, the black-headed guy who had set all this nonsense\ngoing, said No to Steve. \"I have got to stay responsible,\" was his\nexcuse to his friend. And the friend looked at me. Therefore I surmised\nthat the Judge's trustworthy man found me an embarrassment to his\nholiday. But if he did, he never showed it to me. He had been sent to\nmeet a stranger and drive him to Sunk Creek in safety, and this charge\nhe would allow no temptation to imperil. He nodded good night to me. \"If\nthere's anything I can do for yu', you'll tell me.\"\n\nI thanked him. \"What a pleasant evening!\" I added.\n\n\"I'm glad yu' found it so.\"\n\nAgain his manner put a bar to my approaches. Even though I had seen\nhim wildly disporting himself, those were matters which he chose not to\ndiscuss with me.\n\nMedicine Bow was quiet as I went my way to my quilts. So still, that\nthrough the air the deep whistles of the freight trains came from below\nthe horizon across great miles of silence. I passed cow-boys, whom half\nan hour before I had seen prancing and roaring, now rolled in their\nblankets beneath the open and shining night.\n\n\"What world am I in?\" I said aloud. \"Does this same planet hold Fifth\nAvenue?\"\n\nAnd I went to sleep, pondering over my native land.\n\n\n\n\nIV. DEEP INTO CATTLE LAND\n\n\nMorning had been for some while astir in Medicine Bow before I left my\nquilts. The new day and its doings began around me in the store, chiefly\nat the grocery counter. Dry-goods were not in great request. The early\nrising cow-boys were off again to their work; and those to whom their\nnight's holiday had left any dollars were spending these for tobacco, or\ncartridges, or canned provisions for the journey to their distant\ncamps. Sardines were called for, and potted chicken, and devilled ham:\na sophisticated nourishment, at first sight, for these sons of the\nsage-brush. But portable ready-made food plays of necessity a great part\nin the opening of a new country. These picnic pots and cans were the\nfirst of her trophies that Civilization dropped upon Wyoming's virgin\nsoil. The cow-boy is now gone to worlds invisible; the wind has blown\naway the white ashes of his camp-fires; but the empty sardine box lies\nrusting over the face of the Western earth.\n\nSo through my eyes half closed I watched the sale of these tins, and\ngrew familiar with the ham's inevitable trademark--that label with the\ndevil and his horns and hoofs and tail very pronounced, all colored a\nsultry prodigious scarlet. And when each horseman had made his purchase,\nhe would trail his spurs over the floor, and presently the sound of his\nhorse's hoofs would be the last of him. Through my dozing attention came\nvarious fragments of talk, and sometimes useful bits of knowledge. For\ninstance, I learned the true value of tomatoes in this country. One\nfellow was buying two cans of them.\n\n\"Meadow Creek dry already?\" commented the proprietor.\n\n\"Been dry ten days,\" the young cow-boy informed him. And it appeared\nthat along the road he was going, water would not be reached much before\nsundown, because this Meadow Creek had ceased to run. His tomatoes were\nfor drink. And thus they have refreshed me many times since.\n\n\"No beer?\" suggested the proprietor.\n\nThe boy made a shuddering face. \"Don't say its name to me!\" he\nexclaimed. \"I couldn't hold my breakfast down.\" He rang his silver money\nupon the counter. \"I've swore off for three months,\" he stated. \"I'm\ngoing to be as pure as the snow!\" And away he went jingling out of the\ndoor, to ride seventy-five miles. Three more months of hard, unsheltered\nwork, and he would ride into town again, with his adolescent blood\ncrying aloud for its own.\n\n\"I'm obliged,\" said a new voice, rousing me from a new doze. \"She's\neasier this morning, since the medicine.\" This was the engineer, whose\nsick wife had brought a hush over Medicine Bow's rioting. \"I'll give her\nthem flowers soon as she wakes,\" he added.\n\n\"Flowers?\" repeated the proprietor.\n\n\"You didn't leave that bunch at our door?\"\n\n\"Wish I'd thought to do it.\"\n\n\"She likes to see flowers,\" said the engineer. And he walked out slowly,\nwith his thanks unachieved. He returned at once with the Virginian; for\nin the band of the Virginian's hat were two or three blossoms.\n\n\"It don't need mentioning,\" the Southerner was saying, embarrassed by\nany expression of thanks. \"If we had knowed last night--\"\n\n\"You didn't disturb her any,\" broke in the engineer. \"She's easier this\nmorning. I'll tell her about them flowers.\"\n\n\"Why, it don't need mentioning,\" the Virginian again protested, almost\ncrossly. \"The little things looked kind o' fresh, and I just picked\nthem.\" His eye now fell upon me, where I lay upon the counter. \"I reckon\nbreakfast will be getting through,\" he remarked.\n\nI was soon at the wash trough. It was only half-past six, but many had\nbeen before me,--one glance at the roller-towel told me that. I was\nafraid to ask the landlady for a clean one, and so I found a fresh\nhandkerchief, and accomplished a sparing toilet. In the midst of this\nthe drummers joined me, one by one, and they used the degraded towel\nwithout hesitation. In a way they had the best of me; filth was nothing\nto them.\n\nThe latest risers in Medicine Bow, we sat at breakfast together; and\nthey essayed some light familiarities with the landlady. But these\nexperiments were failures. Her eyes did not see, nor did her ears\nhear them. She brought the coffee and the bacon with a sedateness that\npropriety itself could scarce have surpassed. Yet impropriety lurked\nnoiselessly all over her. You could not have specified how; it was\ninterblended with her sum total. Silence was her apparent habit and her\nweapon; but the American drummer found that she could speak to the point\nwhen need came for this. During the meal he had praised her golden\nhair. It was golden indeed, and worth a high compliment; but his kind\ndispleased her. She had let it pass, however, with no more than a cool\nstare. But on taking his leave, when he came to pay for the meal, he\npushed it too far.\n\n\"Pity this must be our last,\" he said; and as it brought no answer,\n\"Ever travel?\" he inquired. \"Where I go, there's room for a pair of us.\"\n\n\"Then you'd better find another jackass,\" she replied quietly.\n\nI was glad that I had not asked for a clean towel.\n\nFrom the commercial travellers I now separated myself, and wandered\nalone in pleasurable aimlessness. It was seven o'clock. Medicine\nBow stood voiceless and unpeopled. The cow-boys had melted away. The\ninhabitants were indoors, pursuing the business or the idleness of the\nforenoon. Visible motion there was none. No shell upon the dry sands\ncould lie more lifeless than Medicine Bow. Looking in at the store,\nI saw the proprietor sitting with his pipe extinct. Looking in at the\nsaloon, I saw the dealer dealing dumbly to himself. Up in the sky there\nwas not a cloud nor a bird, and on the earth the lightest straw\nlay becalmed. Once I saw the Virginian at an open door, where the\ngolden-haired landlady stood talking with him. Sometimes I strolled in\nthe town, and sometimes out on the plain I lay down with my day dreams\nin the sagebrush. Pale herds of antelope were in the distance, and near\nby the demure prairie-dogs sat up and scrutinized me. Steve, Trampas,\nthe riot of horsemen, my lost trunk, Uncle Hughey, with his abortive\nbrides--all things merged in my thoughts in a huge, delicious\nindifference. It was like swimming slowly at random in an ocean that was\nsmooth, and neither too cool nor too warm. And before I knew it, five\nlazy imperceptible hours had gone thus. There was the Union Pacific\ntrain, coming as if from shores forgotten.\n\nIts approach was silent and long drawn out. I easily reached town and\nthe platform before it had finished watering at the tank. It moved up,\nmade a short halt, I saw my trunk come out of it, and then it moved away\nsilently as it had come, smoking and dwindling into distance unknown.\n\nBeside my trunk was one other, tied extravagantly with white ribbon. The\nfluttering bows caught my attention, and now I suddenly saw a perfectly\nnew sight. The Virginian was further down the platform, doubled up with\nlaughing. It was good to know that with sufficient cause he could laugh\nlike this; a smile had thus far been his limit of external mirth.\nRice now flew against my hat, and hissing gusts of rice spouted on the\nplatform. All the men left in Medicine Bow appeared like magic, and more\nrice choked the atmosphere. Through the general clamor a cracked voice\nsaid, \"Don't hit her in the eye, boys!\" and Uncle Hughey rushed proudly\nby me with an actual wife on his arm. She could easily have been his\ngranddaughter. They got at once into a vehicle. The trunk was lifted in\nbehind. And amid cheers, rice, shoes, and broad felicitations, the pair\ndrove out of town, Uncle Hughey shrieking to the horses and the bride\nwaving unabashed adieus.\n\nThe word had come over the wires from Laramie: \"Uncle Hughey has made\nit this time. Expect him on to-day's number two.\" And Medicine Bow had\nexpected him.\n\nMany words arose on the departure of the new-married couple.\n\n\"Who's she?\"\n\n\"What's he got for her?\"\n\n\"Got a gold mine up Bear Creek.\"\n\nAnd after comment and prophecy, Medicine Bow returned to its dinner.\n\nThis meal was my last here for a long while. The Virginian's\nresponsibility now returned; duty drove the Judge's trustworthy man\nto take care of me again. He had not once sought my society of his own\naccord; his distaste for what he supposed me to be (I don't exactly know\nwhat this was) remained unshaken. I have thought that matters of dress\nand speech should not carry with them so much mistrust in our democracy;\nthieves are presumed innocent until proved guilty, but a starched collar\nis condemned at once. Perfect civility and obligingness I certainly did\nreceive from the Virginian, only not a word of fellowship. He harnessed\nthe horses, got my trunk, and gave me some advice about taking\nprovisions for our journey, something more palatable than what food we\nshould find along the road. It was well thought of, and I bought quite a\nparcel of dainties, feeling that he would despise both them and me. And\nthus I took my seat beside him, wondering what we should manage to talk\nabout for two hundred and sixty-three miles.\n\nFarewell in those days was not said in Cattle Land. Acquaintances\nwatched our departure with a nod or with nothing, and the nearest\napproach to \"Good-by\" was the proprietor's \"So-long.\" But I caught sight\nof one farewell given without words.\n\nAs we drove by the eating-house, the shade of a side window was raised,\nand the landlady looked her last upon the Virginian. Her lips were\nfaintly parted, and no woman's eyes ever said more plainly, \"I am one of\nyour possessions.\" She had forgotten that it might be seen. Her glance\ncaught mine, and she backed into the dimness of the room. What look\nshe may have received from him, if he gave her any at this too public\nmoment, I could not tell. His eyes seemed to be upon the horses, and\nhe drove with the same mastering ease that had roped the wild pony\nyesterday. We passed the ramparts of Medicine Bow,--thick heaps and\nfringes of tin cans, and shelving mounds of bottles cast out of the\nsaloons. The sun struck these at a hundred glittering points. And in a\nmoment we were in the clean plains, with the prairie-dogs and the pale\nherds of antelope. The great, still air bathed us, pure as water and\nstrong as wine; the sunlight flooded the world; and shining upon the\nbreast of the Virginian's flannel shirt lay a long gold thread of hair!\nThe noisy American drummer had met defeat, but this silent free lance\nhad been easily victorious.\n\nIt must have been five miles that we travelled in silence, losing and\nseeing the horizon among the ceaseless waves of the earth. Then I looked\nback, and there was Medicine Bow, seemingly a stone's throw behind\nus. It was a full half-hour before I looked back again, and there sure\nenough was always Medicine Bow. A size or two smaller, I will admit, but\nvisible in every feature, like something seen through the wrong end of\na field glass. The East-bound express was approaching the town, and I\nnoticed the white steam from its whistle; but when the sound reached us,\nthe train had almost stopped. And in reply to my comment upon this, the\nVirginian deigned to remark that it was more so in Arizona.\n\n\"A man come to Arizona,\" he said, \"with one of them telescopes to study\nthe heavenly bodies. He was a Yankee, seh, and a right smart one, too.\nAnd one night we was watchin' for some little old fallin' stars that he\nsaid was due, and I saw some lights movin' along across the mesa pretty\nlively, an' I sang out. But he told me it was just the train. And I told\nhim I didn't know yu' could see the cyars that plain from his place,\n'Yu' can see them,' he said to me, 'but it is las' night's cyars you're\nlookin' at.'\" At this point the Virginian spoke severely to one of the\nhorses. \"Of course,\" he then resumed to me, \"that Yankee man did not\nmean quite all he said.--You, Buck!\" he again broke off suddenly to\nthe horse. \"But Arizona, seh,\" he continued, \"it cert'nly has a mos'\ndeceivin' atmospheah. Another man told me he had seen a lady close one\neye at him when he was two minutes hard run from her.\" This time the\nVirginian gave Buck the whip.\n\n\"What effect,\" I inquired with a gravity equal to his own, \"does this\nextraordinary foreshortening have upon a quart of whiskey?\"\n\n\"When it's outside yu', seh, no distance looks too far to go to it.\"\n\nHe glanced at me with an eye that held more confidence than hitherto he\nhad been able to feel in me. I had made one step in his approval. But\nI had many yet to go. This day he preferred his own thoughts to my\nconversation, and so he did all the days of this first journey; while\nI should have greatly preferred his conversation to my thoughts. He\ndismissed some attempts that I made upon the subject of Uncle Hughey so\nthat I had not the courage to touch upon Trampas, and that chill brief\ncollision which might have struck the spark of death. Trampas! I had\nforgotten him till this silent drive I was beginning. I wondered if I\nshould ever see him, or Steve, or any of those people again. And this\nwonder I expressed aloud.\n\n\"There's no tellin' in this country,\" said the Virginian. \"Folks come\neasy, and they go easy. In settled places, like back in the States, even\na poor man mostly has a home. Don't care if it's only a barrel on a lot,\nthe fello' will keep frequentin' that lot, and if yu' want him yu' can\nfind him. But out hyeh in the sage-brush, a man's home is apt to be his\nsaddle blanket. First thing yu' know, he has moved it to Texas.\"\n\n\"You have done some moving yourself,\" I suggested.\n\nBut this word closed his mouth. \"I have had a look at the country,\" he\nsaid, and we were silent again. Let me, however, tell you here that he\nhad set out for a \"look at the country\" at the age of fourteen; and\nthat by his present age of twenty-four he had seen Arkansas, Texas,\nNew Mexico, Arizona, California, Oregon, Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming.\nEverywhere he had taken care of himself, and survived; nor had his\nstrong heart yet waked up to any hunger for a home. Let me also tell you\nthat he was one of thousands drifting and living thus, but (as you shall\nlearn) one in a thousand.\n\nMedicine Bow did not forever remain in sight. When next I thought of it\nand looked behind, nothing was there but the road we had come; it lay\nlike a ship's wake across the huge ground swell of the earth. We were\nswallowed in a vast solitude. A little while before sunset, a cabin came\nin view; and here we passed our first night. Two young men lived here,\ntending their cattle. They were fond of animals. By the stable a chained\ncoyote rushed nervously in a circle, or sat on its haunches and snapped\nat gifts of food ungraciously. A tame young elk walked in and out of\nthe cabin door, and during supper it tried to push me off my chair. A\nhalf-tame mountain sheep practised jumping from the ground to the roof.\nThe cabin was papered with posters of a circus, and skins of bear and\nsilver fox lay upon the floor. Until nine o'clock one man talked to the\nVirginian, and one played gayly upon a concertina; and then we all went\nto bed. The air was like December, but in my blankets and a buffalo robe\nI kept warm, and luxuriated in the Rocky Mountain silence. Going to wash\nbefore breakfast at sunrise, I found needles of ice in a pail. Yet it\nwas hard to remember that this quiet, open, splendid wilderness (with\nnot a peak in sight just here) was six thousand feet high. And when\nbreakfast was over there was no December left; and by the time the\nVirginian and I were ten miles upon our way, it was June. But always\nevery breath that I breathed was pure as water and strong as wine.\n\nWe never passed a human being this day. Some wild cattle rushed up to\nus and away from us; antelope stared at us from a hundred yards; coyotes\nran skulking through the sage-brush to watch us from a hill; at our noon\nmeal we killed a rattlesnake and shot some young sage chickens, which\nwere good at supper, roasted at our camp-fire.\n\nBy half-past eight we were asleep beneath the stars, and by half-past\nfour I was drinking coffee and shivering. The horse, Buck, was hard to\ncatch this second morning. Whether some hills that we were now in\nhad excited him, or whether the better water up here had caused an\neffervescence in his spirits, I cannot say. But I was as hot as July by\nthe time we had him safe in harness, or, rather, unsafe in harness. For\nBuck, in the mysterious language of horses, now taught wickedness to\nhis side partner, and about eleven o'clock they laid their evil heads\ntogether and decided to break our necks.\n\nWe were passing, I have said, through a range of demi-mountains. It was\na little country where trees grew, water ran, and the plains were shut\nout for a while. The road had steep places in it, and places here and\nthere where you could fall off and go bounding to the bottom among\nstones. But Buck, for some reason, did not think these opportunities\ngood enough for him. He selected a more theatrical moment. We emerged\nfrom a narrow canyon suddenly upon five hundred cattle and some cow-boys\nbranding calves by a fire in a corral. It was a sight that Buck knew by\nheart. He instantly treated it like an appalling phenomenon. I saw\nhim kick seven ways; I saw Muggins kick five ways; our furious motion\nsnapped my spine like a whip. I grasped the seat. Something gave a\nforlorn jingle. It was the brake.\n\n\"Don't jump!\" commanded the trustworthy man.\n\n\"No,\" I said, as my hat flew off.\n\nHelp was too far away to do anything for us. We passed scatheless through\na part of the cattle, I saw their horns and backs go by. Some earth\ncrumbled, and we plunged downward into water rocking among stones, and\nupward again through some more crumbling earth. I heard a crash, and saw\nmy trunk landing in the stream.\n\n\"She's safer there,\" said the trustworthy man.\n\n\"True,\" I said.\n\n\"We'll go back for her,\" said he, with his eye on the horses and his\nfoot on the crippled brake. A dry gully was coming, and no room to turn.\nThe farther side of it was terraced with rock. We should simply fall\nbackward, if we did not fall forward first. He steered the horses\nstraight over, and just at the bottom swung them, with astonishing\nskill, to the right along the hard-baked mud. They took us along the bed\nup to the head of the gully, and through a thicket of quaking asps. The\nlight trees bent beneath our charge and bastinadoed the wagon as it went\nover them. But their branches enmeshed the horses' legs, and we came to\na harmless standstill among a bower of leaves.\n\nI looked at the trustworthy man, and smiled vaguely. He considered me\nfor a moment.\n\n\"I reckon,\" said he, \"you're feelin' about halfway between 'Oh, Lord!'\nand 'Thank God!'\"\n\n\"That's quite it,\" said I, as he got down on the ground.\n\n\"Nothing's broke,\" said he, after a searching examination. And he\nindulged in a true Virginian expletive. \"Gentlemen, hush!\" he murmured\ngently, looking at me with his grave eyes; \"one time I got pretty near\nscared. You, Buck,\" he continued, \"some folks would beat you now till\nyu'd be uncertain whether yu' was a hawss or a railroad accident. I'd do\nit myself, only it wouldn't cure yu'.\"\n\nI now told him that I supposed he had saved both our lives. But he\ndetested words of direct praise. He made some grumbling rejoinder, and\nled the horses out of the thicket. Buck, he explained to me, was a good\nhorse, and so was Muggins. Both of them generally meant well, and that\nwas the Judge's reason for sending them to meet me. But these broncos\nhad their off days. Off days might not come very often; but when the\nhumor seized a bronco, he had to have his spree. Buck would now behave\nhimself as a horse should for probably two months. \"They are just like\nhumans,\" the Virginian concluded.\n\nSeveral cow-boys arrived on a gallop to find how many pieces of us were\nleft. We returned down the hill; and when we reached my trunk, it was\nsurprising to see the distance that our runaway had covered. My hat was\nalso found, and we continued on our way.\n\nBuck and Muggins were patterns of discretion through the rest of the\nmountains. I thought when we camped this night that it was strange Buck\nshould be again allowed to graze at large, instead of being tied to a\nrope while we slept. But this was my ignorance. With the hard work that\nhe was gallantly doing, the horse needed more pasture than a rope's\nlength would permit him to find. Therefore he went free, and in the\nmorning gave us but little trouble in catching him.\n\nWe crossed a river in the forenoon, and far to the north of us we saw\nthe Bow Leg Mountains, pale in the bright sun. Sunk Creek flowed from\ntheir western side, and our two hundred and sixty-three miles began to\ngrow a small thing in my eyes. Buck and Muggins, I think, knew perfectly\nthat to-morrow would see them home. They recognized this region; and\nonce they turned off at a fork in the road. The Virginian pulled them\nback rather sharply.\n\n\"Want to go back to Balaam's?\" he inquired of them. \"I thought you had\nmore sense.\"\n\nI asked, \"Who was Balaam?\"\n\n\"A maltreater of hawsses,\" replied the cow-puncher. \"His ranch is on\nButte Creek oveh yondeh.\" And he pointed to where the diverging road\nmelted into space. \"The Judge bought Buck and Muggins from him in the\nspring.\"\n\n\"So he maltreats horses?\" I repeated.\n\n\"That's the word all through this country. A man that will do what\nthey claim Balaam does to a hawss when he's mad, ain't fit to be called\nhuman.\" The Virginian told me some particulars.\n\n\"Oh!\" I almost screamed at the horror of it, and again, \"Oh!\"\n\n\"He'd have prob'ly done that to Buck as soon as he stopped runnin' away.\nIf I caught a man doin' that--\"\n\nWe were interrupted by a sedate-looking traveller riding upon an equally\nsober horse.\n\n\"Mawnin', Taylor,\" said the Virginian, pulling up for gossip. \"Ain't you\nstrayed off your range pretty far?\"\n\n\"You're a nice one!\" replied Mr. Taylor, stopping his horse and smiling\namiably.\n\n\"Tell me something I don't know,\" retorted the Virginian.\n\n\"Hold up a man at cards and rob him,\" pursued Mr. Taylor. \"Oh, the news\nhas got ahead of you!\"\n\n\"Trampas has been hyeh explainin', has he?\" said the Virginian with a\ngrin.\n\n\"Was that your victim's name?\" said Mr. Taylor, facetiously. \"No, it\nwasn't him that brought the news. Say, what did you do, anyway?\"\n\n\"So that thing has got around,\" murmured the Virginian. \"Well, it wasn't\nworth such wide repawtin'.\" And he gave the simple facts to Taylor,\nwhile I sat wondering at the contagious powers of Rumor. Here, through\nthis voiceless land, this desert, this vacuum, it had spread like a\nchange of weather. \"Any news up your way?\" the Virginian concluded.\n\nImportance came into Mr. Taylor's countenance. \"Bear Creek is going to\nbuild a schoolhouse,\" said he.\n\n\"Goodness gracious!\" drawled the Virginian. \"What's that for?\"\n\nNow Mr. Taylor had been married for some years. \"To educate the\noffspring of Bear Creek,\" he answered with pride.\n\n\"Offspring of Bear Creek,\" the Virginian meditatively repeated. \"I don't\nremember noticin' much offspring. There was some white tail deer, and a\nright smart o' jack rabbits.\"\n\n\"The Swintons have moved up from Drybone,\" said Mr. Taylor, always\nseriously. \"They found it no place for young children. And there's Uncle\nCarmody with six, and Ben Dow. And Westfall has become a family man,\nand--\"\n\n\"Jim Westfall!\" exclaimed the Virginian. \"Him a fam'ly man! Well, if\nthis hyeh Territory is goin' to get full o' fam'ly men and empty o'\ngame, I believe I'll--\"\n\n\"Get married yourself,\" suggested Mr. Taylor.\n\n\"Me! I ain't near reached the marriageable age. No, seh! But Uncle\nHughey has got there at last, yu' know.\"\n\n\"Uncle Hughey!\" shouted Mr. Taylor. He had not heard this. Rumor is very\ncapricious. Therefore the Virginian told him, and the family man rocked\nin his saddle.\n\n\"Build your schoolhouse,\" said the Virginian. \"Uncle Hughey has\nqualified himself to subscribe to all such propositions. Got your eye on\na schoolmarm?\"\n\n\n\n\nV. ENTER THE WOMAN\n\n\n\"We are taking steps,\" said Mr. Taylor. \"Bear Creek ain't going to be\nhasty about a schoolmarm.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" assented the Virginian. \"The children wouldn't want yu' to\nhurry.\"\n\nBut Mr. Taylor was, as I have indicated, a serious family man. The\nproblem of educating his children could appear to him in no light except\na sober one. \"Bear Creek,\" he said, \"don't want the experience they had\nover at Calef. We must not hire an ignoramus.\"\n\n\"Sure!\" assented the Virginian again.\n\n\"Nor we don't want no gad-a-way flirt,\" said Mr. Taylor.\n\n\"She must keep her eyes on the blackboa'd,\" said the Virginian, gently.\n\n\"Well, we can wait till we get a guaranteed article,\" said Mr. Taylor.\n\"And that's what we're going to do. It can't be this year, and it\nneedn't to be. None of the kids is very old, and the schoolhouse has got\nto be built.\" He now drew a letter from his pocket, and looked at me.\n\"Are you acquainted with Miss Mary Stark Wood of Bennington, Vermont?\"\nhe inquired.\n\nI was not acquainted with her at this time.\n\n\"She's one we are thinking of. She's a correspondent with Mrs. Balaam.\"\nTaylor handed me the letter. \"She wrote that to Mrs. Balaam, and Mrs.\nBalaam said the best thing was for to let me see it and judge for\nmyself. I'm taking it back to Mrs. Balaam. Maybe you can give me your\nopinion how it sizes up with the letters they write back East?\"\n\nThe communication was mainly of a business kind, but also personal,\nand freely written. I do not think that its writer expected it to be\nexhibited as a document. The writer wished very much that she could see\nthe West. But she could not gratify this desire merely for pleasure,\nor she would long ago have accepted the kind invitation to visit Mrs.\nBalaam's ranch. Teaching school was something she would like to do, if\nshe were fitted for it. \"Since the mills failed\" (the writer said) \"we\nhave all gone to work and done a lot of things so that mother might keep\non living in the old house. Yes, the salary would be a temptation. But,\nmy dear, isn't Wyoming bad for the complexion? And could I sue them if\nmine got damaged? It is still admired. I could bring one male witness AT\nLEAST to prove that!\" Then the writer became businesslike again. Even if\nshe came to feel that she could leave home, she did not at all know that\nshe could teach school. Nor did she think it right to accept a\nposition in which one had had no experience. \"I do love children, boys\nespecially,\" she went on. \"My small nephew and I get on famously. But\nimagine if a whole benchful of boys began asking me questions that I\ncouldn't answer! What should I do? For one could not spank them all,\nyou know! And mother says that I ought not to teach anybody spelling,\nbecause I leave the U out of HONOR.\"\n\nAltogether it was a letter which I could assure Mr. Taylor \"sized up\"\nvery well with the letters written in my part of the United States. And\nit was signed, \"Your very sincere spinster, Molly Stark Wood.\"\n\n\"I never seen HONOR spelled with a U,\" said Mr. Taylor, over whose not\nhighly civilized head certain portions of the letter had lightly passed.\n\nI told him that some old-fashioned people still wrote the word so.\n\n\"Either way would satisfy Bear Creek,\" said Mr. Taylor, \"if she's\notherwise up to requirements.\"\n\nThe Virginian was now looking over the letter musingly, and with\nawakened attention.\n\n\"'Your very sincere spinster,'\" he read aloud slowly.\n\n\"I guess that means she's forty,\" said Taylor.\n\n\"I reckon she is about twenty,\" said the Virginian. And again he fell to\nmusing over the paper that he held.\n\n\"Her handwriting ain't like any I've saw,\" pursued Mr. Taylor. \"But Bear\nCreek would not object to that, provided she knows 'rithmetic and George\nWashington, and them kind of things.\"\n\n\"I expect she is not an awful sincere spinster,\" surmised the Virginian,\nstill looking at the letter, still holding it as if it were some token.\n\nHas any botanist set down what the seed of love is? Has it anywhere been\nset down in how many ways this seed may be sown? In what various vessels\nof gossamer it can float across wide spaces? Or upon what different\nsoils it can fall, and live unknown, and bide its time for blooming?\n\nThe Virginian handed back to Taylor the sheet of note paper where a girl\nhad talked as the women he had known did not talk. If his eyes had\never seen such maidens, there had been no meeting of eyes; and if such\nmaidens had ever spoken to him, the speech was from an established\ndistance. But here was a free language, altogether new to him. It\nproved, however, not alien to his understanding, as it was alien to Mr.\nTaylor's.\n\nWe drove onward, a mile perhaps, and then two. He had lately been full\nof words, but now he barely answered me, so that a silence fell upon\nboth of us. It must have been all of ten miles that we had driven when\nhe spoke of his own accord.\n\n\"Your real spinster don't speak of her lot that easy,\" he remarked. And\npresently he quoted a phrase about the complexion, \"'Could I sue them\nif mine got damaged?'\" and he smiled over this to himself, shaking\nhis head. \"What would she be doing on Bear Creek?\" he next said. And\nfinally: \"I reckon that witness will detain her in Vermont. And her\nmother'll keep livin' at the old house.\"\n\nThus did the cow-puncher deliver himself, not knowing at all that the\nseed had floated across wide spaces, and was biding its time in his\nheart.\n\nOn the morrow we reached Sunk Creek. Judge Henry's welcome and his\nwife's would have obliterated any hardships that I had endured, and I\nhad endured none at all.\n\nFor a while I saw little of the Virginian. He lapsed into his native way\nof addressing me occasionally as \"seh\"--a habit entirely repudiated by\nthis land of equality. I was sorry. Our common peril during the runaway\nof Buck and Muggins had brought us to a familiarity that I hoped was\ndestined to last. But I think that it would not have gone farther,\nsave for a certain personage--I must call her a personage. And as I am\nindebted to her for gaining me a friend whose prejudice against me might\nnever have been otherwise overcome, I shall tell you her little story,\nand how her misadventures and her fate came to bring the Virginian and\nme to an appreciation of one another. Without her, it is likely I should\nalso not have heard so much of the story of the schoolmarm, and how that\nlady at last came to Bear Creek.\n\n\n\n\nVI. EM'LY\n\n\nMy personage was a hen, and she lived at the Sunk Creek Ranch.\n\nJudge Henry's ranch was notable for several luxuries. He had milk, for\nexample. In those days his brother ranchmen had thousands of cattle very\noften, but not a drop of milk, save the condensed variety. Therefore\nthey had no butter. The Judge had plenty. Next rarest to butter and milk\nin the cattle country were eggs. But my host had chickens. Whether this\nwas because he had followed cock-fighting in his early days, or whether\nit was due to Mrs. Henry, I cannot say. I only know that when I took a\nmeal elsewhere, I was likely to find nothing but the eternal \"sowbelly,\"\nbeans, and coffee; while at Sunk Creek the omelet and the custard were\nfrequent. The passing traveller was glad to tie his horse to the fence\nhere, and sit down to the Judge's table. For its fame was as wide as\nWyoming. It was an oasis in the Territory's desolate bill-of-fare.\n\nThe long fences of Judge Henry's home ranch began upon Sunk Creek soon\nafter that stream emerged from its canyon through the Bow Leg. It was\na place always well cared for by the owner, even in the days of his\nbachelorhood. The placid regiments of cattle lay in the cool of the\ncottonwoods by the water, or slowly moved among the sage-brush, feeding\nupon the grass that in those forever departed years was plentiful and\ntall. The steers came fat off his unenclosed range and fattened still\nmore in his large pasture; while his small pasture, a field some eight\nmiles square, was for several seasons given to the Judge's horses, and\nover this ample space there played and prospered the good colts which\nhe raised from Paladin, his imported stallion. After he married, I have\nbeen assured that his wife's influence became visible in and about the\nhouse at once. Shade trees were planted, flowers attempted, and to the\nchickens was added the much more troublesome turkey. I, the visitor, was\npressed into service when I arrived, green from the East. I took hold of\nthe farmyard and began building a better chicken house, while the Judge\nwas off creating meadow land in his gray and yellow wilderness. When\nany cow-boy was unoccupied, he would lounge over to my neighborhood, and\nsilently regard my carpentering.\n\nThose cow-punchers bore names of various denominations. There was Honey\nWiggin; there was Nebrasky, and Dollar Bill, and Chalkeye. And they came\nfrom farms and cities, from Maine and from California. But the romance\nof American adventure had drawn them all alike to this great playground\nof young men, and in their courage, their generosity, and their\namusement at me they bore a close resemblance to each other. Each one\nwould silently observe my achievements with the hammer and the chisel.\nThen he would retire to the bunk-house, and presently I would overhear\nlaughter. But this was only in the morning. In the afternoon on many\ndays of the summer which I spent at the Sunk Creek Ranch I would go\nshooting, or ride up toward the entrance of the canyon and watch the men\nworking on the irrigation ditches. Pleasant systems of water running\nin channels were being led through the soil, and there was a sound of\nrippling here and there among the yellow grain; the green thick alfalfa\ngrass waved almost, it seemed, of its own accord, for the wind never\nblew; and when at evening the sun lay against the plain, the rift of the\ncanyon was filled with a violet light, and the Bow Leg Mountains became\ntransfigured with hues of floating and unimaginable color. The sun shone\nin a sky where never a cloud came, and noon was not too warm nor the\ndark too cool. And so for two months I went through these pleasant\nuneventful days, improving the chickens, an object of mirth, living in\nthe open air, and basking in the perfection of content.\n\nI was justly styled a tenderfoot. Mrs. Henry had in the beginning\nendeavored to shield me from this humiliation; but when she found that I\nwas inveterate in laying my inexperience of Western matters bare to all\nthe world, begging to be enlightened upon rattlesnakes, prairie-dogs,\nowls, blue and willow grouse, sage-hens, how to rope a horse or tighten\nthe front cinch of my saddle, and that my spirit soared into enthusiasm\nat the mere sight of so ordinary an animal as a white-tailed deer, she\nlet me rush about with my firearms and made no further effort to stave\noff the ridicule that my blunders perpetually earned from the ranch\nhands, her own humorous husband, and any chance visitor who stopped for\na meal or stayed the night.\n\nI was not called by my name after the first feeble etiquette due to a\nstranger in his first few hours had died away. I was known simply as\n\"the tenderfoot.\" I was introduced to the neighborhood (a circle\nof eighty miles) as \"the tenderfoot.\" It was thus that Balaam, the\nmaltreater of horses, learned to address me when he came a two\ndays' journey to pay a visit. And it was this name and my notorious\nhelplessness that bid fair to end what relations I had with the\nVirginian. For when Judge Henry ascertained that nothing could prevent\nme from losing myself, that it was not uncommon for me to saunter out\nafter breakfast with a gun and in thirty minutes cease to know north\nfrom south, he arranged for my protection. He detailed an escort for me;\nand the escort was once more the trustworthy man! The poor Virginian was\ntaken from his work and his comrades and set to playing nurse for me.\nAnd for a while this humiliation ate into his untamed soul. It was his\nlugubrious lot to accompany me in my rambles, preside over my blunders,\nand save me from calamitously passing into the next world. He bore it in\ncourteous silence, except when speaking was necessary. He would show me\nthe lower ford, which I could never find for myself, generally mistaking\na quicksand for it. He would tie my horse properly. He would recommend\nme not to shoot my rifle at a white-tailed deer in the particular moment\nthat the outfit wagon was passing behind the animal on the further side\nof the brush. There was seldom a day that he was not obliged to hasten\nand save me from sudden death or from ridicule, which is worse. Yet\nnever once did he lose his patience and his gentle, slow voice, and\napparently lazy manner remained the same, whether we were sitting at\nlunch together, or up in the mountain during a hunt, or whether he\nwas bringing me back my horse, which had run away because I had again\nforgotten to throw the reins over his head and let them trail.\n\n\"He'll always stand if yu' do that,\" the Virginian would say. \"See how\nmy hawss stays right quiet yondeh.\"\n\nAfter such admonition he would say no more to me. But this tame\nnursery business was assuredly gall to him. For though utterly a man\nin countenance and in his self-possession and incapacity to be put at\na loss, he was still boyishly proud of his wild calling, and wore his\nleather straps and jingled his spurs with obvious pleasure. His tiger\nlimberness and his beauty were rich with unabated youth; and that force\nwhich lurked beneath his surface must often have curbed his intolerance\nof me. In spite of what I knew must be his opinion of me, the\ntenderfoot, my liking for him grew, and I found his silent company more\nand more agreeable. That he had spells of talking, I had already learned\nat Medicine Bow. But his present taciturnity might almost have effaced\nthis impression, had I not happened to pass by the bunk-house one\nevening after dark, when Honey Wiggin and the rest of the cow-boys were\ngathered inside it.\n\nThat afternoon the Virginian and I had gone duck shooting. We had\nfound several in a beaver dam, and I had killed two as they sat close\ntogether; but they floated against the breastwork of sticks out in the\nwater some four feet deep, where the escaping current might carry them\ndown the stream. The Judge's red setter had not accompanied us, because\nshe was expecting a family.\n\n\"We don't want her along anyways,\" the cow-puncher had explained to me.\n\"She runs around mighty irresponsible, and she'll stand a prairie-dog\n'bout as often as she'll stand a bird. She's a triflin' animal.\"\n\nMy anxiety to own the ducks caused me to pitch into the water with\nall my clothes on, and subsequently crawl out a slippery, triumphant,\nweltering heap. The Virginian's serious eyes had rested upon this\nspectacle of mud; but he expressed nothing, as usual.\n\n\"They ain't overly good eatin',\" he observed, tying the birds to his\nsaddle. \"They're divers.\"\n\n\"Divers!\" I exclaimed. \"Why didn't they dive?\"\n\n\"I reckon they was young ones and hadn't experience.\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, crestfallen, but attempting to be humorous, \"I did the\ndiving myself.\"\n\nBut the Virginian made no comment. He handed me my double-barrelled\nEnglish gun, which I was about to leave deserted on the ground\nbehind me, and we rode home in our usual silence, the mean little\nwhite-breasted, sharp-billed divers dangling from his saddle.\n\nIt was in the bunk-house that he took his revenge. As I passed I heard\nhis gentle voice silently achieving some narrative to an attentive\naudience, and just as I came by the open window where he sat on his bed\nin shirt and drawers, his back to me, I heard his concluding words,\n\"And the hat on his haid was the one mark showed yu' he weren't a\nsnappin'-turtle.\"\n\nThe anecdote met with instantaneous success, and I hurried away into the\ndark. The next morning I was occupied with the chickens. Two hens were\nfighting to sit on some eggs that a third was daily laying, and which\nI did not want hatched, and for the third time I had kicked Em'ly off\nseven potatoes she had rolled together and was determined to raise I\nknow not what sort of family from. She was shrieking about the hen-house\nas the Virginian came in to observe (I suspect) what I might be doing\nnow that could be useful for him to mention in the bunk-house.\n\nHe stood awhile, and at length said, \"We lost our best rooster when Mrs.\nHenry came to live hyeh.\"\n\nI paid no attention.\n\n\"He was a right elegant Dominicker,\" he continued.\n\nI felt a little riled about the snapping-turtle, and showed no interest\nin what he was saying, but continued my functions among the hens. This\nunusual silence of mine seemed to elicit unusual speech from him.\n\n\"Yu' see, that rooster he'd always lived round hyeh when the Judge was\na bachelor, and he never seen no ladies or any persons wearing female\ngyarments. You ain't got rheumatism, seh?\"\n\n\"Me? No.\"\n\n\"I reckoned maybe them little odd divers yu' got damp goin' afteh--\" He\npaused.\n\n\"Oh, no, not in the least, thank you.\"\n\n\"Yu' seemed sort o' grave this mawnin', and I'm cert'nly glad it ain't\nthem divers.\"\n\n\"Well, the rooster?\" I inquired finally.\n\n\"Oh, him! He weren't raised where he could see petticoats. Mrs. Henry\nshe come hyeh from the railroad with the Judge afteh dark. Next mawnin'\nearly she walked out to view her new home, and the rooster was a-feedin'\nby the door, and he seen her. Well, seh, he screeched that awful I run\nout of the bunk-house; and he jus' went over the fence and took down\nSunk Creek shoutin' fire, right along. He has never come back.\"\n\n\"There's a hen over there now that has no judgment,\" I said, indicating\nEm'ly. She had got herself outside the house, and was on the bars of a\ncorral, her vociferations reduced to an occasional squawk. I told him\nabout the potatoes.\n\n\"I never knowed her name before,\" said he. \"That runaway rooster, he\nhated her. And she hated him same as she hates 'em all.\"\n\n\"I named her myself,\" said I, \"after I came to notice her particularly.\nThere's an old maid at home who's charitable, and belongs to the Cruelty\nto Animals, and she never knows whether she had better cross in front\nof a street car or wait. I named the hen after her. Does she ever lay\neggs?\"\n\nThe Virginian had not \"troubled his haid\" over the poultry.\n\n\"Well, I don't believe she knows how. I think she came near being a\nrooster.\"\n\n\"She's sure manly-lookin',\" said the Virginian. We had walked toward the\ncorral, and he was now scrutinizing Em'ly with interest.\n\nShe was an egregious fowl. She was huge and gaunt, with great yellow\nbeak, and she stood straight and alert in the manner of responsible\npeople. There was something wrong with her tail. It slanted far to\none side, one feather in it twice as long as the rest. Feathers on her\nbreast there were none. These had been worn entirely off by her habit of\nsitting upon potatoes and other rough abnormal objects. And this lent\nto her appearance an air of being decollete, singularly at variance\nwith her otherwise prudish ensemble. Her eye was remarkably bright, but\nsomehow it had an outraged expression. It was as if she went about the\nworld perpetually scandalized over the doings that fell beneath her\nnotice. Her legs were blue, long, and remarkably stout.\n\n\"She'd ought to wear knickerbockers,\" murmured the Virginian. \"She'd\nlook a heap better 'n some o' them college students. And she'll set on\npotatoes, yu' say?\"\n\n\"She thinks she can hatch out anything. I've found her with onions, and\nlast Tuesday I caught her on two balls of soap.\"\n\nIn the afternoon the tall cow-puncher and I rode out to get an antelope.\n\nAfter an hour, during which he was completely taciturn, he said: \"I\nreckon maybe this hyeh lonesome country ain't been healthy for Em'ly to\nlive in. It ain't for some humans. Them old trappers in the mountains\ngets skewed in the haid mighty often, an' talks out loud when nobody's\nnigher 'n a hundred miles.\"\n\n\"Em'ly has not been solitary,\" I replied. \"There are forty chickens\nhere.\"\n\n\"That's so,\" said he. \"It don't explain her.\"\n\nHe fell silent again, riding beside me, easy and indolent in the saddle.\nHis long figure looked so loose and inert that the swift, light spring\nhe made to the ground seemed an impossible feat. He had seen an antelope\nwhere I saw none.\n\n\"Take a shot yourself,\" I urged him, as he motioned me to be quick. \"You\nnever shoot when I'm with you.\"\n\n\"I ain't hyeh for that,\" he answered. \"Now you've let him get away on\nyu'!\"\n\nThe antelope had in truth departed.\n\n\"Why,\" he said to my protest, \"I can hit them things any day. What's\nyour notion as to Em'ly?\"\n\n\"I can't account for her,\" I replied.\n\n\"Well,\" he said musingly, and then his mind took one of those particular\nturns that made me love him, \"Taylor ought to see her. She'd be just the\nschoolmarm for Bear Creek!\"\n\n\"She's not much like the eating-house lady at Medicine Bow,\" I said.\n\nHe gave a hilarious chuckle. \"No, Em'ly knows nothing o' them joys. So\nyu' have no notion about her? Well, I've got one. I reckon maybe she was\nhatched after a big thunderstorm.\"\n\n\"In a big thunderstorm!\" I exclaimed.\n\n\"Yes. Don't yu' know about them, and what they'll do to aiggs? A\nbig case o' lightnin' and thunder will addle aiggs and keep 'em from\nhatchin'. And I expect one came along, and all the other aiggs of\nEm'ly's set didn't hatch out, but got plumb addled, and she happened not\nto get addled that far, and so she just managed to make it through. But\nshe cert'nly ain't got a strong haid.\"\n\n\"I fear she has not,\" said I.\n\n\"Mighty hon'ble intentions,\" he observed. \"If she can't make out to lay\nanything, she wants to hatch somethin', and be a mother anyways.\"\n\n\"I wonder what relation the law considers that a hen is to the chicken\nshe hatched but did not lay?\" I inquired.\n\nThe Virginian made no reply to this frivolous suggestion. He was gazing\nover the wide landscape gravely and with apparent inattention. He\ninvariably saw game before I did, and was off his horse and crouched\namong the sage while I was still getting my left foot clear of the\nstirrup. I succeeded in killing an antelope, and we rode home with the\nhead and hind quarters.\n\n\"No,\" said he. \"It's sure the thunder, and not the lonesomeness. How do\nyu' like the lonesomeness yourself?\"\n\nI told him that I liked it.\n\n\"I could not live without it now,\" he said. \"This has got into my\nsystem.\" He swept his hand out at the vast space of world. \"I went back\nhome to see my folks onced. Mother was dyin' slow, and she wanted me.\nI stayed a year. But them Virginia mountains could please me no more.\nAfteh she was gone, I told my brothers and sisters good-by. We like each\nother well enough, but I reckon I'll not go back.\"\n\nWe found Em'ly seated upon a collection of green California peaches,\nwhich the Judge had brought from the railroad.\n\n\"I don't mind her any more,\" I said; \"I'm sorry for her.\"\n\n\"I've been sorry for her right along,\" said the Virginian. \"She does\nhate the roosters so.\" And he said that he was making a collection of\nevery class of object which he found her treating as eggs.\n\nBut Em'ly's egg-industry was terminated abruptly one morning, and her\nunquestioned energies diverted to a new channel. A turkey which had been\nsitting in the root-house appeared with twelve children, and a family of\nbantams occurred almost simultaneously. Em'ly was importantly scratching\nthe soil inside Paladin's corral when the bantam tribe of newly born\ncame by down the lane, and she caught sight of them through the bars.\nShe crossed the corral at a run, and intercepted two of the chicks that\nwere trailing somewhat behind their real mamma. These she undertook\nto appropriate, and assumed a high tone with the bantam, who was the\nsmaller, and hence obliged to retreat with her still numerous family.\nI interfered, and put matters straight; but the adjustment was only\ntemporary. In an hour I saw Em'ly immensely busy with two more bantams,\nleading them about and taking a care of them which I must admit seemed\nperfectly efficient.\n\nAnd now came the first incident that made me suspect her to be demented.\n\nShe had proceeded with her changelings behind the kitchen, where one of\nthe irrigation ditches ran under the fence from the hay-field to supply\nthe house with water. Some distance along this ditch inside the field\nwere the twelve turkeys in the short, recently cut stubble. Again Em'ly\nset off instantly like a deer. She left the dismayed bantams behind her.\nShe crossed the ditch with one jump of her stout blue legs, flew over\nthe grass, and was at once among the turkeys, where, with an instinct\nof maternity as undiscriminating as it was reckless, she attempted to\nhuddle some of them away. But this other mamma was not a bantam, and in\na few moments Em'ly was entirely routed in her attempt to acquire a new\nvariety of family.\n\nThis spectacle was witnessed by the Virginian and myself, and it\novercame him. He went speechless across to the bunk-house, by himself,\nand sat on his bed, while I took the abandoned bantams back to their own\ncircle.\n\nI have often wondered what the other fowls thought of all this. Some\nimpression it certainly did make upon them. The notion may seem out of\nreason to those who have never closely attended to other animals than\nman; but I am convinced that any community which shares some of our\ninstincts will share some of the resulting feelings, and that birds and\nbeasts have conventions, the breach of which startles them. If there be\nanything in evolution, this would seem inevitable. At all events,\nthe chicken-house was upset during the following several days. Em'ly\ndisturbed now the bantams and now the turkeys, and several of these\nlatter had died, though I will not go so far as to say that this was\nthe result of her misplaced attentions. Nevertheless, I was seriously\nthinking of locking her up till the broods should be a little older,\nwhen another event happened, and all was suddenly at peace.\n\nThe Judge's setter came in one morning, wagging her tail. She had had\nher puppies, and she now took us to where they were housed, in between\nthe floor of a building and the hollow ground. Em'ly was seated on the\nwhole litter.\n\n\"No,\" I said to the Judge, \"I am not surprised. She is capable of\nanything.\"\n\nIn her new choice of offspring, this hen had at length encountered an\nunworthy parent. The setter was bored by her own puppies. She found the\nhole under the house an obscure and monotonous residence compared with\nthe dining room, and our company more stimulating and sympathetic than\nthat of her children. A much-petted contact with our superior race had\ndeveloped her dog intelligence above its natural level, and turned her\ninto an unnatural, neglectful mother, who was constantly forgetting her\nnursery for worldly pleasures.\n\nAt certain periods of the day she repaired to the puppies and fed them,\nbut came away when this perfunctory ceremony was accomplished; and she\nwas glad enough to have a governess bring them up. She made no quarrel\nwith Em'ly, and the two understood each other perfectly. I have never\nseen among animals any arrangement so civilized and so perverted.\nIt made Em'ly perfectly happy. To see her sitting all day jealously\nspreading her wings over some blind puppies was sufficiently curious;\nbut when they became large enough to come out from under the house and\ntoddle about in the proud hen's wake, I longed for some distinguished\nnaturalist. I felt that our ignorance made us inappropriate spectators\nof such a phenomenon. Em'ly scratched and clucked, and the puppies ran\nto her, pawed her with their fat limp little legs, and retreated beneath\nher feathers in their games of hide and seek. Conceive, if you can, what\nconfusion must have reigned in their infant minds as to who the setter\nwas!\n\n\"I reckon they think she's the wet-nurse,\" said the Virginian.\n\nWhen the puppies grew to be boisterous, I perceived that Em'ly's\nmission was approaching its end. They were too heavy for her, and their\nincreasing scope of playfulness was not in her line. Once or twice they\nknocked her over, upon which she arose and pecked them severely, and\nthey retired to a safe distance, and sitting in a circle, yapped at\nher. I think they began to suspect that she was only a hen after all.\nSo Em'ly resigned with an indifference which surprised me, until I\nremembered that if it had been chickens, she would have ceased to look\nafter them by this time.\n\nBut here she was again \"out of a job,\" as the Virginian said.\n\n\"She's raised them puppies for that triflin' setter, and now she'll\nbe huntin' around for something else useful to do that ain't in her\nbusiness.\"\n\nNow there were other broods of chickens to arrive in the hen-house, and\nI did not desire any more bantam and turkey performances. So, to avoid\nconfusion, I played a trick upon Em'ly. I went down to Sunk Creek and\nfetched some smooth, oval stones. She was quite satisfied with these,\nand passed a quiet day with them in a box. This was not fair, the\nVirginian asserted.\n\n\"You ain't going to jus' leave her fooled that a-way?\"\n\nI did not see why not.\n\n\"Why, she raised them puppies all right. Ain't she showed she knows how\nto be a mother anyways? Em'ly ain't going to get her time took up for\nnothing while I'm round hyeh,\" said the cow-puncher.\n\nHe laid a gentle hold of Em'ly and tossed her to the ground. She, of\ncourse, rushed out among the corrals in a great state of nerves.\n\n\"I don't see what good you do meddling,\" I protested.\n\nTo this he deigned no reply, but removed the unresponsive stones from\nthe straw.\n\n\"Why, if they ain't right warm!\" he exclaimed plaintively. \"The poor,\ndeluded son-of-a-gun!\" And with this unusual description of a lady, he\nsent the stones sailing like a line of birds. \"I'm regular getting stuck\non Em'ly,\" continued the Virginian. \"Yu' needn't to laugh. Don't yu' see\nshe's got sort o' human feelin's and desires? I always knowed hawsses\nwas like people, and my collie, of course. It is kind of foolish, I\nexpect, but that hen's goin' to have a real aigg di-rectly, right now,\nto set on.\" With this he removed one from beneath another hen. \"We'll\nhave Em'ly raise this hyeh,\" said he, \"so she can put in her time\nprofitable.\"\n\nIt was not accomplished at once; for Em'ly, singularly enough, would\nnot consent to stay in the box whence she had been routed. At length we\nfound another retreat for her, and in these new surroundings, with a\nnew piece of work for her to do, Em'ly sat on the one egg which the\nVirginian had so carefully provided for her.\n\nThus, as in all genuine tragedies, was the stroke of Fate wrought by\nchance and the best intentions.\n\nEm'ly began sitting on Friday afternoon near sundown. Early next morning\nmy sleep was gradually dispersed by a sound unearthly and continuous.\nNow it dwindled, receding to a distance; again it came near, took a\nturn, drifted to the other side of the house; then, evidently, whatever\nit was, passed my door close, and I jumped upright in my bed. The high,\ntense strain of vibration, nearly, but not quite, a musical note, was\nlike the threatening scream of machinery, though weaker, and I bounded\nout of the house in my pajamas.\n\nThere was Em'ly, dishevelled, walking wildly about, her one egg\nmiraculously hatched within ten hours. The little lonely yellow ball of\ndown went cheeping along behind, following its mother as best it could.\nWhat, then, had happened to the established period of incubation? For\nan instant the thing was like a portent, and I was near joining Em'ly in\nher horrid surprise, when I saw how it all was. The Virginian had taken\nan egg from a hen which had already been sitting for three weeks.\n\nI dressed in haste, hearing Em'ly's distracted outcry. It steadily\nsounded, without perceptible pause for breath, and marked her erratic\njourney back and forth through stables, lanes, and corrals. The shrill\ndisturbance brought all of us out to see her, and in the hen-house I\ndiscovered the new brood making its appearance punctually.\n\nBut this natural explanation could not be made to the crazed hen. She\ncontinued to scour the premises, her slant tail and its one preposterous\nfeather waving as she aimlessly went, her stout legs stepping high with\nan unnatural motion, her head lifted nearly off her neck, and in\nher brilliant yellow eye an expression of more than outrage at\nthis overturning of a natural law. Behind her, entirely ignored and\nneglected, trailed the little progeny. She never looked at it. We went\nabout our various affairs, and all through the clear, sunny day that\nunending metallic scream pervaded the premises. The Virginian put out\nfood and water for her, but she tasted nothing. I am glad to say that\nthe little chicken did. I do not think that the hen's eyes could see,\nexcept in the way that sleep-walkers' do.\n\nThe heat went out of the air, and in the canyon the violet light began\nto show. Many hours had gone, but Em'ly never ceased. Now she suddenly\nflew up in a tree and sat there with her noise still going; but it had\nrisen lately several notes into a slim, acute level of terror, and was\nnot like machinery any more, nor like any sound I ever heard before or\nsince. Below the tree stood the bewildered little chicken, cheeping, and\nmaking tiny jumps to reach its mother.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the Virginian, \"it's comical. Even her aigg acted different\nfrom anybody else's.\" He paused, and looked across the wide, mellowing\nplain with the expression of easy-going gravity so common with him. Then\nhe looked at Em'ly in the tree and the yellow chicken.\n\n\"It ain't so damned funny,\" said he.\n\nWe went in to supper, and I came out to find the hen lying on the\nground, dead. I took the chicken to the family in the hen-house.\n\nNo, it was not altogether funny any more. And I did not think less of\nthe Virginian when I came upon him surreptitiously digging a little hole\nin the field for her.\n\n\"I have buried some citizens here and there,\" said he, \"that I have\nrespected less.\"\n\nAnd when the time came for me to leave Sunk Creek, my last word to the\nVirginian was, \"Don't forget Em'ly.\"\n\n\"I ain't likely to,\" responded the cow-puncher. \"She is just one o' them\nparables.\"\n\nSave when he fell into his native idioms (which, they told me, his\nwanderings had well-nigh obliterated until that year's visit to his home\nagain revived them in his speech), he had now for a long while dropped\nthe \"seh,\" and all other barriers between us. We were thorough friends,\nand had exchanged many confidences both of the flesh and of the spirit.\nHe even went the length of saying that he would write me the Sunk Creek\nnews if I would send him a line now and then. I have many letters from\nhim now. Their spelling came to be faultless, and in the beginning was\nlittle worse than George Washington's.\n\nThe Judge himself drove me to the railroad by another way--across the\nBow Leg Mountains, and south through Balaam's Ranch and Drybone to Rock\nCreek.\n\n\"I'll be very homesick,\" I told him.\n\n\"Come and pull the latch-string whenever you please,\" he bade me. I\nwished that I might! No lotus land ever cast its spell upon man's heart\nmore than Wyoming had enchanted mine.\n\n\n\n\nVII. THROUGH TWO SNOWS\n\n\n\"Dear Friend [thus in the spring the Virginian wrote me], Yours\nreceived. It must be a poor thing to be sick. That time I was shot at\nCanada de Oro would have made me sick if it had been a littel lower or\nif I was much of a drinking man. You will be well if you give over city\nlife and take a hunt with me about August or say September for then the\nelk will be out of the velvett.\n\n\"Things do not please me here just now and I am going to settel it\nby vamosing. But I would be glad to see you. It would be pleasure not\nbusiness for me to show you plenty elk and get you strong. I am not\ncrybabying to the Judge or making any kick about things. He will want\nme back after he has swallowed a litter tincture of time. It is the best\ndose I know.\n\n\"Now to answer your questions. Yes the Emmily hen might have ate loco\nweed if hens do. I never saw anything but stock and horses get poisoned\nwith loco weed. No the school is not built yet. They are always big\ntalkers on Bear Creek. No I have not seen Steve. He is around but I\nam sorry for him. Yes I have been to Medicine Bow. I had the welcom I\nwanted. Do you remember a man I played poker and he did not like it? He\nis working on the upper ranch near Ten Sleep. He does not amount to a\nthing except with weaklings. Uncle Hewie has twins. The boys got him\nvexed some about it, but I think they are his. Now that is all I know\nto-day and I would like to see you poco presently as they say at Los\nCruces. There's no sense in you being sick.\"\n\nThe rest of this letter discussed the best meeting point for us should I\ndecide to join him for a hunt.\n\nThat hunt was made, and during the weeks of its duration something was\nsaid to explain a little more fully the Virginian's difficulty at the\nSunk Creek Ranch, and his reason for leaving his excellent employer the\nJudge. Not much was said, to be sure; the Virginian seldom spent many\nwords upon his own troubles. But it appeared that owing to some jealousy\nof him on the part of the foreman, or the assistant foreman, he found\nhimself continually doing another man's work, but under circumstances so\nskilfully arranged that he got neither credit nor pay for it. He would\nnot stoop to telling tales out of school. Therefore his ready and\nprophetic mind devised the simple expedient of going away altogether.\nHe calculated that Judge Henry would gradually perceive there was a\nconnection between his departure and the cessation of the satisfactory\nwork. After a judicious interval it was his plan to appear again in the\nneighborhood of Sunk Creek and await results.\n\nConcerning Steve he would say no more than he had written. But it was\nplain that for some cause this friendship had ceased.\n\nMoney for his services during the hunt he positively declined to accept,\nasserting that he had not worked enough to earn his board. And the\nexpedition ended in an untravelled corner of the Yellowstone Park,\nnear Pitchstone Canyon, where he and young Lin McLean and others\nwere witnesses of a sad and terrible drama that has been elsewhere\nchronicled.\n\nHis prophetic mind had foreseen correctly the shape of events at Sunk\nCreek. The only thing that it had not foreseen was the impression to be\nmade upon the Judge's mind by his conduct.\n\nToward the close of that winter, Judge and Mrs. Henry visited the East.\nThrough them a number of things became revealed. The Virginian was back\nat Sunk Creek.\n\n\"And,\" said Mrs. Henry, \"he would never have left you if I had had my\nway, Judge H.!\"\n\n\"No, Madam Judge,\" retorted her husband; \"I am aware of that. For you\nhave always appreciated a fine appearance in a man.\"\n\n\"I certainly have,\" confessed the lady, mirthfully. \"And the way he\nused to come bringing my horse, with the ridges of his black hair so\ncarefully brushed and that blue spotted handkerchief tied so effectively\nround his throat, was something that I missed a great deal after he went\naway.\"\n\n\"Thank you, my dear, for this warning. I have plans that will keep him\nabsent quite constantly for the future.\"\n\nAnd then they spoke less flightily. \"I always knew,\" said the lady,\n\"that you had found a treasure when that man came.\"\n\nThe Judge laughed. \"When it dawned on me,\" he said, \"how cleverly he\ncaused me to learn the value of his services by depriving me of them, I\ndoubted whether it was safe to take him back.\"\n\n\"Safe!\" cried Mrs. Henry.\n\n\"Safe, my dear. Because I'm afraid he is pretty nearly as shrewd as I\nam. And that's rather dangerous in a subordinate.\" The Judge laughed\nagain. \"But his action regarding the man they call Steve has made me\nfeel easy.\"\n\nAnd then it came out that the Virginian was supposed to have discovered\nin some way that Steve had fallen from the grace of that particular\nhonesty which respects another man's cattle. It was not known for\ncertain. But calves had begun to disappear in Cattle Land, and cows had\nbeen found killed. And calves with one brand upon them had been found\nwith mothers that bore the brand of another owner. This industry was\ntaking root in Cattle Land, and of those who practised it, some were\nbeginning to be suspected. Steve was not quite fully suspected yet. But\nthat the Virginian had parted company with him was definitely known. And\nneither man would talk about it.\n\nThere was the further news that the Bear Creek schoolhouse at length\nstood complete, floor, walls, and roof; and that a lady from Bennington,\nVermont, a friend of Mrs. Balaam's, had quite suddenly decided that she\nwould try her hand at instructing the new generation.\n\nThe Judge and Mrs. Henry knew this because Mrs. Balaam had told them\nof her disappointment that she would be absent from the ranch on Butte\nCreek when her friend arrived, and therefore unable to entertain her.\nThe friend's decision had been quite suddenly made, and must form the\nsubject of the next chapter.\n\n\n\n\nVIII. THE SINCERE SPINSTER\n\n\nI do not know with which of the two estimates--Mr. Taylor's or the\nVirginian's--you agreed. Did you think that Miss Mary Stark Wood of\nBennington, Vermont, was forty years of age? That would have been an\nerror. At the time she wrote the letter to Mrs. Balaam, of which\nletter certain portions have been quoted in these pages, she was in\nher twenty-first year; or, to be more precise, she had been twenty some\neight months previous.\n\nNow, it is not usual for young ladies of twenty to contemplate a journey\nof nearly two thousand miles to a country where Indians and wild animals\nlive unchained, unless they are to make such journey in company with a\nprotector, or are going to a protector's arms at the other end. Nor is\nschool teaching on Bear Creek a usual ambition for such young ladies.\n\nBut Miss Mary Stark Wood was not a usual young lady for two reasons.\n\nFirst, there was her descent. Had she so wished, she could have belonged\nto any number of those patriotic societies of which our American ears\nhave grown accustomed to hear so much. She could have been enrolled in\nthe Boston Tea Party, the Ethan Allen Ticonderogas, the Green Mountain\nDaughters, the Saratoga Sacred Circle, and the Confederated Colonial\nChatelaines. She traced direct descent from the historic lady whose name\nshe bore, that Molly Stark who was not a widow after the battle where\nher lord, her Captain John, battled so bravely as to send his name\nthrilling down through the blood of generations of schoolboys. This\nancestress was her chief claim to be a member of those shining societies\nwhich I have enumerated. But she had been willing to join none of them,\nalthough invitations to do so were by no means lacking. I cannot tell\nyou her reason. Still, I can tell you this. When these societies were\nmuch spoken of in her presence, her very sprightly countenance became\nmore sprightly, and she added her words of praise or respect to the\ngeneral chorus. But when she received an invitation to join one of\nthese bodies, her countenance, as she read the missive, would assume an\nexpression which was known to her friends as \"sticking her nose in the\nair.\" I do not think that Molly's reason for refusing to join could have\nbeen a truly good one. I should add that her most precious possession--a\ntreasure which accompanied her even if she went away for only one\nnight's absence--was an heirloom, a little miniature portrait of the old\nMolly Stark, painted when that far-off dame must have been scarce more\nthan twenty. And when each summer the young Molly went to Dunbarton, New\nHampshire, to pay her established family visit to the last survivors of\nher connection who bore the name of Stark, no word that she heard in the\nDunbarton houses pleased her so much as when a certain great-aunt would\ntake her by the hand, and, after looking with fond intentness at her,\npronounce: \"My dear, you're getting more like the General's wife every\nyear you live.\"\n\n\"I suppose you mean my nose,\" Molly would then reply.\n\n\"Nonsense, child. You have the family length of nose, and I've never\nheard that it has disgraced us.\"\n\n\"But I don't think I'm tall enough for it.\"\n\n\"There now, run to your room, and dress for tea. The Starks have always\nbeen punctual.\"\n\nAnd after this annual conversation, Molly would run to her room, and\nthere in its privacy, even at the risk of falling below the punctuality\nof the Starks, she would consult two objects for quite a minute before\nshe began to dress. These objects, as you have already correctly\nguessed, were the miniature of the General's wife and the looking glass.\n\nSo much for Miss Molly Stark Wood's descent.\n\nThe second reason why she was not a usual girl was her character. This\ncharacter was the result of pride and family pluck battling with family\nhardship.\n\nJust one year before she was to be presented to the world--not the great\nmetropolitan world, but a world that would have made her welcome and\ndone her homage at its little dances and little dinners in Troy and\nRutland and Burlington--fortune had turned her back upon the Woods.\nTheir possessions had never been great ones; but they had sufficed. From\ngeneration to generation the family had gone to school like gentlefolk,\ndressed like gentlefolk, used the speech and ways of gentlefolk, and as\ngentlefolk lived and died. And now the mills failed.\n\nInstead of thinking about her first evening dress, Molly found pupils\nto whom she could give music lessons. She found handkerchiefs that she\ncould embroider with initials. And she found fruit that she could\nmake into preserves. That machine called the typewriter was then in\nexistence, but the day of women typewriters had as yet scarcely begun\nto dawn, else I think Molly would have preferred this occupation to the\nhandkerchiefs and the preserves.\n\nThere were people in Bennington who \"wondered how Miss Wood could go\nabout from house to house teaching the piano, and she a lady.\" There\nalways have been such people, I suppose, because the world must always\nhave a rubbish heap. But we need not dwell upon them further than to\nmention one other remark of theirs regarding Molly. They all with one\nvoice declared that Sam Bannett was good enough for anybody who did\nfancy embroidery at five cents a letter.\n\n\"I dare say he had a great-grandmother quite as good as hers,\" remarked\nMrs. Flynt, the wife of the Baptist minister.\n\n\"That's entirely possible,\" returned the Episcopal rector of Hoosic,\n\"only we don't happen to know who she was.\" The rector was a friend of\nMolly's. After this little observation, Mrs. Flynt said no more, but\ncontinued her purchases in the store where she and the rector had\nhappened to find themselves together. Later she stated to a friend that\nshe had always thought the Episcopal Church a snobbish one, and now she\nknew it.\n\nSo public opinion went on being indignant over Molly's conduct. She\ncould stoop to work for money, and yet she pretended to hold herself\nabove the most rising young man in Hoosic Falls, and all just because\nthere was a difference in their grandmothers!\n\nWas this the reason at the bottom of it? The very bottom? I cannot be\ncertain, because I have never been a girl myself. Perhaps she thought\nthat work is not a stooping, and that marriage may be. Perhaps--But all\nI really know is that Molly Wood continued cheerfully to embroider\nthe handkerchiefs, make the preserves, teach the pupils--and firmly to\nreject Sam Bannett.\n\nThus it went on until she was twenty. There certain members of her\nfamily began to tell her how rich Sam was going to be--was, indeed,\nalready. It was at this time that she wrote Mrs. Balaam her doubts and\nher desires as to migrating to Bear Creek. It was at this time also\nthat her face grew a little paler, and her friends thought that she was\noverworked, and Mrs. Flynt feared she was losing her looks. It was at\nthis time, too, that she grew very intimate with that great-aunt over at\nDunbarton, and from her received much comfort and strengthening.\n\n\"Never!\" said the old lady, \"especially if you can't love him.\"\n\n\"I do like him,\" said Molly; \"and he is very kind.\"\n\n\"Never!\" said the old lady again. \"When I die, you'll have\nsomething--and that will not be long now.\"\n\nMolly flung her arms around her aunt, and stopped her words with a kiss.\nAnd then one winter afternoon, two years later, came the last straw.\n\nThe front door of the old house had shut. Out of it had stepped the\npersistent suitor. Mrs. Flynt watched him drive away in his smart\nsleigh.\n\n\"That girl is a fool!\" she said furiously; and she came away from her\nbedroom window where she had posted herself for observation.\n\nInside the old house a door had also shut. This was the door of Molly's\nown room. And there she sat, in floods of tears. For she could not bear\nto hurt a man who loved her with all the power of love that was in him.\n\nIt was about twilight when her door opened, and an elderly lady came\nsoftly in.\n\n\"My dear,\" she ventured, \"and you were not able--\"\n\n\"Oh, mother!\" cried the girl, \"have you come to say that too?\"\n\nThe next day Miss Wood had become very hard. In three weeks she\nhad accepted the position on Bear Creek. In two months she started,\nheart-heavy, but with a spirit craving the unknown.\n\n\n\n\nIX. THE SPINSTER MEETS THE UNKNOWN\n\n\nOn a Monday noon a small company of horsemen strung out along the trail\nfrom Sunk Creek to gather cattle over their allotted sweep of range.\nSpring was backward, and they, as they rode galloping and gathering\nupon the cold week's work, cursed cheerily and occasionally sang. The\nVirginian was grave in bearing and of infrequent speech; but he kept\na song going--a matter of some seventy-nine verses. Seventy-eight were\nquite unprintable, and rejoiced his brother cow-punchers monstrously.\nThey, knowing him to be a singular man, forebore ever to press him, and\nawaited his own humor, lest he should weary of the lyric; and when after\na day of silence apparently saturnine, he would lift his gentle voice\nand begin:\n\n     \"If you go to monkey with my Looloo girl,\n      I'll tell you what I'll do:\n      I'll cyarve your heart with my razor, AND\n      I'll shoot you with my pistol, too--\"\n\nthen they would stridently take up each last line, and keep it going\nthree, four, ten times, and kick holes in the ground to the swing of it.\n\nBy the levels of Bear Creek that reach like inlets among the\npromontories of the lonely hills, they came upon the schoolhouse, roofed\nand ready for the first native Wyoming crop. It symbolized the dawn of a\nneighborhood, and it brought a change into the wilderness air. The feel\nof it struck cold upon the free spirits of the cow-punchers, and they\ntold each other that, what with women and children and wire fences, this\ncountry would not long be a country for men. They stopped for a meal at\nan old comrade's. They looked over his gate, and there he was pattering\namong garden furrows.\n\n\"Pickin' nosegays?\" inquired the Virginian and the old comrade asked\nif they could not recognize potatoes except in the dish. But he grinned\nsheepishly at them, too, because they knew that he had not always lived\nin a garden. Then he took them into his house, where they saw an object\ncrawling on the floor with a handful of sulphur matches. He began to\nremove the matches, but stopped in alarm at the vociferous result; and\nhis wife looked in from the kitchen to caution him about humoring little\nChristopher.\n\nWhen she beheld the matches she was aghast but when she saw her baby\ngrow quiet in the arms of the Virginian, she smiled at that cow-puncher\nand returned to her kitchen.\n\nThen the Virginian slowly spoke again: \"How many little strangers have\nyu' got, James?\"\n\n\"Only two.\"\n\n\"My! Ain't it most three years since yu' maried? Yu' mustn't let time\ncreep ahaid o' yu', James.\"\n\nThe father once more grinned at his guests, who themselves turned\nsheepish and polite; for Mrs. Westfall came in, brisk and hearty, and\nset the meat upon the table. After that, it was she who talked. The\nguests ate scrupulously, muttering, \"Yes, ma'am,\" and \"No, ma'am,\" in\ntheir plates, while their hostess told them of increasing families upon\nBear Creek, and the expected school-teacher, and little Alfred's early\nteething, and how it was time for all of them to become husbands like\nJames. The bachelors of the saddle listened, always diffident,\nbut eating heartily to the end; and soon after they rode away in a\nthoughtful clump. The wives of Bear Creek were few as yet, and the homes\nscattered; the schoolhouse was only a sprig on the vast face of a world\nof elk and bear and uncertain Indians; but that night, when the earth\nnear the fire was littered with the cow-punchers' beds, the Virginian\nwas heard drawling to himself: \"Alfred and Christopher. Oh, sugar!\"\n\nThey found pleasure in the delicately chosen shade of this oath. He also\nrecited to them a new verse about how he took his Looloo girl to the\nschoolhouse for to learn her A B C; and as it was quite original and\nunprintable, the camp laughed and swore joyfully, and rolled in its\nblankets to sleep under the stars.\n\nUpon a Monday noon likewise (for things will happen so) some tearful\npeople in petticoats waved handkerchiefs at a train that was just\nleaving Bennington, Vermont. A girl's face smiled back at them once, and\nwithdrew quickly, for they must not see the smile die away.\n\nShe had with her a little money, a few clothes, and in her mind a rigid\ndetermination neither to be a burden to her mother nor to give in to\nthat mother's desires. Absence alone would enable her to carry out\nthis determination. Beyond these things, she possessed not much except\nspelling-books, a colonial miniature, and that craving for the unknown\nwhich has been mentioned. If the ancestors that we carry shut up inside\nus take turns in dictating to us our actions and our state of mind,\nundoubtedly Grandmother Stark was empress of Molly's spirit upon this\nMonday.\n\nAt Hoosic Junction, which came soon, she passed the up-train bound back\nto her home, and seeing the engineer and the conductor,--faces that she\nknew well,--her courage nearly failed her, and she shut her eyes against\nthis glimpse of the familiar things that she was leaving. To keep\nherself steady she gripped tightly a little bunch of flowers in her\nhand.\n\nBut something caused her eyes to open; and there before her stood Sam\nBannett, asking if he might accompany her so far as Rotterdam Junction.\n\n\"No!\" she told him with a severity born from the struggle she was making\nwith her grief. \"Not a mile with me. Not to Eagle Bridge. Good-by.\"\n\nAnd Sam--what did he do? He obeyed her, I should like to be sorry for\nhim. But obedience was not a lover's part here. He hesitated, the golden\nmoment hung hovering, the conductor cried \"All aboard!\" the train went,\nand there on the platform stood obedient Sam, with his golden moment\ngone like a butterfly.\n\nAfter Rotterdam Junction, which was some forty minutes farther, Molly\nWood sat bravely up in the through car, dwelling upon the unknown. She\nthought that she had attained it in Ohio, on Tuesday morning, and wrote\na letter about it to Bennington. On Wednesday afternoon she felt sure,\nand wrote a letter much more picturesque. But on the following day,\nafter breakfast at North Platte, Nebraska, she wrote a very long letter\nindeed, and told them that she had seen a black pig on a white pile of\nbuffalo bones, catching drops of water in the air as they fell from the\nrailroad tank. She also wrote that trees were extraordinarily scarce.\nEach hour westward from the pig confirmed this opinion, and when she\nleft the train at Rock Creek, late upon that fourth night,--in those\ndays the trains were slower,--she knew that she had really attained the\nunknown, and sent an expensive telegram to say that she was quite well.\n\nAt six in the morning the stage drove away into the sage-brush, with her\nas its only passenger; and by sundown she had passed through some of the\nprimitive perils of the world. The second team, virgin to harness, and\ndispleased with this novelty, tried to take it off, and went down to the\nbottom of a gully on its eight hind legs, while Miss Wood sat mute and\nunflinching beside the driver. Therefore he, when it was over, and they\non the proper road again, invited her earnestly to be his wife during\nmany of the next fifteen miles, and told her of his snug cabin and his\nhorses and his mine. Then she got down and rode inside, Independence and\nGrandmother Stark shining in her eye. At Point of Rocks, where they had\nsupper and his drive ended, her face distracted his heart, and he told\nher once more about his cabin, and lamentably hoped she would remember\nhim. She answered sweetly that she would try, and gave him her hand.\nAfter all, he was a frank-looking boy, who had paid her the highest\ncompliment that a boy (or a man for that matter) knows; and it is said\nthat Molly Stark, in her day, was not a New Woman.\n\nThe new driver banished the first one from the maiden's mind. He was not\na frank-looking boy, and he had been taking whiskey. All night long he\ntook it, while his passenger, helpless and sleepless inside the lurching\nstage, sat as upright as she possibly could; nor did the voices that she\nheard at Drybone reassure her. Sunrise found the white stage lurching\neternally on across the alkali, with a driver and a bottle on the\nbox, and a pale girl staring out at the plain, and knotting in her\nhandkerchief some utterly dead flowers. They came to a river where the\nman bungled over the ford. Two wheels sank down over an edge, and the\ncanvas toppled like a descending kite. The ripple came sucking through\nthe upper spokes, and as she felt the seat careen, she put out her\nhead and tremulously asked if anything was wrong. But the driver was\naddressing his team with much language, and also with the lash.\n\nThen a tall rider appeared close against the buried axles, and took her\nout of the stage on his horse so suddenly that she screamed. She felt\nsplashes, saw a swimming flood, and found herself lifted down upon the\nshore. The rider said something to her about cheering up, and its being\nall right, but her wits were stock-still, so she did not speak and thank\nhim. After four days of train and thirty hours of stage, she was having\na little too much of the unknown at once. Then the tall man gently\nwithdrew leaving her to become herself again. She limply regarded the\nriver pouring round the slanted stage, and a number of horsemen with\nropes, who righted the vehicle, and got it quickly to dry land, and\ndisappeared at once with a herd of cattle, uttering lusty yells.\n\nShe saw the tall one delaying beside the driver, and speaking. He spoke\nso quietly that not a word reached her, until of a sudden the driver\nprotested loudly. The man had thrown something, which turned out to be\na bottle. This twisted loftily and dived into the stream. He said\nsomething more to the driver, then put his hand on the saddle-horn,\nlooked half-lingeringly at the passenger on the bank, dropped his\ngrave eyes from hers, and swinging upon his horse, was gone just as the\npassenger opened her mouth and with inefficient voice murmured, \"Oh,\nthank you!\" at his departing back.\n\nThe driver drove up now, a chastened creature. He helped Miss Wood in,\nand inquired after her welfare with a hanging head; then meek as his own\ndrenched horses, he climbed back to his reins, and nursed the stage on\ntoward the Bow Leg Mountains much as if it had been a perambulator.\n\nAs for Miss Wood, she sat recovering, and she wondered what the man on\nthe horse must think of her. She knew that she was not ungrateful, and\nthat if he had given her an opportunity she would have explained to him.\nIf he supposed that she did not appreciate his act--Here into the midst\nof these meditations came an abrupt memory that she had screamed--she\ncould not be sure when. She rehearsed the adventure from the beginning,\nand found one or two further uncertainties--how it had all been while\nshe was on the horse, for instance. It was confusing to determine\nprecisely what she had done with her arms. She knew where one of his\narms had been. And the handkerchief with the flowers was gone. She made\na few rapid dives in search of it. Had she, or had she not, seen him\nputting something in his pocket? And why had she behaved so unlike\nherself? In a few miles Miss Wood entertained sentiments of maidenly\nresentment toward her rescuer, and of maidenly hope to see him again.\n\nTo that river crossing he came again, alone, when the days were growing\nshort. The ford was dry sand, and the stream a winding lane of\nshingle. He found a pool,--pools always survive the year round in this\nstream,--and having watered his pony, he lunched near the spot to\nwhich he had borne the frightened passenger that day. Where the flowing\ncurrent had been he sat, regarding the now extremely safe channel.\n\n\"She cert'nly wouldn't need to grip me so close this mawnin',\" he said,\nas he pondered over his meal. \"I reckon it will mightily astonish her\nwhen I tell her how harmless the torrent is lookin'.\" He held out to\nhis pony a slice of bread matted with sardines, which the pony expertly\naccepted. \"You're a plumb pie-biter you Monte,\" he continued. Monte\nrubbed his nose on his master's shoulder. \"I wouldn't trust you with\nberries and cream. No, seh; not though yu' did rescue a drownin' lady.\"\n\nPresently he tightened the forward cinch, got in the saddle, and the\npony fell into his wise mechanical jog; for he had come a long way, and\nwas going a long way, and he knew this as well as the man did.\n\nTo use the language of Cattle Land, steers had \"jumped to seventy-five.\"\nThis was a great and prosperous leap in their value. To have flourished\nin that golden time you need not be dead now, nor even middle-aged; but\nit is Wyoming mythology already--quite as fabulous as the high-jumping\ncow. Indeed, people gathered together and behaved themselves much in\nthe same pleasant and improbable way. Johnson County, and Natrona, and\nConverse, and others, to say nothing of the Cheyenne Club, had been\njumping over the moon for some weeks, all on account of steers; and\non the strength of this vigorous price of seventy-five, the Stanton\nBrothers were giving a barbecue at the Goose Egg outfit, their ranch on\nBear Creek. Of course the whole neighborhood was bidden, and would come\nforty miles to a man; some would come further--the Virginian was coming\na hundred and eighteen. It had struck him--rather suddenly, as shall be\nmade plain--that he should like to see how they were getting along up\nthere on Bear Creek. \"They,\" was how he put it to his acquaintances. His\nacquaintances did not know that he had bought himself a pair of trousers\nand a scarf, unnecessarily excellent for such a general visit. They\ndid not know that in the spring, two days after the adventure with the\nstage, he had learned accidentally who the lady in the stage was. This\nhe had kept to himself; nor did the camp ever notice that he had ceased\nto sing that eightieth stanza he had made about the A B C--the stanza\nwhich was not printable. He effaced it imperceptibly, giving the boys\nthe other seventy-nine at judicious intervals. They dreamed of no guile,\nbut merely saw in him, whether frequenting camp or town, the same not\nover-angelic comrade whom they valued and could not wholly understand.\n\nAll spring he had ridden trail, worked at ditches during summer, and\nnow he had just finished with the beef round-up. Yesterday, while he was\nspending a little comfortable money at the Drybone hog-ranch, a casual\ntraveller from the north gossiped of Bear Creek, and the fences up\nthere, and the farm crops, the Westfalls, and the young schoolmarm from\nVermont, for whom the Taylors had built a cabin next door to theirs. The\ntraveller had not seen her, but Mrs. Taylor and all the ladies thought\nthe world of her, and Lin McLean had told him she was \"away up in G.\"\nShe would have plenty of partners at this Swinton barbecue. Great boon\nfor the country, wasn't it, steers jumping that way?\n\nThe Virginian heard, asking no questions; and left town in an hour,\nwith the scarf and trousers tied in his slicker behind his saddle. After\nlooking upon the ford again, even though it was dry and not at all the\nsame place, he journeyed in attentively. When you have been hard at\nwork for months with no time to think, of course you think a great deal\nduring your first empty days. \"Step along, you Monte hawss!\" he said,\nrousing after some while. He disciplined Monte, who flattened his ears\naffectedly and snorted. \"Why, you surely ain' thinkin' of you'-self as\na hero? She wasn't really a-drowndin', you pie-biter.\" He rested his\nserious glance upon the alkali. \"She's not likely to have forgot that\nmix-up, though. I guess I'll not remind her about grippin' me, and all\nthat. She wasn't the kind a man ought to josh about such things. She had\na right clear eye.\" Thus, tall and loose in the saddle, did he jog along\nthe sixty miles which still lay between him and the dance.\n\n\n\n\nX. WHERE FANCY WAS BRED\n\n\nTwo camps in the open, and the Virginian's Monte horse, untired, brought\nhim to the Swintons' in good time for the barbecue. The horse received\ngood food at length, while his rider was welcomed with good whiskey.\nGOOD whiskey--for had not steers jumped to seventy-five?\n\nInside the Goose Egg kitchen many small delicacies were preparing, and\na steer was roasting whole outside. The bed of flame under it showed\nsteadily brighter against the dusk that was beginning to veil the\nlowlands. The busy hosts went and came, while men stood and men lay near\nthe fire-glow. Chalkeye was there, and Nebrasky, and Trampas, and\nHoney Wiggin, with others, enjoying the occasion; but Honey Wiggin was\nenjoying himself: he had an audience; he was sitting up discoursing to\nit.\n\n\"Hello!\" he said, perceiving the Virginian. \"So you've dropped in for\nyour turn! Number--six, ain't he, boys?\"\n\n\"Depends who's a-runnin' the countin',\" said the Virginian, and\nstretched himself down among the audience.\n\n\"I've saw him number one when nobody else was around,\" said Trampas.\n\n\"How far away was you standin' when you beheld that?\" inquired the\nlounging Southerner.\n\n\"Well, boys,\" said Wiggin, \"I expect it will be Miss Schoolmarm says\nwho's number one to-night.\"\n\n\"So she's arrived in this hyeh country?\" observed the Virginian, very\ncasually.\n\n\"Arrived!\" said Trampas again. \"Where have you been grazing lately?\"\n\n\"A right smart way from the mules.\"\n\n\"Nebrasky and the boys was tellin' me they'd missed yu' off the range,\"\nagain interposed Wiggin. \"Say, Nebrasky, who have yu' offered your\ncanary to the schoolmarm said you mustn't give her?\"\n\nNebrasky grinned wretchedly.\n\n\"Well, she's a lady, and she's square, not takin' a man's gift when she\ndon't take the man. But you'd ought to get back all them letters yu'\nwrote her. Yu' sure ought to ask her for them tell-tales.\"\n\n\"Ah, pshaw, Honey!\" protested the youth. It was well known that he could\nnot write his name.\n\n\"Why, if here ain't Bokay Baldy!\" cried the agile Wiggin, stooping to\nfresh prey. \"Found them slippers yet, Baldy? Tell yu' boys, that was\nturruble sad luck Baldy had. Did yu' hear about that? Baldy, yu' know,\nhe can stay on a tame horse most as well as the schoolmarm. But just you\ngive him a pair of young knittin'-needles and see him make 'em sweat!\nHe worked an elegant pair of slippers with pink cabbages on 'em for Miss\nWood.\"\n\n\"I bought 'em at Medicine Bow,\" blundered Baldy.\n\n\"So yu' did!\" assented the skilful comedian. \"Baldy he bought 'em. And\non the road to her cabin there at the Taylors' he got thinkin' they\nmight be too big, and he got studyin' what to do. And he fixed up to\ntell her about his not bein' sure of the size, and how she was to let\nhim know if they dropped off her, and he'd exchange 'em, and when he\ngot right near her door, why, he couldn't find his courage. And so he\nslips the parcel under the fence and starts serenadin' her. But she\nain't inside her cabin at all. She's at supper next door with the\nTaylors, and Baldy singin' 'Love has conqwered pride and angwer' to a\nlone house. Lin McLean was comin' up by Taylor's corral, where Taylor's\nTexas bull was. Well, it was turruble sad. Baldy's pants got tore, but\nhe fell inside the fence, and Lin druv the bull back and somebody stole\nthem Medicine Bow galoshes. Are you goin' to knit her some more, Bokay?\"\n\n\"About half that ain't straight,\" Baldy commented, with mildness.\n\n\"The half that was tore off yer pants? Well, never mind, Baldy; Lin will\nget left too, same as all of yu'.\"\n\n\"Is there many?\" inquired the Virginian. He was still stretched on his\nback, looking up at the sky.\n\n\"I don't know how many she's been used to where she was raised,\" Wiggin\nanswered. \"A kid stage-driver come from Point of Rocks one day and went\nback the next. Then the foreman of the 76 outfit, and the horse-wrangler\nfrom the Bar-Circle-L, and two deputy marshals, with punchers, stringin'\nright along,--all got their tumble. Old Judge Burrage from Cheyenne come\nup in August for a hunt and stayed round here and never hunted at all.\nThere was that horse thief--awful good-lookin'. Taylor wanted to warn\nher about him, but Mrs. Taylor said she'd look after her if it was\nneeded. Mr. Horse-thief gave it up quicker than most; but the schoolmarm\ncouldn't have knowed he had a Mrs. Horse-thief camped on Poison Spider\ntill afterwards. She wouldn't go ridin' with him. She'll go with some,\ntakin' a kid along.\"\n\n\"Bah!\" said Trampas.\n\nThe Virginian stopped looking at the sky, and watched Trampas from where\nhe lay.\n\n\"I think she encourages a man some,\" said poor Nebrasky.\n\n\"Encourages? Because she lets yu' teach her how to shoot,\" said Wiggin.\n\"Well--I don't guess I'm a judge. I've always kind o' kep' away from\nthem good women. Don't seem to think of anything to chat about to 'em.\nThe only folks I'd say she encourages is the school kids. She kisses\nthem.\"\n\n\"Riding and shooting and kissing the kids,\" sneered Trampas. \"That's a\nheap too pussy-kitten for me.\"\n\nThey laughed. The sage-brush audience is readily cynical.\n\n\"Look for the man, I say,\" Trampas pursued. \"And ain't he there? She\nleaves Baldy sit on the fence while she and Lin McLean--\"\n\nThey laughed loudly at the blackguard picture which he drew; and the\nlaugh stopped short, for the Virginian stood over Trampas.\n\n\"You can rise up now, and tell them you lie,\" he said.\n\nThe man was still for a moment in the dead silence. \"I thought you\nclaimed you and her wasn't acquainted,\" said he then.\n\n\"Stand on your laigs, you polecat, and say you're a liar!\"\n\nTrampas's hand moved behind him.\n\n\"Quit that,\" said the Southerner, \"or I'll break your neck!\"\n\nThe eye of a man is the prince of deadly weapons. Trampas looked in the\nVirginian's, and slowly rose. \"I didn't mean--\" he began, and paused,\nhis face poisonously bloated.\n\n\"Well, I'll call that sufficient. Keep a-standin' still. I ain' going\nto trouble yu' long. In admittin' yourself to be a liar you have spoke\nGod's truth for onced. Honey Wiggin, you and me and the boys have hit\ntown too frequent for any of us to play Sunday on the balance of\nthe gang.\" He stopped and surveyed Public Opinion, seated around in\ncarefully inexpressive attention. \"We ain't a Christian outfit a little\nbit, and maybe we have most forgotten what decency feels like. But I\nreckon we haven't forgot what it means. You can sit down now, if you\nwant.\"\n\nThe liar stood and sneered experimentally, looking at Public Opinion.\nBut this changeful deity was no longer with him, and he heard it\nvariously assenting, \"That's so,\" and \"She's a lady,\" and otherwise\nexcellently moralizing. So he held his peace. When, however, the\nVirginian had departed to the roasting steer, and Public Opinion relaxed\ninto that comfort which we all experience when the sermon ends, Trampas\nsat down amid the reviving cheerfulness, and ventured again to be\nfacetious.\n\n\"Shut your rank mouth,\" said Wiggin to him, amiably. \"I don't care\nwhether he knows her or if he done it on principle. I'll accept the\nroundin' up he gave us--and say! You'll swallo' your dose, too! Us\nboys'll stand in with him in this.\"\n\nSo Trampas swallowed. And what of the Virginian?\n\nHe had championed the feeble, and spoken honorably in meeting, and\naccording to all the constitutions and by-laws of morality, he should\nhave been walking in virtue's especial calm. But there it was! he had\nspoken; he had given them a peep through the key-hole at his inner\nman; and as he prowled away from the assemblage before whom he stood\nconvicted of decency, it was vicious rather than virtuous that he felt.\nOther matters also disquieted him--so Lin McLean was hanging round that\nschoolmarm! Yet he joined Ben Swinton in a seemingly Christian spirit.\nHe took some whiskey and praised the size of the barrel, speaking with\nhis host like this: \"There cert'nly ain' goin' to be trouble about a\nsecond helpin'.\"\n\n\"Hope not. We'd ought to have more trimmings, though. We're shy on\nducks.\"\n\n\"Yu' have the barrel. Has Lin McLean seen that?\"\n\n\"No. We tried for ducks away down as far as the Laparel outfit. A real\nbarbecue--\"\n\n\"There's large thirsts on Bear Creek. Lin McLean will pass on ducks.\"\n\n\"Lin's not thirsty this month.\"\n\n\"Signed for one month, has he?\"\n\n\"Signed! He's spooning our schoolmarm!\"\n\n\"They claim she's a right sweet-faced girl.\"\n\n\"Yes; yes; awful agreeable. And next thing you're fooled clean through.\"\n\n\"Yu' don't say!\"\n\n\"She keeps a-teaching the darned kids, and it seems like a good\ngrowed-up man can't interest her.\"\n\n\"YU' DON'T SAY!\"\n\n\"There used to be all the ducks you wanted at the Laparel, but their\nfool cook's dead stuck on raising turkeys this year.\"\n\n\"That must have been mighty close to a drowndin' the schoolmarm got at\nSouth Fork.\"\n\n\"Why, I guess not. When? She's never spoken of any such thing--that I've\nheard.\"\n\n\"Mos' likely the stage-driver got it wrong, then.\"\n\n\"Yes. Must have drownded somebody else. Here they come! That's her\nridin' the horse. There's the Westfalls. Where are you running to?\"\n\n\"To fix up. Got any soap around hyeh?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" shouted Swinton, for the Virginian was now some distance away;\n\"towels and everything in the dugout.\" And he went to welcome his first\nformal guests.\n\nThe Virginian reached his saddle under a shed. \"So she's never mentioned\nit,\" said he, untying his slicker for the trousers and scarf. \"I\ndidn't notice Lin anywheres around her.\" He was over in the dugout now,\nwhipping off his overalls; and soon he was excellently clean and ready,\nexcept for the tie in his scarf and the part in his hair. \"I'd have\nknowed her in Greenland,\" he remarked. He held the candle up and down at\nthe looking-glass, and the looking-glass up and down at his head. \"It's\nmighty strange why she ain't mentioned that.\" He worried the scarf a\nfold or two further, and at length, a trifle more than satisfied with\nhis appearance, he proceeded most serenely toward the sound of the\ntuning fiddles. He passed through the store-room behind the kitchen,\nstepping lightly lest he should rouse the ten or twelve babies that lay\non the table or beneath it. On Bear Creek babies and children always\nwent with their parents to a dance, because nurses were unknown. So\nlittle Alfred and Christopher lay there among the wraps, parallel and\ncrosswise with little Taylors, and little Carmodys, and Lees, and all\nthe Bear Creek offspring that was not yet able to skip at large and\nhamper its indulgent elders in the ball-room.\n\n\"Why, Lin ain't hyeh yet!\" said the Virginian, looking in upon the\npeople. There was Miss Wood, standing up for the quadrille. \"I didn't\nremember her hair was that pretty,\" said he. \"But ain't she a little,\nlittle girl!\"\n\nNow she was in truth five feet three; but then he could look away down\non the top of her head.\n\n\"Salute your honey!\" called the first fiddler. All partners bowed to\neach other, and as she turned, Miss Wood saw the man in the doorway.\nAgain, as it had been at South Fork that day, his eyes dropped from\nhers, and she divining instantly why he had come after half a year,\nthought of the handkerchief and of that scream of hers in the river, and\nbecame filled with tyranny and anticipation; for indeed he was fine to\nlook upon. So she danced away, carefully unaware of his existence.\n\n\"First lady, centre!\" said her partner, reminding her of her turn. \"Have\nyou forgotten how it goes since last time?\"\n\nMolly Wood did not forget again, but quadrilled with the most sprightly\ndevotion.\n\n\"I see some new faces to-night,\" said she, presently.\n\n\"Yu' always do forget our poor faces,\" said her partner.\n\n\"Oh, no! There's a stranger now. Who is that black man?\"\n\n\"Well--he's from Virginia, and he ain't allowin' he's black.\"\n\n\"He's a tenderfoot, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Ha, ha, ha! That's rich, too!\" and so the simple partner explained a\ngreat deal about the Virginian to Molly Wood. At the end of the set she\nsaw the man by the door take a step in her direction.\n\n\"Oh,\" said she, quickly, to the partner, \"how warm it is! I must see\nhow those babies are doing.\" And she passed the Virginian in a breeze of\nunconcern.\n\nHis eyes gravely lingered where she had gone. \"She knowed me right\naway,\" said he. He looked for a moment, then leaned against the door.\n\"'How warm it is!' said she. Well, it ain't so screechin' hot hyeh; and\nas for rushin' after Alfred and Christopher, when their natural motheh\nis bumpin' around handy--she cert'nly can't be offended?\" he broke\noff, and looked again where she had gone. And then Miss Wood passed him\nbrightly again, and was dancing the schottische almost immediately.\n\"Oh, yes, she knows me,\" the swarthy cow-puncher mused. \"She has to\ntake trouble not to see me. And what she's a-fussin' at is mighty\ninterestin'. Hello!\"\n\n\"Hello!\" returned Lin McLean, sourly. He had just looked into the\nkitchen.\n\n\"Not dancin'?\" the Southerner inquired.\n\n\"Don't know how.\"\n\n\"Had scyarlet fever and forgot your past life?\"\n\nLin grinned.\n\n\"Better persuade the schoolmarm to learn it. She's goin' to give me\ninstruction.\"\n\n\"Huh!\" went Mr. McLean, and skulked out to the barrel.\n\n\"Why, they claimed you weren't drinkin' this month!\" said his friend,\nfollowing.\n\n\"Well, I am. Here's luck!\" The two pledged in tin cups. \"But I'm not\nwaltzin' with her,\" blurted Mr. McLean grievously. \"She called me an\nexception.\"\n\n\"Waltzin',\" repeated the Virginian quickly, and hearing the fiddles he\nhastened away.\n\nFew in the Bear Creek Country could waltz, and with these few it\nwas mostly an unsteered and ponderous exhibition; therefore was the\nSoutherner bent upon profiting by his skill. He entered the room,\nand his lady saw him come where she sat alone for the moment, and her\nthoughts grew a little hurried.\n\n\"Will you try a turn, ma'am?\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon?\" It was a remote, well-schooled eye that she lifted\nnow upon him.\n\n\"If you like a waltz, ma'am, will you waltz with me?\"\n\n\"You're from Virginia, I understand?\" said Molly Wood, regarding him\npolitely, but not rising. One gains authority immensely by keeping one's\nseat. All good teachers know this.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, from Virginia.\"\n\n\"I've heard that Southerners have such good manners.\"\n\n\"That's correct.\" The cow-puncher flushed, but he spoke in his\nunvaryingly gentle voice.\n\n\"For in New England, you know,\" pursued Miss Molly, noting his scarf and\nclean-shaven chin, and then again steadily meeting his eye, \"gentlemen\nask to be presented to ladies before they ask them to waltz.\"\n\nHe stood a moment before her, deeper and deeper scarlet; and the more\nshe saw his handsome face, the keener rose her excitement. She waited\nfor him to speak of the river; for then she was going to be surprised,\nand gradually to remember, and finally to be very nice to him. But he\ndid not wait. \"I ask your pardon, lady,\" said he, and bowing, walked\noff, leaving her at once afraid that he might not come back. But she had\naltogether mistaken her man. Back he came serenely with Mr. Taylor, and\nwas duly presented to her. Thus were the conventions vindicated.\n\nIt can never be known what the cow-puncher was going to say next; for\nUncle Hughey stepped up with a glass of water which he had left Wood to\nbring, and asking for a turn, most graciously received it. She danced\naway from a situation where she began to feel herself getting the\nworst of it. One moment the Virginian stared at his lady as she lightly\ncirculated, and then he went out to the barrel.\n\nLeave him for Uncle Hershey! Jealousy is a deep and delicate thing, and\nworks its spite in many ways. The Virginian had been ready to look at\nLin McLean with a hostile eye; but finding him now beside the barrel, he\nfelt a brotherhood between himself and Lin, and his hostility had taken\na new and whimsical direction.\n\n\"Here's how!\" said he to McLean. And they pledged each other in the tin\ncups.\n\n\"Been gettin' them instructions?\" said Mr. McLean, grinning. \"I thought\nI saw yu' learning your steps through the window.\"\n\n\"Here's your good health,\" said the Southerner. Once more they pledged\neach other handsomely.\n\n\"Did she call you an exception, or anything?\" said Lin.\n\n\"Well, it would cipher out right close in that neighborhood.\"\n\n\"Here's how, then!\" cried the delighted Lin, over his cup.\n\n\"Jest because yu' happen to come from Vermont,\" continued Mr. McLean,\n\"is no cause for extra pride. Shoo! I was raised in Massachusetts\nmyself, and big men have been raised there, too,--Daniel Webster and\nIsrael Putnam: and a lot of them politicians.\"\n\n\"Virginia is a good little old state,\" observed the Southerner.\n\n\"Both of 'em's a sight ahead of Vermont. She told me I was the first\nexception she'd struck.\"\n\n\"What rule were you provin' at the time, Lin?\"\n\n\"Well yu' see, I started to kiss her.\"\n\n\"Yu' didn't!\"\n\n\"Shucks! I didn't mean nothin'.\"\n\n\"I reckon yu' stopped mighty sudden?\"\n\n\"Why, I'd been ridin' out with her--ridin' to school, ridin' from\nschool, and a-comin' and a-goin', and she chattin' cheerful and askin'\nme a heap o' questions all about myself every day, and I not lyin' much\nneither. And so I figured she wouldn't mind. Lots of 'em like it. But\nshe didn't, you bet!\"\n\n\"No,\" said the Virginian, deeply proud of his lady who had slighted him.\nHe had pulled her out of the water once, and he had been her unrewarded\nknight even to-day, and he felt his grievance; but he spoke not of it\nto Lin; for he felt also, in memory, her arms clinging round him as he\ncarried her ashore upon his horse. But he muttered, \"Plumb ridiculous!\"\nas her injustice struck him afresh, while the outraged McLean told his\ntale.\n\n\"Trample is what she has done on me to-night, and without notice. We was\nstartin' to come here; Taylor and Mrs. were ahead in the buggy, and I\nwas holdin' her horse, and helpin' her up in the saddle, like I done for\ndays and days. Who was there to see us? And I figured she'd not mind,\nand she calls me an exception! Yu'd ought to've just heard her about\nWestern men respectin' women. So that's the last word we've spoke.\nWe come twenty-five miles then, she scootin' in front, and her horse\nkickin' the sand in my face. Mrs. Taylor, she guessed something was up,\nbut she didn't tell.\"\n\n\"Miss Wood did not tell?\"\n\n\"Not she! She'll never open her head. She can take care of herself, you\nbet!\" The fiddles sounded hilariously in the house, and the feet also.\nThey had warmed up altogether, and their dancing figures crossed the\nwindows back and forth. The two cow-punchers drew near to a window and\nlooked in gloomily.\n\n\"There she goes,\" said Lin.\n\n\"With Uncle Hughey again,\" said the Virginian, sourly. \"Yu' might\nsuppose he didn't have a wife and twins, to see the way he goes\ngambollin' around.\"\n\n\"Westfall is takin' a turn with her now,\" said McLean.\n\n\"James!\" exclaimed the Virginian. \"He's another with a wife and fam'ly,\nand he gets the dancin', too.\"\n\n\"There she goes with Taylor,\" said Lin, presently.\n\n\"Another married man!\" the Southerner commented. They prowled round to\nthe store-room, and passed through the kitchen to where the dancers were\nrobustly tramping. Miss Wood was still the partner of Mr. Taylor. \"Let's\nhave some whiskey,\" said the Virginian. They had it, and returned, and\nthe Virginian's disgust and sense of injury grew deeper. \"Old Carmody\nhas got her now,\" he drawled. \"He polkas like a landslide. She learns\nhis monkey-faced kid to spell dog and cow all the mawnin'. He'd ought to\nbe tucked up cosey in his bed right now, old Carmody ought.\"\n\nThey were standing in that place set apart for the sleeping children;\nand just at this moment one of two babies that were stowed beneath\na chair uttered a drowsy note. A much louder cry, indeed a chorus of\nlament, would have been needed to reach the ears of the parents in the\nroom beyond, such was the noisy volume of the dance. But in this quiet\nplace the light sound caught Mr. McLean's attention, and he turned to\nsee if anything were wrong. But both babies were sleeping peacefully.\n\n\"Them's Uncle Hughey's twins,\" he said.\n\n\"How do you happen to know that?\" inquired the Virginian, suddenly\ninterested.\n\n\"Saw his wife put 'em under the chair so she could find 'em right off\nwhen she come to go home.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said the Virginian, thoughtfully. \"Oh, find 'em right off. Yes.\nUncle Hughey's twins.\" He walked to a spot from which he could view the\ndance. \"Well,\" he continued, returning, \"the schoolmarm must have taken\nquite a notion to Uncle Hughey. He has got her for this quadrille.\" The\nVirginian was now speaking without rancor; but his words came with a\nslightly augmented drawl, and this with him was often a bad omen. He\nnow turned his eyes upon the collected babies wrapped in various\ncolored shawls and knitted work. \"Nine, ten, eleven, beautiful sleepin'\nstrangers,\" he counted, in a sweet voice. \"Any of 'em your'n, Lin?\"\n\n\"Not that I know of,\" grinned Mr. McLean.\n\n\"Eleven, twelve. This hyeh is little Christopher in the blue-stripe\nquilt--or maybe that other yello'-head is him. The angels have commenced\nto drop in on us right smart along Bear Creek, Lin.\"\n\n\"What trash are yu' talkin' anyway?\"\n\n\"If they look so awful alike in the heavenly gyarden,\" the gentle\nSoutherner continued, \"I'd just hate to be the folks that has the\ncuttin' of 'em out o' the general herd. And that's a right quaint notion\ntoo,\" he added softly. \"Them under the chair are Uncle Hughey's, didn't\nyou tell me?\" And stooping, he lifted the torpid babies and placed them\nbeneath a table. \"No, that ain't thorough,\" he murmured. With wonderful\ndexterity and solicitude for their wellfare, he removed the loose wrap\nwhich was around them, and this soon led to an intricate process of\nexchange. For a moment Mr. McLean had been staring at the Virginian,\npuzzled. Then, with a joyful yelp of enlightenment, he sprang to abet\nhim.\n\nAnd while both busied themselves with the shawls and quilts, the\nunconscious parents went dancing vigorously on, and the small,\noccasional cries of their progeny did not reach them.\n\n\n\n\nXI. \"YOU'RE GOING TO LOVE ME BEFORE WE GET THROUGH\"\n\n\nThe Swinton barbecue was over. The fiddles were silent, the steer was\neaten, the barrel emptied, or largely so, and the tapers extinguished;\nround the house and sunken fire all movement of guests was quiet;\nthe families were long departed homeward, and after their hospitable\nturbulence, the Swintons slept.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Westfall drove through the night, and as they neared their\ncabin there came from among the bundled wraps a still, small voice.\n\n\"Jim,\" said his wife, \"I said Alfred would catch cold.\"\n\n\"Bosh! Lizzie, don't you fret. He's a little more than a yearlin', and\nof course he'll snuffle.\" And young James took a kiss from his love.\n\n\"Well, how you can speak of Alfred that way, calling him a yearling, as\nif he was a calf, and he just as much your child as mine, I don't see,\nJames Westfall!\"\n\n\"Why, what under the sun do you mean?\"\n\n\"There he goes again! Do hurry up home, Jim. He's got a real strange\ncough.\"\n\nSo they hurried home. Soon the nine miles were finished, and good\nJames was unhitching by his stable lantern, while his wife in the house\nhastened to commit their offspring to bed. The traces had dropped, and\neach horse marched forward for further unbuckling, when James heard\nhimself called. Indeed, there was that in his wife's voice which made\nhim jerk out his pistol as he ran. But it was no bear or Indian--only\ntwo strange children on the bed. His wife was glaring at them.\n\nHe sighed with relief and laid down the pistol.\n\n\"Put that on again, James Westfall. You'll need it. Look here!\"\n\n\"Well, they won't bite. Whose are they? Where have you stowed ourn?\"\n\n\"Where have I--\" Utterance forsook this mother for a moment. \"And you\nask me!\" she continued. \"Ask Lin McLean. Ask him that sets bulls on\nfolks and steals slippers, what he's done with our innocent lambs,\nmixing them up with other people's coughing, unhealthy brats. That's\nCharlie Taylor in Alfred's clothes, and I know Alfred didn't cough like\nthat, and I said to you it was strange; and the other one that's been\nput in Christopher's new quilts is not even a bub--bub--boy!\"\n\nAs this crime against society loomed clear to James Westfall's\nunderstanding, he sat down on the nearest piece of furniture, and\nheedless of his wife's tears and his exchanged children, broke into\nunregenerate laughter. Doubtless after his sharp alarm about the bear,\nhe was unstrung. His lady, however, promptly restrung him; and by the\ntime they had repacked the now clamorous changelings, and were rattling\non their way to the Taylors', he began to share her outraged feelings\nproperly, as a husband and a father should; but when he reached the\nTaylors' and learned from Miss Wood that at this house a child had\nbeen unwrapped whom nobody could at all identify, and that Mr. and Mrs.\nTaylor were already far on the road to the Swintons', James Westfall\nwhipped up his horses and grew almost as thirsty for revenge as was his\nwife.\n\nWhere the steer had been roasted, the powdered ashes were now cold\nwhite, and Mr. McLean, feeling through his dreams the change of dawn\ncome over the air, sat up cautiously among the outdoor slumberers and\nwaked his neighbor.\n\n\"Day will be soon,\" he whispered, \"and we must light out of this. I\nnever suspicioned yu' had that much of the devil in you before.\"\n\n\"I reckon some of the fellows will act haidstrong,\" the Virginian\nmurmured luxuriously, among the warmth of his blankets.\n\n\"I tell yu' we must skip,\" said Lin, for the second time; and he rubbed\nthe Virginian's black head, which alone was visible.\n\n\"Skip, then, you,\" came muffled from within, \"and keep you'self mighty\nsca'ce till they can appreciate our frolic.\"\n\nThe Southerner withdrew deeper into his bed, and Mr. McLean, informing\nhim that he was a fool, arose and saddled his horse. From the\nsaddle-bag, he brought a parcel, and lightly laying this beside Bokay\nBaldy, he mounted and was gone. When Baldy awoke later, he found the\nparcel to be a pair of flowery slippers.\n\nIn selecting the inert Virginian as the fool, Mr. McLean was scarcely\nwise; it is the absent who are always guilty.\n\nBefore ever Lin could have been a mile in retreat, the rattle of\nthe wheels roused all of them, and here came the Taylors. Before the\nTaylors' knocking had brought the Swintons to their door, other wheels\nsounded, and here were Mr. and Mrs. Carmody, and Uncle Hughey with his\nwife, and close after them Mr. Dow, alone, who told how his wife had\ngone into one of her fits--she upon whom Dr. Barker at Drybone had\nenjoined total abstinence from all excitement. Voices of women and\nchildren began to be uplifted; the Westfalls arrived in a lather,\nand the Thomases; and by sunrise, what with fathers and mothers and\nspectators and loud offspring, there was gathered such a meeting as has\nseldom been before among the generations of speaking men. To-day you can\nhear legends of it from Texas to Montana; but I am giving you the full\nparticulars.\n\nOf course they pitched upon poor Lin. Here was the Virginian doing\nhis best, holding horses and helping ladies descend, while the name of\nMcLean began to be muttered with threats. Soon a party led by Mr. Dow\nset forth in search of him, and the Southerner debated a moment if he\nhad better not put them on a wrong track. But he concluded that they\nmight safely go on searching.\n\nMrs. Westfall found Christopher at once in the green shawl of Anna\nMaria Dow, but all was not achieved thus in the twinkling of an eye. Mr.\nMcLean had, it appeared, as James Westfall lugubriously pointed out, not\nmerely \"swapped the duds; he had shuffled the whole doggone deck;\" and\nthey cursed this Satanic invention. The fathers were but of moderate\nassistance; it was the mothers who did the heavy work; and by ten\no'clock some unsolved problems grew so delicate that a ladies' caucus\nwas organized in a private room,--no admittance for men,--and what was\ndone there I can only surmise.\n\nDuring its progress the search party returned. It had not found Mr.\nMcLean. It had found a tree with a notice pegged upon it, reading, \"God\nbless our home!\" This was captured.\n\nBut success attended the caucus; each mother emerged, satisfied that\nshe had received her own, and each sire, now that his family was itself\nagain, began to look at his neighbor sideways. After a man has been\nangry enough to kill another man, after the fire of righteous slaughter\nhas raged in his heart as it had certainly raged for several hours in\nthe hearts of these fathers, the flame will usually burn itself out.\nThis will be so in a generous nature, unless the cause of the anger is\nstill unchanged. But the children had been identified; none had taken\nhurt. All had been humanely given their nourishment. The thing was over.\nThe day was beautiful. A tempting feast remained from the barbecue.\nThese Bear Creek fathers could not keep their ire at red heat. Most\nof them, being as yet more their wives' lovers than their children's\nparents, began to see the mirthful side of the adventure; and they\nceased to feel very severely toward Lin McLean.\n\nNot so the women. They cried for vengeance; but they cried in vain, and\nwere met with smiles.\n\nMrs. Westfall argued long that punishment should be dealt the offender.\n\"Anyway,\" she persisted, \"it was real defiant of him putting that up on\nthe tree. I might forgive him but for that.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" spoke the Virginian in their midst, \"that wasn't sort o' right.\nEspecially as I am the man you're huntin'.\"\n\nThey sat dumb at his assurance.\n\n\"Come and kill me,\" he continued, round upon the party. \"I'll not\nresist.\"\n\nBut they could not resist the way in which he had looked round upon\nthem. He had chosen the right moment for his confession, as a captain\nof a horse awaits the proper time for a charge. Some rebukes he did\nreceive; the worst came from the mothers. And all that he could say for\nhimself was, \"I am getting off too easy.\"\n\n\"But what was your point?\" said Westfall.\n\n\"Blamed if I know any more. I expect it must have been the whiskey.\"\n\n\"I would mind it less,\" said Mrs. Westfall, \"if you looked a bit sorry\nor ashamed.\"\n\nThe Virginian shook his head at her penitently. \"I'm tryin' to,\" he\nsaid.\n\nAnd thus he sat disarming his accusers until they began to lunch upon\nthe copious remnants of the barbecue. He did not join them at this meal.\nIn telling you that Mrs. Dow was the only lady absent upon this historic\nmorning, I was guilty of an inadvertence. There was one other.\n\nThe Virginian rode away sedately through the autumn sunshine; and as\nhe went he asked his Monte horse a question. \"Do yu' reckon she'll have\nforgotten you too, you pie-biter?\" said he. Instead of the new trousers,\nthe cow-puncher's leathern chaps were on his legs. But he had the new\nscarf knotted at his neck. Most men would gladly have equalled him in\nappearance. \"You Monte,\" said he, \"will she be at home?\"\n\nIt was Sunday, and no school day, and he found her in her cabin that\nstood next the Taylors' house. Her eyes were very bright.\n\n\"I'd thought I'd just call,\" said he.\n\n\"Why, that's such a pity! Mr. and Mrs. Taylor are away.\"\n\n\"Yes; they've been right busy. That's why I thought I'd call. Will yu'\ncome for a ride, ma'am?\"\n\n\"Dear me! I--\"\n\n\"You can ride my hawss. He's gentle.\"\n\n\"What! And you walk?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am. Nor the two of us ride him THIS time, either.\" At this she\nturned entirely pink, and he, noticing, went on quietly: \"I'll catch up\none of Taylor's hawsses. Taylor knows me.\"\n\n\"No. I don't really think I could do that. But thank you. Thank you very\nmuch. I must go now and see how Mrs. Taylor's fire is.\"\n\n\"I'll look after that, ma'am. I'd like for yu' to go ridin' mighty well.\nYu' have no babies this mawnin' to be anxious after.\"\n\nAt this shaft, Grandmother Stark flashed awake deep within the spirit of\nher descendant, and she made a haughty declaration of war. \"I don't know\nwhat you mean, sir,\" she said.\n\nNow was his danger; for it was easy to fall into mere crude impertinence\nand ask her why, then, did she speak thus abruptly? There were various\neasy things of this kind for him to say. And any rudeness would have\nlost him the battle. But the Virginian was not the man to lose such\na battle in such a way. His shaft had hit. She thought he referred\nto those babies about whom last night she had shown such superfluous\nsolicitude. Her conscience was guilty. This was all that he had wished\nto make sure of before he began operations.\n\n\"Why, I mean,\" said he, easily, sitting down near the door, \"that it's\nSunday. School don't hinder yu' from enjoyin' a ride to-day. You'll\nteach the kids all the better for it to-morro', ma'am. Maybe it's your\nduty.\" And he smiled at her.\n\n\"My duty! It's quite novel to have strangers--\"\n\n\"Am I a stranger?\" he cut in, firing his first broadside. \"I was\nintroduced, ma'am,\" he continued, noting how she had flushed again. \"And\nI would not be oversteppin' for the world. I'll go away if yu' want.\"\nAnd hereupon he quietly rose, and stood, hat in hand.\n\nMolly was flustered. She did not at all want him to go. No one of\nher admirers had ever been like this creature. The fringed leathern\nchaparreros, the cartridge belt, the flannel shirt, the knotted scarf at\nthe neck, these things were now an old story to her. Since her arrival\nshe had seen young men and old in plenty dressed thus. But worn by this\nman now standing by her door, they seemed to radiate romance. She did\nnot want him to go--and she wished to win her battle. And now in\nher agitation she became suddenly severe, as she had done at Hoosic\nJunction. He should have a punishment to remember!\n\n\"You call yourself a man, I suppose,\" she said.\n\nBut he did not tremble in the least. Her fierceness filled him with\ndelight, and the tender desire of ownership flooded through him.\n\n\"A grown-up, responsible man,\" she repeated.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. I think so.\" He now sat down again.\n\n\"And you let them think that--that Mr. McLean--You dare not look me in\nthe face and say that Mr. McLean did that last night!\"\n\n\"I reckon I dassent.\"\n\n\"There! I knew it! I said so from the first!\"\n\n\"And me a stranger to you!\" he murmured.\n\nIt was his second broadside. It left her badly crippled. She was silent.\n\n\"Who did yu' mention it to, ma'am?\"\n\nShe hoped she had him. \"Why, are you afraid?\" And she laughed lightly.\n\n\"I told 'em myself. And their astonishment seemed so genu-wine I'd just\nhate to think they had fooled me that thorough when they knowed it all\nalong from you seeing me.\"\n\n\"I did not see you. I knew it must--of course I did not tell any one.\nWhen I said I said so from the first, I meant--you can understand\nperfectly what I meant.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am.\"\n\nPoor Molly was near stamping her foot. \"And what sort of a trick,\" she\nrushed on, \"was that to play? Do you call it a manly thing to frighten\nand distress women because you--for no reason at all? I should never\nhave imagined it could be the act of a person who wears a big pistol and\nrides a big horse. I should be afraid to go riding with such an immature\nprotector.\"\n\n\"Yes; that was awful childish. Your words do cut a little; for maybe\nthere's been times when I have acted pretty near like a man. But I\ncert'nly forgot to be introduced before I spoke to yu' last night.\nBecause why? You've found me out dead in one thing. Won't you take a\nguess at this too?\"\n\n\"I cannot sit guessing why people do not behave themselves--who seem to\nknow better.\"\n\n\"Well, ma'am, I've played square and owned up to yu'. And that's not\nwhat you're doin' by me. I ask your pardon if I say what I have a right\nto say in language not as good as I'd like to talk to yu' with. But at\nSouth Fork Crossin' who did any introducin'? Did yu' complain I was a\nstranger then?\"\n\n\"I--no!\" she flashed out; then, quite sweetly, \"The driver told me it\nwasn't REALLY so dangerous there, you know.\"\n\n\"That's not the point I'm makin'. You are a grown-up woman, a\nresponsible woman. You've come ever so far, and all alone, to a\nrough country to instruct young children that play games,--tag, and\nhide-and-seek, and fooleries they'll have to quit when they get old.\nDon't you think pretendin' yu' don't know a man,--his name's nothin',\nbut him,--a man whom you were glad enough to let assist yu' when\nsomebody was needed,--don't you think that's mighty close to\nhide-and-seek them children plays? I ain't so sure but what there's a\npair of us children in this hyeh room.\"\n\nMolly Wood was regarding him saucily. \"I don't think I like you,\" said\nshe.\n\n\"That's all square enough. You're goin' to love me before we get\nthrough. I wish yu'd come a-ridin, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Dear, dear, dear! So I'm going to love you? How will you do it? I know\nmen think that they only need to sit and look strong and make chests at\na girl--\"\n\n\"Goodness gracious! I ain't makin' any chests at yu'!\" Laughter overcame\nhim for a moment, and Miss Wood liked his laugh very much. \"Please come\na-ridin',\" he urged. \"It's the prettiest kind of a day.\"\n\nShe looked at him frankly, and there was a pause. \"I will take back two\nthings that I said to you,\" she then answered him. \"I believe that I do\nlike you. And I know that if I went riding with you, I should not\nhave an immature protector.\" And then, with a final gesture of\nacknowledgment, she held out her hand to him. \"And I have always\nwanted,\" she said, \"to thank you for what you did at the river.\"\n\nHe took her hand, and his heart bounded. \"You're a gentleman!\" he\nexclaimed.\n\nIt was now her turn to be overcome with merriment. \"I've always wanted\nto be a man,\" she said.\n\n\"I am mighty glad you ain't,\" said he, looking at her.\n\nBut Molly had already received enough broadsides for one day. She could\nallow no more of them, and she took herself capably in hand. \"Where did\nyou learn to make such pretty speeches?\" she asked. \"Well, never mind\nthat. One sees that you have had plenty of practice for one so young.\"\n\n\"I am twenty-seven,\" blurted the Virginian, and knew instantly that he\nhad spoken like a fool.\n\n\"Who would have dreamed it!\" said Molly, with well-measured mockery. She\nknew that she had scored at last, and that this day was hers. \"Don't\nbe too sure you are glad I'm not a man,\" she now told him. There was\nsomething like a challenge in her voice.\n\n\"I risk it,\" he remarked.\n\n\"For I am almost twenty-three myself,\" she concluded. And she gave him a\nlook on her own account.\n\n\"And you'll not come a-ridin'?\" he persisted.\n\n\"No,\" she answered him; \"no.\" And he knew that he could not make her.\n\n\"Then I will tell yu' good-by,\" said he. \"But I am comin' again. And\nnext time I'll have along a gentle hawss for yu'.\"\n\n\"Next time! Next time! Well, perhaps I will go with you. Do you live\nfar?\"\n\n\"I live on Judge Henry's ranch, over yondeh.\" He pointed across the\nmountains. \"It's on Sunk Creek. A pretty rough trail; but I can come\nhyeh to see you in a day, I reckon. Well, I hope you'll cert'nly enjoy\ngood health, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Oh, there's one thing!\" said Molly Wood, calling after him rather\nquickly. \"I--I'm not at all afraid of horses. You needn't bring such\na gentle one. I--was very tired that day, and--and I don't scream as a\nrule.\"\n\nHe turned and looked at her so that she could not meet his glance.\n\"Bless your heart!\" said he. \"Will yu' give me one o' those flowers?\"\n\n\"Oh, certainly! I'm always so glad when people like them.\"\n\n\"They're pretty near the color of your eyes.\"\n\n\"Never mind my eyes.\"\n\n\"Can't help it, ma'am. Not since South Fork.\"\n\nHe put the flower in the leather band of his hat, and rode away on his\nMonte horse. Miss Wood lingered a moment, then made some steps toward\nher gate, from which he could still be seen; and then, with something\nlike a toss of the head, she went in and shut her door.\n\nLater in the day the Virginian met Mr. McLean, who looked at his hat and\ninnocently quoted, \"'My Looloo picked a daisy.'\"\n\n\"Don't yu', Lin,\" said the Southerner.\n\n\"Then I won't,\" said Lin.\n\nThus, for this occasion, did the Virginian part from his lady--and\nnothing said one way or another about the handkerchief that had\ndisappeared during the South Fork incident.\n\nAs we fall asleep at night, our thoughts will often ramble back and\nforth between the two worlds.\n\n\"What color were his eyes?\" wondered Molly on her pillow. \"His mustache\nis not bristly like so many of them. Sam never gave me such a look\nat Hoosic Junction. No.... You can't come with me.... Get off your\nhorse.... The passengers are all staring....\"\n\nAnd while Molly was thus dreaming that the Virginian had ridden his\nhorse into the railroad car, and sat down beside her, the fire in the\ngreat stone chimney of her cabin flickered quietly, its gleams now and\nagain touching the miniature of Grandmother Stark upon the wall.\n\nCamped on the Sunk Creek trail, the Virginian was telling himself in his\nblankets: \"I ain't too old for education. Maybe she will lend me books.\nAnd I'll watch her ways and learn...stand still, Monte. I can learn a\nlot more than the kids on that. There's Monte...you pie-biter, stop....\nHe has ate up your book, ma'am, but I'll get yu'...\"\n\nAnd then the Virginian was fast asleep.\n\n\n\n\nXII. QUALITY AND EQUALITY\n\n\nTo the circle at Bennington, a letter from Bear Creek was always a\nwelcome summons to gather and hear of doings very strange to Vermont.\nAnd when the tale of the changed babies arrived duly by the post, it\ncreated a more than usual sensation, and was read to a large number of\npleased and scandalized neighbors. \"I hate her to be where such things\ncan happen,\" said Mrs. Wood.\n\n\"I wish I could have been there,\" said her son-in-law, Andrew Bell.\n\n\"She does not mention who played the trick,\" said Mrs. Andrew Bell.\n\n\"We shouldn't be any wiser if she did,\" said Mrs. Wood.\n\n\"I'd like to meet the perpetrator,\" said Andrew.\n\n\"Oh, no!\" said Mrs. Wood. \"They're all horrible.\"\n\nAnd she wrote at once, begging her daughter to take good care of\nherself, and to see as much of Mrs. Balaam as possible. \"And of any\nother ladies that are near you. For you seem to me to be in a community\nof roughs. I wish you would give it all up. Did you expect me to laugh\nabout the babies?\"\n\nMrs. Flynt, when this story was repeated to her (she had not been\ninvited in to hear the letter), remarked that she had always felt that\nMolly Wood must be a little vulgar, ever since she began to go about\ngiving music lessons like any ordinary German.\n\nBut Mrs. Wood was considerably relieved when the next letter arrived. It\ncontained nothing horrible about barbecues or babies. It mentioned the\ngreat beauty of the weather, and how well and strong the fine air was\nmaking the writer feel. And it asked that books might be sent, many\nbooks of all sorts, novels, poetry, all the good old books and any good\nnew ones that could be spared. Cheap editions, of course.\n\n\"Indeed she shall have them!\" said Mrs. Wood. \"How her mind must be\nstarving in that dreadful place!\" The letter was not a long one, and,\nbesides the books, spoke of little else except the fine weather and\nthe chances for outdoor exercise that this gave. \"You have no idea,\"\nit said, \"how delightful it is to ride, especially on a spirited horse,\nwhich I can do now quite well.\"\n\n\"How nice that is!\" said Mrs. Wood, putting down the letter. \"I hope the\nhorse is not too spirited.\"\n\n\"Who does she go riding with?\" asked Mrs. Bell.\n\n\"She doesn't say, Sarah. Why?\"\n\n\"Nothing. She has a queer way of not mentioning things, now and then.\"\n\n\"Sarah!\" exclaimed Mrs. Wood, reproachfully. \"Oh, well, mother, you\nknow just as well as I do that she can be very independent and\nunconventional.\"\n\n\"Yes; but not in that way. She wouldn't ride with poor Sam Bannett, and\nafter all he is a suitable person.\"\n\nNevertheless, in her next letter, Mrs. Wood cautioned her daughter about\ntrusting herself with any one of whom Mrs. Balaam did not thoroughly\napprove. The good lady could never grasp that Mrs. Balaam lived a long\nday's journey from Bear Creek, and that Molly saw her about once every\nthree months. \"We have sent your books,\" the mother wrote; \"everybody\nhas contributed from their store,--Shakespeare, Tennyson, Browning,\nLongfellow; and a number of novels by Scott, Thackeray, George Eliot,\nHawthorne, and lesser writers; some volumes of Emerson; and Jane Austen\ncomplete, because you admire her so particularly.\"\n\nThis consignment of literature reached Bear Creek about a week before\nChristmas time.\n\nBy New Year's Day, the Virginian had begun his education.\n\n\"Well, I have managed to get through 'em,\" he said, as he entered\nMolly's cabin in February. And he laid two volumes upon her table.\n\n\"And what do you think of them?\" she inquired.\n\n\"I think that I've cert'nly earned a good long ride to-day.\"\n\n\"Georgie Taylor has sprained his ankle.\"\n\n\"No, I don't mean that kind of a ride. I've earned a ride with just us\ntwo alone. I've read every word of both of 'em, yu' know.\"\n\n\"I'll think about it. Did you like them?\"\n\n\"No. Not much. If I'd knowed that one was a detective story, I'd have\ngot yu' to try something else on me. Can you guess the murderer, or is\nthe author too smart for yu'? That's all they amount to. Well, he was\ntoo smart for me this time, but that didn't distress me any. That other\nbook talks too much.\"\n\nMolly was scandalized, and she told him it was a great work.\n\n\"Oh, yes, yes. A fine book. But it will keep up its talkin'. Don't let\nyou alone.\"\n\n\"Didn't you feel sorry for poor Maggie Tulliver?\"\n\n\"Hmp. Yes. Sorry for her, and for Tawmmy, too. But the man did right to\ndrownd 'em both.\"\n\n\"It wasn't a man. A woman wrote that.\"\n\n\"A woman did! Well, then, o' course she talks too much.\"\n\n\"I'll not go riding with you!\" shrieked Molly.\n\nBut she did. And he returned to Sunk Creek, not with a detective story,\nbut this time with a Russian novel.\n\nIt was almost April when he brought it back to her--and a heavy sleet\nstorm lost them their ride. So he spent his time indoors with her, not\nspeaking a syllable of love. When he came to take his departure, he\nasked her for some other book by this same Russian. But she had no more.\n\n\"I wish you had,\" he said. \"I've never saw a book could tell the truth\nlike that one does.\"\n\n\"Why, what do you like about it?\" she exclaimed. To her it had been\ndistasteful.\n\n\"Everything,\" he answered. \"That young come-outer, and his fam'ly that\ncan't understand him--for he is broad gauge, yu' see, and they are\nnarro' gauge.\" The Virginian looked at Molly a moment almost shyly. \"Do\nyou know,\" he said, and a blush spread over his face, \"I pretty near\ncried when that young come-outer was dyin', and said about himself,\n'I was a giant.' Life made him broad gauge, yu' see, and then took his\nchance away.\"\n\nMolly liked the Virginian for his blush. It made him very handsome. But\nshe thought that it came from his confession about \"pretty near crying.\"\nThe deeper cause she failed to divine,--that he, like the dying hero in\nthe novel, felt himself to be a giant whom life had made \"broad gauge,\"\nand denied opportunity. Fecund nature begets and squanders thousands of\nthese rich seeds in the wilderness of life.\n\nHe took away with him a volume of Shakespeare. \"I've saw good plays of\nhis,\" he remarked.\n\nKind Mrs. Taylor in her cabin next door watched him ride off in the\nsleet, bound for the lonely mountain trail.\n\n\"If that girl don't get ready to take him pretty soon,\" she observed to\nher husband, \"I'll give her a piece of my mind.\"\n\nTaylor was astonished. \"Is he thinking of her?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Lord, Mr. Taylor, and why shouldn't he?\"\n\nMr. Taylor scratched his head and returned to his newspaper.\n\nIt was warm--warm and beautiful upon Bear Creek. Snow shone upon\nthe peaks of the Bow Leg range; lower on their slopes the pines were\nstirring with a gentle song; and flowers bloomed across the wide plains\nat their feet.\n\nMolly and her Virginian sat at a certain spring where he had often\nridden with her. On this day he was bidding her farewell before\nundertaking the most important trust which Judge Henry had as yet given\nhim. For this journey she had provided him with Sir Walter Scott's\nKenilworth. Shakespeare he had returned to her. He had bought\nShakespeare for himself. \"As soon as I got used to readin' it,\" he had\ntold her, \"I knowed for certain that I liked readin' for enjoyment.\"\n\nBut it was not of books that he had spoken much to-day. He had not\nspoken at all. He had bade her listen to the meadow-lark, when its song\nfell upon the silence like beaded drops of music. He had showed her\nwhere a covey of young willow-grouse were hiding as their horses passed.\nAnd then, without warning, as they sat by the spring, he had spoken\npotently of his love.\n\nShe did not interrupt him. She waited until he was wholly finished.\n\n\"I am not the sort of wife you want,\" she said, with an attempt of\nairiness.\n\nHe answered roughly, \"I am the judge of that.\" And his roughness was a\npleasure to her, yet it made her afraid of herself. When he was absent\nfrom her, and she could sit in her cabin and look at Grandmother Stark,\nand read home letters, then in imagination she found it easy to play\nthe part which she had arranged to play regarding him--the part of the\nguide, and superior, and indulgent companion. But when he was by her\nside, that part became a difficult one. Her woman's fortress was shaken\nby a force unknown to her before. Sam Bannett did not have it in him to\nlook as this man could look, when the cold lustre of his eyes grew hot\nwith internal fire. What color they were baffled her still. \"Can it\npossibly change?\" she wondered. It seemed to her that sometimes when she\nhad been looking from a rock straight down into clear sea water, this\nsame color had lurked in its depths. \"Is it green, or is it gray?\"\nshe asked herself, but did not turn just now to see. She kept her face\ntoward the landscape.\n\n\"All men are born equal,\" he now remarked slowly.\n\n\"Yes,\" she quickly answered, with a combative flash. \"Well?\"\n\n\"Maybe that don't include women?\" he suggested.\n\n\"I think it does.\"\n\n\"Do yu' tell the kids so?\"\n\n\"Of course I teach them what I believe!\"\n\nHe pondered. \"I used to have to learn about the Declaration of\nIndependence. I hated books and truck when I was a kid.\"\n\n\"But you don't any more.\"\n\n\"No. I cert'nly don't. But I used to get kep' in at recess for bein' so\ndumb. I was most always at the tail end of the class. My brother, he'd\nbe head sometimes.\"\n\n\"Little George Taylor is my prize scholar,\" said Molly.\n\n\"Knows his tasks, does he?\"\n\n\"Always. And Henry Dow comes next.\"\n\n\"Who's last?\"\n\n\"Poor Bob Carmody. I spend more time on him than on all the rest put\ntogether.\"\n\n\"My!\" said the Virginian. \"Ain't that strange!\"\n\nShe looked at him, puzzled by his tone. \"It's not strange when you know\nBob,\" she said.\n\n\"It's very strange,\" drawled the Virginian. \"Knowin' Bob don't help it\nany.\"\n\n\"I don't think that I understand you,\" said Molly, sticky.\n\n\"Well, it is mighty confusin'. George Taylor, he's your best scholar,\nand poor Bob, he's your worst, and there's a lot in the middle--and you\ntell me we're all born equal!\"\n\nMolly could only sit giggling in this trap he had so ingeniously laid\nfor her.\n\n\"I'll tell you what,\" pursued the cow-puncher, with slow and growing\nintensity, \"equality is a great big bluff. It's easy called.\"\n\n\"I didn't mean--\" began Molly.\n\n\"Wait, and let me say what I mean.\" He had made an imperious gesture\nwith his hand. \"I know a man that mostly wins at cyards. I know a man\nthat mostly loses. He says it is his luck. All right. Call it his luck.\nI know a man that works hard and he's gettin' rich, and I know another\nthat works hard and is gettin' poor. He says it is his luck. All right.\nCall it his luck. I look around and I see folks movin' up or movin'\ndown, winners or losers everywhere. All luck, of course. But since folks\ncan be born that different in their luck, where's your equality? No,\nseh! call your failure luck, or call it laziness, wander around the\nwords, prospect all yu' mind to, and yu'll come out the same old trail\nof inequality.\" He paused a moment and looked at her. \"Some holds four\naces,\" he went on, \"and some holds nothin', and some poor fello' gets\nthe aces and no show to play 'em; but a man has got to prove himself my\nequal before I'll believe him.\"\n\nMolly sat gazing at him, silent.\n\n\"I know what yu' meant,\" he told her now, \"by sayin' you're not the wife\nI'd want. But I am the kind that moves up. I am goin' to be your best\nscholar.\" He turned toward her, and that fortress within her began to\nshake.\n\n\"Don't,\" she murmured. \"Don't, please.\"\n\n\"Don't what?\"\n\n\"Why--spoil this.\"\n\n\"Spoil it?\"\n\n\"These rides--I don't love you--I can't--but these rides are--\"\n\n\"What are they?\"\n\n\"My greatest pleasure. There! And, please, I want them to go on so.\"\n\n\"Go on so! I don't reckon yu' know what you're sayin'. Yu' might as well\nask fruit to stay green. If the way we are now can keep bein' enough\nfor you, it can't for me. A pleasure to you, is it? Well, to me it is--I\ndon't know what to call it. I come to yu' and I hate it, and I come\nagain and I hate it, and I ache and grieve all over when I go. No!\nYou will have to think of some other way than just invitin' me to keep\ngreen.\"\n\n\"If I am to see you--\" began the girl.\n\n\"You're not to see me. Not like this. I can stay away easier than what I\nam doin'.\"\n\n\"Will you do me a favor, a great one?\" said she, now.\n\n\"Make it as impossible as you please!\" he cried. He thought it was to be\nsome action.\n\n\"Go on coming. But don't talk to me about--don't talk in that way--if\nyou can help it.\"\n\nHe laughed out, not permitting himself to swear.\n\n\"But,\" she continued, \"if you can't help talking that way--sometimes--I\npromise I will listen. That is the only promise I make.\"\n\n\"That is a bargain,\" he said.\n\nThen he helped her mount her horse, restraining himself like a Spartan,\nand they rode home to her cabin.\n\n\"You have made it pretty near impossible,\" he said, as he took his\nleave. \"But you've been square to-day, and I'll show you I can be square\nwhen I come back. I'll not do more than ask you if your mind's the same.\nAnd now I'll not see you for quite a while. I am going a long way. But\nI'll be very busy. And bein' busy always keeps me from grievin' too much\nabout you.\"\n\nStrange is woman! She would rather have heard some other last remark\nthan this.\n\n\"Oh, very well!\" she said. \"I'll not miss you either.\"\n\nHe smiled at her. \"I doubt if yu' can help missin' me,\" he remarked. And\nhe was gone at once, galloping on his Monte horse.\n\nWhich of the two won a victory this day?\n\n\n\n\nXIII. THE GAME AND THE NATION--ACT FIRST\n\n\nThere can be no doubt of this: All America is divided into two\nclasses,--the quality and the equality.\n\nThe latter will always recognize the former when mistaken for it. Both\nwill be with us until our women bear nothing but kings.\n\nIt was through the Declaration of Independence that we Americans\nacknowledged the ETERNAL INEQUALITY of man. For by it we abolished a\ncut-and-dried aristocracy. We had seen little men artificially held up\nin high places, and great men artificially held down in low places, and\nour own justice-loving hearts abhorred this violence to human nature.\nTherefore, we decreed that every man should thenceforth have equal\nliberty to find his own level. By this very decree we acknowledged and\ngave freedom to true aristocracy, saying, \"Let the best man win, whoever\nhe is.\" Let the best man win! That is America's word. That is true\ndemocracy. And true democracy and true aristocracy are one and the same\nthing. If anybody cannot see this, so much the worse for his eyesight.\n\nThe above reflections occurred to me before reaching Billings, Montana,\nsome three weeks after I had unexpectedly met the Virginian at Omaha,\nNebraska. I had not known of that trust given to him by Judge Henry,\nwhich was taking him East. I was looking to ride with him before long\namong the clean hills of Sunk Creek. I supposed he was there. But I came\nupon him one morning in Colonel Cyrus Jones's eating palace.\n\nDid you know the palace? It stood in Omaha, near the trains, and it was\nten years old (which is middle-aged in Omaha) when I first saw it. It\nwas a shell of wood, painted with golden emblems,--the steamboat, the\neagle, the Yosemite,--and a live bear ate gratuities at its entrance.\nWeather permitting, it opened upon the world as a stage upon the\naudience. You sat in Omaha's whole sight and dined, while Omaha's dust\ncame and settled upon the refreshments. It is gone the way of the Indian\nand the buffalo, for the West is growing old. You should have seen the\npalace and sat there. In front of you passed rainbows of men,--Chinese,\nIndian chiefs, Africans, General Miles, younger sons, Austrian nobility,\nwide females in pink. Our continent drained prismatically through Omaha\nonce.\n\nSo I was passing that way also, walking for the sake of ventilation from\na sleeping-car toward a bath, when the language of Colonel Cyrus Jones\ncame out to me. The actual colonel I had never seen before. He stood\nat the rear of his palace in gray flowery mustaches and a Confederate\nuniform, telling the wishes of his guests to the cook through a hole.\nYou always bought meal tickets at once, else you became unwelcome.\nGuests here had foibles at times, and a rapid exit was too easy.\nTherefore I bought a ticket. It was spring and summer since I had heard\nanything like the colonel. The Missouri had not yet flowed into New York\ndialect freely, and his vocabulary met me like the breeze of the plains.\nSo I went in to be fanned by it, and there sat the Virginian at a table,\nalone.\n\nHis greeting was up to the code of indifference proper on the plains;\nbut he presently remarked, \"I'm right glad to see somebody,\" which was a\ngood deal to say. \"Them that comes hyeh,\" he observed next, \"don't eat.\nThey feed.\" And he considered the guests with a sombre attention.\n\"D' yu' reckon they find joyful digestion in this swallo'-an'-get-out\ntrough?\"\n\n\"What are you doing here, then?\" said I.\n\n\"Oh, pshaw! When yu' can't have what you choose, yu' just choose what\nyou have.\" And he took the bill-of-fare. I began to know that he had\nsomething on his mind, so I did not trouble him further.\n\nMeanwhile he sat studying the bill-of-fare.\n\n\"Ever heard o' them?\" he inquired, shoving me the spotted document.\n\nMost improbable dishes were there,--salmis, canapes, supremes,--all\nperfectly spelt and absolutely transparent. It was the old trick of\ncopying some metropolitan menu to catch travellers of the third and last\ndimension of innocence; and whenever this is done the food is of the\nthird and last dimension of awfulness, which the cow-puncher knew as\nwell as anybody.\n\n\"So they keep that up here still,\" I said.\n\n\"But what about them?\" he repeated. His finger was at a special item,\nFROGS' LEGS A LA DELMONICO. \"Are they true anywheres?\" he asked. And I\ntold him, certainly. I also explained to him about Delmonico of New York\nand about Augustin of Philadelphia.\n\n\"There's not a little bit o' use in lyin' to me this mawnin',\" he said,\nwith his engaging smile. \"I ain't goin' to awdeh anything's laigs.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll see how he gets out of it,\" I said, remembering the odd\nTexas legend. (The traveller read the bill-of-fare, you know, and called\nfor a vol-au-vent. And the proprietor looked at the traveller, and\nrunning a pistol into his ear, observed, \"You'll take hash.\") I was\nthinking of this and wondering what would happen to me. So I took the\nstep.\n\n\"Wants frogs' legs, does he?\" shouted Colonel Cyrus Jones. He fixed\nhis eye upon me, and it narrowed to a slit. \"Too many brain workers\nbreakfasting before yu' came in, professor,\" said he. \"Missionary ate\nthe last leg off me just now. Brown the wheat!\" he commanded, through\nthe hole to the cook, for some one had ordered hot cakes.\n\n\"I'll have fried aiggs,\" said the Virginian. \"Cooked both sides.\"\n\n\"White wings!\" sang the colonel through the hole. \"Let 'em fly up and\ndown.\"\n\n\"Coffee an' no milk,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"Draw one in the dark!\" the colonel roared.\n\n\"And beefsteak, rare.\"\n\n\"One slaughter in the pan, and let the blood drip!\"\n\n\"I should like a glass of water, please,\" said I. The colonel threw me a\nlook of pity.\n\n\"One Missouri and ice for the professor!\" he said.\n\n\"That fello's a right live man,\" commented the Virginian. But he seemed\nthoughtful. Presently he inquired, \"Yu' say he was a foreigner, an'\nlearned fancy cookin' to New Yawk?\"\n\nThat was this cow-puncher's way. Scarcely ever would he let drop a thing\nnew to him until he had got from you your whole information about it.\nSo I told him the history of Lorenzo Delmonico and his pioneer work, as\nmuch as I knew, and the Southerner listened intently.\n\n\"Mighty inter-estin',\" he said--\"mighty. He could just take little\nold o'rn'ry frawgs, and dandy 'em up to suit the bloods. Mighty\ninter-estin'. I expaict, though, his cookin' would give an outraiged\nstomach to a plain-raised man.\"\n\n\"If you want to follow it up,\" said I, by way of a sudden experiment,\n\"Miss Molly Wood might have some book about French dishes.\"\n\nBut the Virginian did not turn a hair. \"I reckon she wouldn't,\" he\nanswered. \"She was raised in Vermont. They don't bother overly about\ntheir eatin' up in Vermont. Hyeh's what Miss Wood recommended the las'\ntime I was seein' her,\" the cow-puncher added, bringing Kenilworth from\nhis pocket. \"Right fine story. That Queen Elizabeth must have cert'nly\nbeen a competent woman.\"\n\n\"She was,\" said I. But talk came to an end here. A dusty crew, most\nevidently from the plains, now entered and drifted to a table; and each\nman of them gave the Virginian about a quarter of a slouchy nod. His\ngreeting to them was very serene. Only, Kenilworth went back into his\npocket, and he breakfasted in silence. Among those who had greeted him I\nnow recognized a face.\n\n\"Why, that's the man you played cards with at Medicine Bow!\" I said.\n\n\"Yes. Trampas. He's got a job at the ranch now.\" The Virginian said no\nmore, but went on with his breakfast.\n\nHis appearance was changed. Aged I would scarcely say, for this\nwould seem as if he did not look young. But I think that the boy was\naltogether gone from his face--the boy whose freak with Steve had turned\nMedicine Bow upside down, whose other freak with the babies had outraged\nBear Creek, the boy who had loved to jingle his spurs. But manhood had\nonly trained, not broken, his youth. It was all there, only obedient to\nthe rein and curb.\n\nPresently we went together to the railway yard.\n\n\"The Judge is doing a right smart o' business this year,\" he began, very\ncasually indeed, so that I knew this was important. Besides bells and\ncoal smoke, the smell and crowded sounds of cattle rose in the air\naround us. \"Hyeh's our first gather o' beeves on the ranch,\" continued\nthe Virginian. \"The whole lot's shipped through to Chicago in two\nsections over the Burlington. The Judge is fighting the Elkhorn road.\"\nWe passed slowly along the two trains,--twenty cars, each car packed\nwith huddled, round-eyed, gazing steers. He examined to see if any\nanimals were down. \"They ain't ate or drank anything to speak of,\" he\nsaid, while the terrified brutes stared at us through their slats. \"Not\nsince they struck the railroad they've not drank. Yu' might suppose\nthey know somehow what they're travellin' to Chicago for.\" And casually,\nalways casually, he told me the rest. Judge Henry could not spare his\nforeman away from the second gather of beeves. Therefore these two\nten-car trains with their double crew of cow-boys had been given to the\nVirginian's charge. After Chicago, he was to return by St. Paul over\nthe Northern Pacific; for the Judge had wished him to see certain of the\nroad's directors and explain to them persuasively how good a thing it\nwould be for them to allow especially cheap rates to the Sunk Creek\noutfit henceforth. This was all the Virginian told me; and it contained\nthe whole matter, to be sure.\n\n\"So you're acting foreman,\" said I.\n\n\"Why, somebody has to have the say, I reckon.\"\n\n\"And of course you hated the promotion?\"\n\n\"I don't know about promotion,\" he replied. \"The boys have been used\nto seein' me one of themselves. Why don't you come along with us far as\nPlattsmouth?\" Thus he shifted the subject from himself, and called to my\nnotice the locomotives backing up to his cars, and reminded me that from\nPlattsmouth I had the choice of two trains returning. But he could not\nhide or belittle this confidence of his employer in him. It was the care\nof several thousand perishable dollars and the control of men. It was a\ncompliment. There were more steers than men to be responsible for; but\nnone of the steers had been suddenly picked from the herd and set above\nhis fellows. Moreover, Chicago finished up the steers; but the new-made\ndeputy foreman had then to lead his six highly unoccupied brethren away\nfrom towns, and back in peace to the ranch, or disappoint the Judge, who\nneeded their services. These things sometimes go wrong in a land where\nthey say you are all born equal; and that quarter of a nod in Colonel\nCyrus Jones's eating palace held more equality than any whole nod you\ncould see. But the Virginian did not see it, there being a time for all\nthings.\n\nWe trundled down the flopping, heavy-eddied Missouri to Plattsmouth,\nand there they backed us on to a siding, the Christian Endeavor being\nexpected to pass that way. And while the equality absorbed themselves in\na deep but harmless game of poker by the side of the railway line,\nthe Virginian and I sat on the top of a car, contemplating the sandy\nshallows of the Platte.\n\n\"I should think you'd take a hand,\" said I.\n\n\"Poker? With them kittens?\" One flash of the inner man lightened in his\neyes and died away, and he finished with his gentle drawl, \"When I play,\nI want it to be interestin'.\" He took out Sir Walter's Kenilworth once\nmore, and turned the volume over and over slowly, without opening it.\nYou cannot tell if in spirit he wandered on Bear Creek with the girl\nwhose book it was. The spirit will go one road, and the thought another,\nand the body its own way sometimes. \"Queen Elizabeth would have played a\nmighty pow'ful game,\" was his next remark.\n\n\"Poker?\" said I.\n\n\"Yes, seh. Do you expaict Europe has got any queen equal to her at\npresent?\"\n\nI doubted it.\n\n\"Victoria'd get pretty nigh slain sliding chips out agaynst Elizabeth.\nOnly mos' prob'ly Victoria she'd insist on a half-cent limit. You have\nread this hyeh Kenilworth? Well, deal Elizabeth ace high, an' she could\nscare Robert Dudley with a full house plumb out o' the bettin'.\"\n\nI said that I believed she unquestionably could.\n\n\"And,\" said the Virginian, \"if Essex's play got next her too near, I\nreckon she'd have stacked the cyards. Say, d' yu' remember Shakespeare's\nfat man?\"\n\n\"Falstaff? Oh, yes, indeed.\"\n\n\"Ain't that grand? Why, he makes men talk the way they do in life.\nI reckon he couldn't get printed to-day. It's a right down shame\nShakespeare couldn't know about poker. He'd have had Falstaff playing\nall day at that Tearsheet outfit. And the Prince would have beat him.\"\n\n\"The Prince had the brains,\" said I.\n\n\"Brains?\"\n\n\"Well, didn't he?\"\n\n\"I neveh thought to notice. Like as not he did.\"\n\n\"And Falstaff didn't, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, seh! Falstaff could have played whist.\"\n\n\"I suppose you know what you're talking about; I don't,\" said I, for he\nwas drawling again.\n\nThe cow-puncher's eye rested a moment amiably upon me. \"You can play\nwhist with your brains,\" he mused,--\"brains and cyards. Now cyards are\nonly one o' the manifestations of poker in this hyeh world. One o' the\nshapes yu fool with it in when the day's work is oveh. If a man is built\nlike that Prince boy was built (and it's away down deep beyond brains),\nhe'll play winnin' poker with whatever hand he's holdin' when the\ntrouble begins. Maybe it will be a mean, triflin' army, or an empty\nsix-shooter, or a lame hawss, or maybe just nothin' but his natural\ncountenance. 'Most any old thing will do for a fello' like that Prince\nboy to play poker with.\"\n\n\"Then I'd be grateful for your definition of poker,\" said I.\n\nAgain the Virginian looked me over amiably. \"You put up a mighty pretty\ngame o' whist yourself,\" he remarked. \"Don't that give you the contented\nspirit?\" And before I had any reply to this, the Christian Endeavor\nbegan to come over the bridge. Three instalments crossed the Missouri\nfrom Pacific Junction, bound for Pike's Peak, every car swathed in\nbright bunting, and at each window a Christian with a handkerchief,\njoyously shrieking. Then the cattle trains got the open signal, and I\njumped off. \"Tell the Judge the steers was all right this far,\" said the\nVirginian.\n\nThat was the last of the deputy foreman for a while.\n\n\n\n\nXIV. BETWEEN THE ACTS\n\n\nMy road to Sunk Creek lay in no straight line. By rail I diverged\nnorthwest to Fort Meade, and thence, after some stay with the kind\nmilitary people, I made my way on a horse. Up here in the Black Hills it\nsluiced rain most intolerably. The horse and I enjoyed the country and\nourselves but little; and when finally I changed from the saddle into a\nstagecoach, I caught a thankful expression upon the animal's face, and\nreturned the same.\n\n\"Six legs inside this jerky to-night?\" said somebody, as I climbed\nthe wheel. \"Well, we'll give thanks for not havin' eight,\" he added\ncheerfully. \"Clamp your mind on to that, Shorty.\" And he slapped the\nshoulder of his neighbor. Naturally I took these two for old companions.\nBut we were all total strangers. They told me of the new gold excitement\nat Rawhide, and supposed it would bring up the Northern Pacific; and\nwhen I explained the millions owed to this road's German bondholders,\nthey were of opinion that a German would strike it richer at Rawhide. We\nspoke of all sorts of things, and in our silence I gloated on the autumn\nholiday promised me by Judge Henry. His last letter had said that an\noutfit would be starting for his ranch from Billings on the seventh, and\nhe would have a horse for me. This was the fifth. So we six legs in the\njerky travelled harmoniously on over the rain-gutted road, getting no\ndeeper knowledge of each other than what our outsides might imply.\n\nNot that we concealed anything. The man who had slapped Shorty\nintroduced himself early. \"Scipio le Moyne, from Gallipolice, Ohio,\" he\nsaid. \"The eldest of us always gets called Scipio. It's French. But\nus folks have been white for a hundred years.\" He was limber and\nlight-muscled, and fell skilfully about, evading bruises when the\njerky reeled or rose on end. He had a strange, long, jocular nose, very\nwary-looking, and a bleached blue eye. Cattle was his business, as a\nrule, but of late he had been \"looking around some,\" and Rawhide seemed\nmuch on his brain. Shorty struck me as \"looking around\" also. He was\nquite short, indeed, and the jerky hurt him almost every time. He was\nlight-haired and mild. Think of a yellow dog that is lost, and fancies\neach newcomer in sight is going to turn out his master, and you will\nhave Shorty.\n\nIt was the Northern Pacific that surprised us into intimacy. We were\nnearing Medora. We had made a last arrangement of our legs. I lay\nstretched in silence, placid in the knowledge it was soon to end. So\nI drowsed. I felt something sudden, and, waking, saw Scipio passing\nthrough the air. As Shorty next shot from the jerky, I beheld smoke and\nthe locomotive. The Northern Pacific had changed its schedule. A valise\nis a poor companion for catching a train with. There was rutted sand\nand lumpy, knee-high grease wood in our short cut. A piece of stray wire\nsprang from some hole and hung caracoling about my ankle. Tin cans spun\nfrom my stride. But we made a conspicuous race. Two of us waved hats,\nand there was no moment that some one of us was not screeching. It meant\ntwenty-four hours to us.\n\nPerhaps we failed to catch the train's attention, though the theory\nseems monstrous. As it moved off in our faces, smooth and easy and\ninsulting, Scipio dropped instantly to a walk, and we two others\noutstripped him and came desperately to the empty track. There went the\ntrain. Even still its puffs were the separated puffs of starting, that\nbitten-off, snorty kind, and sweat and our true natures broke freely\nforth.\n\nI kicked my valise, and then sat on it, dumb.\n\nShorty yielded himself up aloud. All his humble secrets came out of\nhim. He walked aimlessly round, lamenting. He had lost his job, and he\nmentioned the ranch. He had played cards, and he mentioned the man. He\nhad sold his horse and saddle to catch a friend on this train, and he\nmentioned what the friend had been going to do for him. He told a string\nof griefs and names to the air, as if the air knew.\n\nMeanwhile Scipio arrived with extreme leisure at the rails. He stuck\nhis hands into his pockets and his head out at the very small train.\nHis bleached blue eyes shut to slits as he watched the rear car in its\nsmoke-blur ooze away westward among the mounded bluffs. \"Lucky it's out\nof range,\" I thought. But now Scipio spoke to it.\n\n\"Why, you seem to think you've left me behind,\" he began easily, in\nfawning tones. \"You're too much of a kid to have such thoughts. Age\nsome.\" His next remark grew less wheedling. \"I wouldn't be a bit proud\nto meet yu'. Why, if I was seen travellin' with yu', I'd have to explain\nit to my friends! Think you've got me left, do yu'? Just because yu'\nride through this country on a rail, do yu' claim yu' can find your way\naround? I could take yu' out ten yards in the brush and lose yu' in\nten seconds, you spangle-roofed hobo! Leave ME behind? you recent\nblanket-mortgage yearlin'! You plush-lined, nickel-plated, whistlin'\nwash room, d' yu' figure I can't go east just as soon as west? Or I'll\nstay right here if it suits me, yu' dude-inhabited hot-box! Why, yu'\ncoon-bossed face-towel--\" But from here he rose in flights of novelty\nthat appalled and held me spellbound, and which are not for me to say\nto you. Then he came down easily again, and finished with expressions of\nsympathy for it because it could never have known a mother.\n\n\"Do you expaict it could show a male parent offhand?\" inquired a slow\nvoice behind us. I jumped round, and there was the Virginian.\n\n\"Male parent!\" scoffed the prompt Scipio. \"Ain't you heard about THEM\nyet?\"\n\n\"Them? Was there two?\"\n\n\"Two? The blamed thing was sired by a whole doggone Dutch syndicate.\"\n\n\"Why, the piebald son of a gun!\" responded the Virginian, sweetly. \"I\ngot them steers through all right,\" he added to me. \"Sorry to see yu'\nget so out o' breath afteh the train. Is your valise sufferin' any?\"\n\n\"Who's he?\" inquired Scipio, curiously, turning to me.\n\nThe Southerner sat with a newspaper on the rear platform of a caboose.\nThe caboose stood hitched behind a mile or so of freight train, and\nthe train was headed west. So here was the deputy foreman, his steers\ndelivered in Chicago, his men (I could hear them) safe in the caboose,\nhis paper in his lap, and his legs dangling at ease over the railing. He\nwore the look of a man for whom things are going smooth. And for me the\nway to Billings was smooth now, also.\n\n\"Who's he?\" Scipio repeated.\n\nBut from inside the caboose loud laughter and noise broke on us. Some\none was reciting \"And it's my night to howl.\"\n\n\"We'll all howl when we get to Rawhide,\" said some other one; and they\nhowled now.\n\n\"These hyeh steam cyars,\" said the Virginian to Scipio, \"make a man's\nlanguage mighty nigh as speedy as his travel.\" Of Shorty he took no\nnotice whatever--no more than of the manifestations in the caboose.\n\n\"So yu' heard me speakin' to the express,\" said Scipio. \"Well, I guess,\nsometimes I--See here,\" he exclaimed, for the Virginian was gravely\nconsidering him, \"I may have talked some, but I walked a whole lot. You\ndidn't catch ME squandering no speed. Soon as--\"\n\n\"I noticed,\" said the Virginian, \"thinkin' came quicker to yu' than\nrunnin'.\"\n\nI was glad I was not Shorty, to have my measure taken merely by my\nway of missing a train. And of course I was sorry that I had kicked my\nvalise.\n\n\"Oh, I could tell yu'd been enjoyin' us!\" said Scipio. \"Observin'\nsomebody else's scrape always kind o' rests me too. Maybe you're a\nphilosopher, but maybe there's a pair of us drawd in this deal.\"\n\nApproval now grew plain upon the face of the Virginian. \"By your laigs,\"\nsaid he, \"you are used to the saddle.\"\n\n\"I'd be called used to it, I expect.\"\n\n\"By your hands,\" said the Southerner, again, \"you ain't roped many\nsteers lately. Been cookin' or something?\"\n\n\"Say,\" retorted Scipio, \"tell my future some now. Draw a conclusion from\nmy mouth.\"\n\n\"I'm right distressed,\" answered the gentle Southerner, \"we've not a\ndrop in the outfit.\"\n\n\"Oh, drink with me uptown!\" cried Scipio. \"I'm pleased to death with\nyu'.\"\n\nThe Virginian glanced where the saloons stood just behind the station,\nand shook his head.\n\n\"Why, it ain't a bit far to whiskey from here!\" urged the other,\nplaintively. \"Step down, now. Scipio le Moyne's my name. Yes, you're\nlookin' for my brass ear-rings. But there ain't no ear-rings on me. I've\nbeen white for a hundred years. Step down. I've a forty-dollar thirst.\"\n\n\"You're certainly white,\" began the Virginian. \"But--\"\n\nHere the caboose resumed:\n\n     \"I'm wild, and woolly, and full of peas;\n      I'm hard to curry above the knees;\n      I'm a she-wolf from Bitter Creek, and\n      It's my night to ho-o-wl--\"\n\nAnd as they howled and stamped, the wheels of the caboose began to turn\ngently and to murmur.\n\nThe Virginian rose suddenly. \"Will yu' save that thirst and take a\nforty-dollar job?\"\n\n\"Missin' trains, profanity, or what?\" said Scipio.\n\n\"I'll tell yu' soon as I'm sure.\"\n\nAt this Scipio looked hard at the Virginian. \"Why, you're talkin'\nbusiness!\" said he, and leaped on the caboose, where I was already. \"I\nWAS thinkin' of Rawhide,\" he added, \"but I ain't any more.\"\n\n\"Well, good luck!\" said Shorty, on the track behind us.\n\n\"Oh, say!\" said Scipio, \"he wanted to go on that train, just like me.\"\n\n\"Get on,\" called the Virginian. \"But as to getting a job, he ain't just\nlike you.\" So Shorty came, like a lost dog when you whistle to him.\n\nOur wheels clucked over the main-line switch. A train-hand threw it shut\nafter us, jumped aboard, and returned forward over the roofs. Inside the\ncaboose they had reached the third howling of the she-wolf.\n\n\"Friends of yourn?\" said Scipio.\n\n\"My outfit,\" drawled the Virginian.\n\n\"Do yu' always travel outside?\" inquired Scipio.\n\n\"It's lonesome in there,\" returned the deputy foreman. And here one of\nthem came out, slamming the door.\n\n\"Hell!\" he said, at sight of the distant town. Then, truculently, to the\nVirginian, \"I told you I was going to get a bottle here.\"\n\n\"Have your bottle, then,\" said the deputy foreman, and kicked him off\ninto Dakota. (It was not North Dakota yet; they had not divided it.)\nThe Virginian had aimed his pistol at about the same time with his\nboot. Therefore the man sat in Dakota quietly, watching us go away into\nMontana, and offering no objections. Just before he became too small to\nmake out, we saw him rise and remove himself back toward the saloons.\n\n\n\n\nXV. THE GAME AND THE NATION--ACT SECOND\n\n\n\"That is the only step I have had to take this whole trip,\" said the\nVirginian. He holstered his pistol with a jerk. \"I have been fearing\nhe would force it on me.\" And he looked at empty, receding Dakota with\ndisgust. \"So nyeh back home!\" he muttered.\n\n\"Known your friend long?\" whispered Scipio to me.\n\n\"Fairly,\" I answered.\n\nScipio's bleached eyes brightened with admiration as he considered the\nSoutherner's back. \"Well,\" he stated judicially, \"start awful early when\nyu' go to fool with him, or he'll make you feel unpunctual.\"\n\n\"I expaict I've had them almost all of three thousand miles,\" said the\nVirginian, tilting his head toward the noise in the caboose. \"And I've\nstrove to deliver them back as I received them. The whole lot. And I\nwould have. But he has spoiled my hopes.\" The deputy foreman looked\nagain at Dakota. \"It's a disappointment,\" he added. \"You may know what I\nmean.\"\n\nI had known a little, but not to the very deep, of the man's pride and\npurpose in this trust. Scipio gave him sympathy. \"There must be quite a\nbalance of 'em left with yu' yet,\" said Scipio, cheeringly.\n\n\"I had the boys plumb contented,\" pursued the deputy foreman, hurt\ninto open talk of himself. \"Away along as far as Saynt Paul I had them\nreconciled to my authority. Then this news about gold had to strike us.\"\n\n\"And they're a-dreamin' nuggets and Parisian bowleyvards,\" suggested\nScipio.\n\nThe Virginian smiled gratefully at him.\n\n\"Fortune is shinin' bright and blindin' to their delicate young eyes,\"\nhe said, regaining his usual self.\n\nWe all listened a moment to the rejoicings within.\n\n\"Energetic, ain't they?\" said the Southerner. \"But none of 'em was\nwhelped savage enough to sing himself bloodthirsty. And though they're\nstrainin' mighty earnest not to be tame, they're goin' back to Sunk\nCreek with me accordin' to the Judge's awders. Never a calf of them will\ndesert to Rawhide, for all their dangerousness; nor I ain't goin' to\nhave any fuss over it. Only one is left now that don't sing. Maybe I\nwill have to make some arrangements about him. The man I have parted\nwith,\" he said, with another glance at Dakota, \"was our cook, and I will\nask yu' to replace him, Colonel.\"\n\nScipio gaped wide. \"Colonel! Say!\" He stared at the Virginian. \"Did I\nmeet yu' at the palace?\"\n\n\"Not exackly meet,\" replied the Southerner. \"I was present one mawnin'\nlas' month when this gentleman awdehed frawgs' laigs.\"\n\n\"Sakes and saints, but that was a mean position!\" burst out Scipio. \"I\nhad to tell all comers anything all day. Stand up and jump language hot\noff my brain at 'em. And the pay don't near compensate for the drain on\nthe system. I don't care how good a man is, you let him keep a-tappin'\nhis presence of mind right along, without takin' a lay-off, and you'll\nhave him sick. Yes, sir. You'll hit his nerves. So I told them they\ncould hire some fresh man, for I was goin' back to punch cattle or fight\nIndians, or take a rest somehow, for I didn't propose to get jaded,\nand me only twenty-five years old. There ain't no regular Colonel\nCyrus Jones any more, yu' know. He met a Cheyenne telegraph pole in\nseventy-four, and was buried. But his palace was doin' big business, and\nhe had been a kind of attraction, and so they always keep a live bear\noutside, and some poor fello', fixed up like the Colonel used to be,\ninside. And it's a turruble mean position. Course I'll cook for yu'.\nYu've a dandy memory for faces!\"\n\n\"I wasn't right convinced till I kicked him off and you gave that shut\nto your eyes again,\" said the Virginian.\n\nOnce more the door opened. A man with slim black eyebrows, slim black\nmustache, and a black shirt tied with a white handkerchief was looking\nsteadily from one to the other of us.\n\n\"Good day!\" he remarked generally and without enthusiasm; and to the\nVirginian, \"Where's Schoffner?\"\n\n\"I expaict he'll have got his bottle by now, Trampas.\"\n\nTrampas looked from one to the other of us again. \"Didn't he say he was\ncoming back?\"\n\n\"He reminded me he was going for a bottle, and afteh that he didn't wait\nto say a thing.\"\n\nTrampas looked at the platform and the railing and the steps. \"He told\nme he was coming back,\" he insisted.\n\n\"I don't reckon he has come, not without he clumb up ahaid somewhere.\nAn' I mus' say, when he got off he didn't look like a man does when he\nhas the intention o' returnin'.\"\n\nAt this Scipio coughed, and pared his nails attentively. We had already\nbeen avoiding each other's eye. Shorty did not count. Since he got\naboard, his meek seat had been the bottom step.\n\nThe thoughts of Trampas seemed to be in difficulty. \"How long's this\ntrain been started?\" he demanded.\n\n\"This hyeh train?\" The Virginian consulted his watch. \"Why, it's been\nfanning it a right smart little while,\" said he, laying no stress upon\nhis indolent syllables.\n\n\"Huh!\" went Trampas. He gave the rest of us a final unlovely scrutiny.\n\"It seems to have become a passenger train,\" he said. And he returned\nabruptly inside the caboose.\n\n\"Is he the member who don't sing?\" asked Scipio.\n\n\"That's the specimen,\" replied the Southerner.\n\n\"He don't seem musical in the face,\" said Scipio.\n\n\"Pshaw!\" returned the Virginian. \"Why, you surely ain't the man to mind\nugly mugs when they're hollow!\"\n\nThe noise inside had dropped quickly to stillness. You could scarcely\ncatch the sound of talk. Our caboose was clicking comfortably westward,\nrail after rail, mile upon mile, while night was beginning to rise from\nearth into the clouded sky.\n\n\"I wonder if they have sent a search party forward to hunt Schoffner?\"\nsaid the Virginian. \"I think I'll maybe join their meeting.\" He opened\nthe door upon them. \"Kind o' dark hyeh, ain't it?\" said he. And lighting\nthe lantern, he shut us out.\n\n\"What do yu' think?\" said Scipio to me. \"Will he take them to Sunk\nCreek?\"\n\n\"He evidently thinks he will,\" said I. \"He says he will, and he has the\ncourage of his convictions.\"\n\n\"That ain't near enough courage to have!\" Scipio exclaimed.\n\"There's times in life when a man has got to have courage WITHOUT\nconvictions--WITHOUT them--or he is no good. Now your friend is that\ndeep constitooted that you don't know and I don't know what he's\nthinkin' about all this.\"\n\n\"If there's to be any gun-play,\" put in the excellent Shorty, \"I'll\nstand in with him.\"\n\n\"Ah, go to bed with your gun-play!\" retorted Scipio, entirely\ngood-humored. \"Is the Judge paying for a carload of dead punchers to\ngather his beef for him? And this ain't a proposition worth a man's\ngettin' hurt for himself, anyway.\"\n\n\"That's so,\" Shorty assented.\n\n\"No,\" speculated Scipio, as the night drew deeper round us and the\ncaboose click-clucked and click-clucked over the rail joints; \"he's\nwaitin' for somebody else to open this pot. I'll bet he don't know but\none thing now, and that's that nobody else shall know he don't know\nanything.\"\n\nScipio had delivered himself. He lighted a cigarette, and no more wisdom\ncame from him. The night was established. The rolling bad-lands sank\naway in it. A train-hand had arrived over the roof, and hanging the red\nlights out behind, left us again without remark or symptom of curiosity.\nThe train-hands seemed interested in their own society and lived in\ntheir own caboose. A chill wind with wet in it came blowing from the\ninvisible draws, and brought the feel of the distant mountains.\n\n\"That's Montana!\" said Scipio, snuffing. \"I am glad to have it inside my\nlungs again.\"\n\n\"Ain't yu' getting cool out there?\" said the Virginian's voice. \"Plenty\nroom inside.\"\n\nPerhaps he had expected us to follow him; or perhaps he had meant us\nto delay long enough not to seem like a reenforcement. \"These gentlemen\nmissed the express at Medora,\" he observed to his men, simply.\n\nWhat they took us for upon our entrance I cannot say, or what they\nbelieved. The atmosphere of the caboose was charged with voiceless\ncurrents of thought. By way of a friendly beginning to the three hundred\nmiles of caboose we were now to share so intimately, I recalled myself\nto them. I trusted no more of the Christian Endeavor had delayed them.\n\"I am so lucky to have caught you again,\" I finished. \"I was afraid my\nlast chance of reaching the Judge's had gone.\"\n\nThus I said a number of things designed to be agreeable, but they met my\nsmall talk with the smallest talk you can have. \"Yes,\" for instance, and\n\"Pretty well, I guess,\" and grave strikings of matches and thoughtful\nlooks at the floor. I suppose we had made twenty miles to the\nimperturbable clicking of the caboose when one at length asked his\nneighbor had he ever seen New York.\n\n\"No,\" said the other. \"Flooded with dudes, ain't it?\"\n\n\"Swimmin',\" said the first.\n\n\"Leakin', too,\" said a third.\n\n\"Well, my gracious!\" said a fourth, and beat his knee in private\ndelight. None of them ever looked at me. For some reason I felt\nexceedingly ill at ease.\n\n\"Good clothes in New York,\" said the third.\n\n\"Rich food,\" said the first.\n\n\"Fresh eggs, too,\" said the third.\n\n\"Well, my gracious!\" said the fourth, beating his knee.\n\n\"Why, yes,\" observed the Virginian, unexpectedly; \"they tell me that\naiggs there ain't liable to be so rotten as yu'll strike 'em in this\ncountry.\"\n\nNone of them had a reply for this, and New York was abandoned. For some\nreason I felt much better.\n\nIt was a new line they adopted next, led off by Trampas.\n\n\"Going to the excitement?\" he inquired, selecting Shorty.\n\n\"Excitement?\" said Shorty, looking up.\n\n\"Going to Rawhide?\" Trampas repeated. And all watched Shorty.\n\n\"Why, I'm all adrift missin' that express,\" said Shorty.\n\n\"Maybe I can give you employment,\" suggested the Virginian. \"I am taking\nan outfit across the basin.\"\n\n\"You'll find most folks going to Rawhide, if you're looking for\ncompany,\" pursued Trampas, fishing for a recruit.\n\n\"How about Rawhide, anyway?\" said Scipio, skillfully deflecting this\nmissionary work. \"Are they taking much mineral out? Have yu' seen any of\nthe rock?\"\n\n\"Rock?\" broke in the enthusiast who had beaten his knee. \"There!\" And he\nbrought some from his pocket.\n\n\"You're always showing your rock,\" said Trampas, sulkily; for Scipio now\nheld the conversation, and Shorty returned safely to his dozing.\n\n\"H'm!\" went Scipio at the rock. He turned it back and forth in his hand,\nlooking it over; he chucked and caught it slightingly in the air, and\nhanded it back. \"Porphyry, I see.\" That was his only word about it. He\nsaid it cheerily. He left no room for discussion. You could not damn\na thing worse. \"Ever been in Santa Rita?\" pursued Scipio, while the\nenthusiast slowly pushed his rock back into his pocket. \"That's down in\nNew Mexico. Ever been to Globe, Arizona?\" And Scipio talked away about\nthe mines he had known. There was no getting at Shorty any more that\nevening. Trampas was foiled of his fish, or of learning how the fish's\nheart lay. And by morning Shorty had been carefully instructed to change\nhis mind about once an hour. This is apt to discourage all but very\nsuperior missionaries. And I too escaped for the rest of this night. At\nGlendive we had a dim supper, and I bought some blankets; and after that\nit was late, and sleep occupied the attention of us all.\n\nWe lay along the shelves of the caboose, a peaceful sight I should\nthink, in that smoothly trundling cradle. I slept almost immediately, so\ntired that not even our stops or anything else waked me, save once, when\nthe air I was breathing grew suddenly pure, and I roused. Sitting in\nthe door was the lonely figure of the Virginian. He leaned in silent\ncontemplation of the occasional moon, and beneath it the Yellowstone's\nswift ripples. On the caboose shelves the others slept sound and still,\neach stretched or coiled as he had first put himself. They were not\nuntrustworthy to look at, it seemed to me--except Trampas. You would\nhave said the rest of that young humanity was average rough male blood,\nmerely needing to be told the proper things at the right time; and one\nbig bunchy stocking of the enthusiast stuck out of his blanket, solemn\nand innocent, and I laughed at it. There was a light sound by the door,\nand I found the Virginian's eye on me. Finding who it was, he nodded\nand motioned with his hand to go to sleep. And this I did with him in\nmy sight, still leaning in the open door, through which came the\ninterrupted moon and the swimming reaches of the Yellowstone.\n\n\n\n\nXVI. THE GAME AND THE NATION--LAST ACT\n\n\nIt has happened to you, has it not, to wake in the morning and wonder\nfor a while where on earth you are? Thus I came half to life in the\ncaboose, hearing voices, but not the actual words at first.\n\nBut presently, \"Hathaway!\" said some one more clearly. \"Portland 1291!\"\n\nThis made no special stir in my intelligence, and I drowsed off again\nto the pleasant rhythm of the wheels. The little shock of stopping next\nbrought me to, somewhat, with the voices still round me; and when we\nwere again in motion, I heard: \"Rosebud! Portland 1279!\" These figures\njarred me awake, and I said, \"It was 1291 before,\" and sat up in my\nblankets.\n\nThe greeting they vouchsafed and the sight of them clustering\nexpressionless in the caboose brought last evening's uncomfortable\nmemory back to me. Our next stop revealed how things were going to-day.\n\n\"Forsythe,\" one of them read on the station. \"Portland 1266.\"\n\nThey were counting the lessening distance westward. This was the\nundercurrent of war. It broke on me as I procured fresh water at\nForsythe and made some toilet in their stolid presence. We were drawing\nnearer the Rawhide station--the point, I mean, where you left the\nrailway for the new mines. Now Rawhide station lay this side of\nBillings. The broad path of desertion would open ready for their feet\nwhen the narrow path to duty and Sunk Creek was still some fifty miles\nmore to wait. Here was Trampas's great strength; he need make no move\nmeanwhile, but lie low for the immediate temptation to front and waylay\nthem and win his battle over the deputy foreman. But the Virginian\nseemed to find nothing save enjoyment in this sunny September morning,\nand ate his breakfast at Forsythe serenely.\n\nThat meal done and that station gone, our caboose took up again its easy\ntrundle by the banks of the Yellowstone. The mutineers sat for a while\ndigesting in idleness.\n\n\"What's your scar?\" inquired one at length inspecting casually the neck\nof his neighbor.\n\n\"Foolishness,\" the other answered.\n\n\"Yourn?\"\n\n\"Mine.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know but I prefer to have myself to thank for a thing,\"\nsaid the first.\n\n\"I was displaying myself,\" continued the second. \"One day last summer it\nwas. We come on a big snake by Torrey Creek corral. The boys got betting\npretty lively that I dassent make my word good as to dealing with him,\nso I loped my cayuse full tilt by Mr. Snake, and swung down and catched\nhim up by the tail from the ground, and cracked him same as a whip, and\nsnapped his head off. You've saw it done?\" he said to the audience.\n\nThe audience nodded wearily.\n\n\"But the loose head flew agin me, and the fangs caught. I was pretty\nsick for a while.\"\n\n\"It don't pay to be clumsy,\" said the first man. \"If you'd snapped the\nsnake away from yu' instead of toward yu', its head would have whirled\noff into the brush, same as they do with me.\"\n\n\"How like a knife-cut your scar looks!\" said I.\n\n\"Don't it?\" said the snake-snapper. \"There's many that gets fooled by\nit.\"\n\n\"An antelope knows a snake is his enemy,\" said another to me. \"Ever seen\na buck circling round and round a rattler?\"\n\n\"I have always wanted to see that,\" said I, heartily. For this I knew to\nbe a respectable piece of truth.\n\n\"It's worth seeing,\" the man went on. \"After the buck gets close in, he\ngives an almighty jump up in the air, and down comes his four hoofs in\na bunch right on top of Mr. Snake. Cuts him all to hash. Now you tell me\nhow the buck knows that.\"\n\nOf course I could not tell him. And again we sat in silence for a\nwhile--friendlier silence, I thought.\n\n\"A skunk'll kill yu' worse than a snake bite,\" said another, presently.\n\"No, I don't mean that way,\" he added. For I had smiled. \"There is a\nbrown skunk down in Arkansaw. Kind of prairie-dog brown. Littler than\nour variety, he is. And he is mad the whole year round, same as a dog\ngets. Only the dog has a spell and dies but this here Arkansaw skunk\nis mad right along, and it don't seem to interfere with his business in\nother respects. Well, suppose you're camping out, and suppose it's a hot\nnight, or you're in a hurry, and you've made camp late, or anyway you\nhaven't got inside any tent, but you have just bedded down in the open.\nSkunk comes travelling along and walks on your blankets. You're warm. He\nlikes that, same as a cat does. And he tramps with pleasure and comfort,\nsame as a cat. And you move. You get bit, that's all. And you die of\nhydrophobia. Ask anybody.\"\n\n\"Most extraordinary!\" said I. \"But did you ever see a person die from\nthis?\"\n\n\"No, sir. Never happened to. My cousin at Bald Knob did.\"\n\n\"Died?\"\n\n\"No, sir. Saw a man.\"\n\n\"But how do you know they're not sick skunks?\"\n\n\"No, sir! They're well skunks. Well as anything. You'll not meet skunks\nin any state of the Union more robust than them in Arkansaw. And thick.\"\n\n\"That's awful true,\" sighed another. \"I have buried hundreds of dollars'\nworth of clothes in Arkansaw.\"\n\n\"Why didn't yu' travel in a sponge bag?\" inquired Scipio. And this\nbrought a slight silence.\n\n\"Speakin' of bites,\" spoke up a new man, \"how's that?\" He held up his\nthumb.\n\n\"My!\" breathed Scipio. \"Must have been a lion.\"\n\nThe man wore a wounded look. \"I was huntin' owl eggs for a botanist from\nBoston,\" he explained to me.\n\n\"Chiropodist, weren't he?\" said Scipio. \"Or maybe a sonnabulator?\"\n\n\"No, honest,\" protested the man with the thumb; so that I was sorry for\nhim, and begged him to go on.\n\n\"I'll listen to you,\" I assured him. And I wondered why this politeness\nof mine should throw one or two of them into stifled mirth. Scipio, on\nthe other hand, gave me a disgusted look and sat back sullenly for a\nmoment, and then took himself out on the platform, where the Virginian\nwas lounging.\n\n\"The young feller wore knee-pants and ever so thick spectacles with a\nhalf-moon cut in 'em,\" resumed the narrator, \"and he carried a tin box\nstrung to a strap I took for his lunch till it flew open on him and a\nhorn toad hustled out. Then I was sure he was a botanist--or whatever\nyu' say they're called. Well, he would have owl eggs--them little\nprairie-owl that some claim can turn their head clean around and\nkeep a-watchin' yu', only that's nonsense. We was ridin' through that\nprairie-dog town, used to be on the flat just after yu' crossed the\nsouth fork of Powder River on the Buffalo trail, and I said I'd dig an\nowl nest out for him if he was willing to camp till I'd dug it. I wanted\nto know about them owls some myself--if they did live with the dogs and\nsnakes, yu' know,\" he broke off, appealing to me.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" I told him eagerly.\n\n\"So while the botanist went glarin' around the town with his glasses to\nsee if he could spot a prairie-dog and an owl usin' the same hole, I was\ndiggin' in a hole I'd seen an owl run down. And that's what I got.\" He\nheld up his thumb again.\n\n\"The snake!\" I exclaimed.\n\n\"Yes, sir. Mr. Rattler was keepin' house that day. Took me right there.\nI hauled him out of the hole hangin' to me. Eight rattles.\"\n\n\"Eight!\" said I. \"A big one.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. Thought I was dead. But the woman--\"\n\n\"The woman?\" said I.\n\n\"Yes, woman. Didn't I tell yu' the botanist had his wife along? Well, he\ndid. And she acted better than the man, for he was losin' his head,\nand shoutin' he had no whiskey, and he didn't guess his knife was sharp\nenough to amputate my thumb, and none of us chewed, and the doctor\nwas twenty miles away, and if he had only remembered to bring his\nammonia--well, he was screeching out 'most everything he knew in the\nworld, and without arranging it any, neither. But she just clawed his\npocket and burrowed and kep' yelling, 'Give him the stone, Augustus!'\nAnd she whipped out one of them Injun medicine-stones,--first one I ever\nseen,--and she clapped it on to my thumb, and it started in right away.\"\n\n\"What did it do?\" said I.\n\n\"Sucked. Like blotting-paper does. Soft and funny it was, and gray. They\nget 'em from elks' stomachs, yu' know. And when it had sucked the poison\nout of the wound, off it falls of my thumb by itself! And I thanked the\nwoman for saving my life that capable and keeping her head that cool.\nI never knowed how excited she had been till afterward. She was awful\nshocked.\"\n\n\"I suppose she started to talk when the danger was over,\" said I, with\ndeep silence around me.\n\n\"No; she didn't say nothing to me. But when her next child was born, it\nhad eight rattles.\"\n\nDin now rose wild in the caboose. They rocked together. The enthusiast\nbeat his knee tumultuously. And I joined them. Who could help it? It\nhad been so well conducted from the imperceptible beginning. Fact and\nfalsehood blended with such perfect art. And this last, an effect so\nnew made with such world-old material! I cared nothing that I was\nthe victim, and I joined them; but ceased, feeling suddenly somehow\nestranged or chilled. It was in their laughter. The loudness was too\nloud. And I caught the eyes of Trampas fixed upon the Virginian with\nexultant malevolence. Scipio's disgusted glance was upon me from the\ndoor.\n\nDazed by these signs, I went out on the platform to get away from the\nnoise. There the Virginian said to me: \"Cheer up! You'll not be so easy\nfor 'em that-a-way next season.\"\n\nHe said no more; and with his legs dangled over the railing, appeared to\nresume his newspaper.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" said I to Scipio.\n\n\"Oh, I don't mind if he don't,\" Scipio answered. \"Couldn't yu' see? I\ntried to head 'em off from yu' all I knew, but yu' just ran in among 'em\nyourself. Couldn't yu' see? Kep' hinderin' and spoilin' me with askin'\nthose urgent questions of yourn--why, I had to let yu' go your way! Why,\nthat wasn't the ordinary play with the ordinary tenderfoot they treated\nyou to! You ain't a common tenderfoot this trip. You're the foreman's\nfriend. They've hit him through you. That's the way they count it. It's\nmade them encouraged. Can't yu' see?\"\n\nScipio stated it plainly. And as we ran by the next station, \"Howard!\"\nthey harshly yelled. \"Portland 1256!\"\n\nWe had been passing gangs of workmen on the track. And at that last yell\nthe Virginian rose. \"I reckon I'll join the meeting again,\" he said.\n\"This filling and repairing looks like the washout might have been\ntrue.\"\n\n\"Washout?\" said Scipio.\n\n\"Big Horn bridge, they say--four days ago.\"\n\n\"Then I wish it came this side Rawhide station.\"\n\n\"Do yu'?\" drawled the Virginian. And smiling at Scipio, he lounged in\nthrough the open door.\n\n\"He beats me,\" said Scipio, shaking his head. \"His trail is turruble\nhard to anticipate.\"\n\nWe listened.\n\n\"Work bein' done on the road, I see,\" the Virginian was saying, very\nfriendly and conversational.\n\n\"We see it too,\" said the voice of Trampas.\n\n\"Seem to be easin' their grades some.\"\n\n\"Roads do.\"\n\n\"Cheaper to build 'em the way they want 'em at the start, a man would\nthink,\" suggested the Virginian, most friendly. \"There go some more\nI-talians.\"\n\n\"They're Chinese,\" said Trampas.\n\n\"That's so,\" acknowledged the Virginian, with a laugh.\n\n\"What's he monkeyin' at now?\" muttered Scipio.\n\n\"Without cheap foreigners they couldn't afford all this hyeh new\ngradin',\" the Southerner continued.\n\n\"Grading! Can't you tell when a flood's been eating the banks?\"\n\n\"Why, yes,\" said the Virginian, sweet as honey. \"But 'ain't yu' heard\nof the improvements west of Big Timber, all the way to Missoula, this\nseason? I'm talkin' about them.\"\n\n\"Oh! Talking about them. Yes, I've heard.\"\n\n\"Good money-savin' scheme, ain't it?\" said the Virginian. \"Lettin' a\nfreight run down one hill an' up the next as far as she'll go without\nsteam, an' shavin' the hill down to that point.\" Now this was an honest\nengineering fact. \"Better'n settin' dudes squintin' through telescopes\nand cypherin' over one per cent reductions,\" the Southerner commented.\n\n\"It's common sense,\" assented Trampas. \"Have you heard the new scheme\nabout the water-tanks?\"\n\n\"I ain't right certain,\" said the Southerner.\n\n\"I must watch this,\" said Scipio, \"or I shall bust.\" He went in, and so\ndid I.\n\nThey were all sitting over this discussion of the Northern Pacific's\nrecent policy as to betterments, as though they were the board of\ndirectors. Pins could have dropped. Only nobody would have cared to hear\na pin.\n\n\"They used to put all their tanks at the bottom of their grades,\" said\nTrampas.\n\n\"Why, yu' get the water easier at the bottom.\"\n\n\"You can pump it to the top, though,\" said Trampas, growing superior.\n\"And it's cheaper.\"\n\n\"That gets me,\" said the Virginian, interested.\n\n\"Trains after watering can start down hill now and get the benefit of\nthe gravity. It'll cut down operating expenses a heap.\"\n\n\"That's cert'nly common sense!\" exclaimed the Virginian, absorbed. \"But\nain't it kind o' tardy?\"\n\n\"Live and learn. So they gained speed, too. High speed on half the coal\nthis season, until the accident.\"\n\n\"Accident!\" said the Virginian, instantly.\n\n\"Yellowstone Limited. Man fired at engine driver. Train was flying past\nthat quick the bullet broke every window and killed a passenger on the\nback platform. You've been running too much with aristocrats,\" finished\nTrampas, and turned on his heel.\n\n\"Haw, hew!\" began the enthusiast, but his neighbor gripped him to\nsilence. This was a triumph too serious for noise. Not a mutineer moved;\nand I felt cold.\n\n\"Trampas,\" said the Virginian, \"I thought yu'd be afeared to try it on\nme.\"\n\nTrampas whirled round. His hand was at his belt. \"Afraid!\" he sneered.\n\n\"Shorty!\" said Scipio, sternly, and leaping upon that youth, took his\nhalf-drawn pistol from him.\n\n\"I'm obliged to yu',\" said the Virginian to Scipio. Trampas's hand left\nhis belt. He threw a slight, easy look at his men, and keeping his back\nto the Virginian, walked out on the platform and sat on the chair where\nthe Virginian had sat so much.\n\n\"Don't you comprehend,\" said the Virginian to Shorty, amiably, \"that\nthis hyeh question has been discussed peaceable by civilized citizens?\nNow you sit down and be good, and Mr. Le Moyne will return your gun when\nwe're across that broken bridge, if they have got it fixed for heavy\ntrains yet.\"\n\n\"This train will be lighter when it gets to that bridge,\" spoke Trampas,\nout on his chair.\n\n\"Why, that's true, too!\" said the Virginian. \"Maybe none of us are\ncrossin' that Big Horn bridge now, except me. Funny if yu' should end by\npersuadin' me to quit and go to Rawhide myself! But I reckon I'll not. I\nreckon I'll worry along to Sunk Creek, somehow.\"\n\n\"Don't forget I'm cookin' for yu',\" said Scipio, gruffy.\n\n\"I'm obliged to yu',\" said the Southerner.\n\n\"You were speaking of a job for me,\" said Shorty.\n\n\"I'm right obliged. But yu' see--I ain't exackly foreman the way this\ncomes out, and my promises might not bind Judge Henry to pay salaries.\"\n\nA push came through the train from forward. We were slowing for the\nRawhide station, and all began to be busy and to talk. \"Going up to the\nmines to-day?\" \"Oh, let's grub first.\" \"Guess it's too late, anyway.\"\nAnd so forth; while they rolled and roped their bedding, and put on\ntheir coats with a good deal of elbow motion, and otherwise showed\noff. It was wasted. The Virginian did not know what was going on in the\ncaboose. He was leaning and looking out ahead, and Scipio's puzzled\neye never left him. And as we halted for the water-tank, the Southerner\nexclaimed, \"They 'ain't got away yet!\" as if it were good news to him.\n\nHe meant the delayed trains. Four stalled expresses were in front of us,\nbesides several freights. And two hours more at least before the bridge\nwould be ready.\n\nTravellers stood and sat about forlorn, near the cars, out in the\nsage-brush, anywhere. People in hats and spurs watched them, and Indian\nchiefs offered them painted bows and arrows and shiny horns.\n\n\"I reckon them passengers would prefer a laig o' mutton,\" said the\nVirginian to a man loafing near the caboose.\n\n\"Bet your life!\" said the man. \"First lot has been stuck here four\ndays.\"\n\n\"Plumb starved, ain't they?\" inquired the Virginian.\n\n\"Bet your life! They've eat up their dining cars and they've eat up this\ntown.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the Virginian, looking at the town, \"I expaict the\ndining-cyars contained more nourishment.\"\n\n\"Say, you're about right there!\" said the man. He walked beside the\ncaboose as we puffed slowly forward from the water-tank to our siding.\n\"Fine business here if we'd only been ready,\" he continued. \"And the\nCrow agent has let his Indians come over from the reservation. There has\nbeen a little beef brought in, and game, and fish. And big money in it,\nbet your life! Them Eastern passengers has just been robbed. I wisht I\nhad somethin' to sell!\"\n\n\"Anything starting for Rawhide this afternoon?\" said Trampas, out of the\ncaboose door.\n\n\"Not until morning,\" said the man. \"You going to the mines?\" he resumed\nto the Virginian.\n\n\"Why,\" answered the Southerner, slowly and casually, and addressing\nhimself strictly to the man, while Trampas, on his side, paid obvious\ninattention, \"this hyeh delay, yu' see, may unsettle our plans some.\nBut it'll be one of two ways,--we're all goin' to Rawhide, or we're all\ngoin' to Billings. We're all one party, yu' see.\"\n\nTrampas laughed audibly inside the door as he rejoined his men. \"Let him\nkeep up appearances,\" I heard him tell them. \"It don't hurt us what he\nsays to strangers.\"\n\n\"But I'm goin' to eat hearty either way,\" continued the Virginian. \"And\nI ain' goin' to be robbed. I've been kind o' promisin' myself a treat if\nwe stopped hyeh.\"\n\n\"Town's eat clean out,\" said the man.\n\n\"So yu' tell me. But all you folks has forgot one source of revenue that\nyu' have right close by, mighty handy. If you have got a gunny sack,\nI'll show you how to make some money.\"\n\n\"Bet your life!\" said the man.\n\n\"Mr. Le Moyne,\" said the Virginian, \"the outfit's cookin' stuff is\naboard, and if you'll get the fire ready, we'll try how frawgs' laigs go\nfried.\" He walked off at once, the man following like a dog. Inside the\ncaboose rose a gust of laughter.\n\n\"Frogs!\" muttered Scipio. And then turning a blank face to me, \"Frogs?\"\n\n\"Colonel Cyrus Jones had them on his bill of fare,\" I said. \"'FROGS'\nLEGS A LA DELMONICO.'\"\n\n\"Shoo! I didn't get up that thing. They had it when I came. Never looked\nat it. Frogs?\" He went down the steps very slowly, with a long frown.\nReaching the ground, he shook his head. \"That man's trail is surely\nhard to anticipate,\" he said. \"But I must hurry up that fire. For his\nappearance has given me encouragement,\" Scipio concluded, and became\nbrisk. Shorty helped him, and I brought wood. Trampas and the other\npeople strolled off to the station, a compact band.\n\nOur little fire was built beside the caboose, so the cooking things\nmight be easily reached and put back. You would scarcely think such\noperations held any interest, even for the hungry, when there seemed\nto be nothing to cook. A few sticks blazing tamely in the dust, a\nfrying-pan, half a tin bucket of lard, some water, and barren plates and\nknives and forks, and three silent men attending to them--that was all.\nBut the travellers came to see. These waifs drew near us, and stood, a\nsad, lone, shifting fringe of audience; four to begin with; and then two\nwandered away; and presently one of these came back, finding it worse\nelsewhere. \"Supper, boys?\" said he. \"Breakfast,\" said Scipio, crossly.\nAnd no more of them addressed us. I heard them joylessly mention Wall\nStreet to each other, and Saratoga; I even heard the name Bryn Mawr,\nwhich is near Philadelphia. But these fragments of home dropped in the\nwilderness here in Montana beside a freight caboose were of no interest\nto me now.\n\n\"Looks like frogs down there, too,\" said Scipio. \"See them marshy sloos\nfull of weeds?\" We took a little turn and had a sight of the Virginian\nquite active among the ponds. \"Hush! I'm getting some thoughts,\"\ncontinued Scipio. \"He wasn't sorry enough. Don't interrupt me.\"\n\n\"I'm not,\" said I.\n\n\"No. But I'd 'most caught a-hold.\" And Scipio muttered to himself again,\n\"He wasn't sorry enough.\" Presently he swore loud and brilliantly.\n\"Tell yu'!\" he cried. \"What did he say to Trampas after that play they\nexchanged over railroad improvements and Trampas put the josh on him?\nDidn't he say, 'Trampas, I thought you'd be afraid to do it?' Well, sir,\nTrampas had better have been afraid. And that's what he meant. There's\nwhere he was bringin' it to. Trampas made an awful bad play then. You\nwait. Glory, but he's a knowin' man! Course he wasn't sorry. I guess he\nhad the hardest kind of work to look as sorry as he did. You wait.\"\n\n\"Wait? What for? Go on, man! What for?\"\n\n\"I don't know! I don't know! Whatever hand he's been holdin' up, this is\nthe show-down. He's played for a show-down here before the caboose gets\noff the bridge. Come back to the fire, or Shorty'll be leavin' it\ngo out. Grow happy some, Shorty!\" he cried on arriving, and his hand\ncracked on Shorty's shoulder. \"Supper's in sight, Shorty. Food for\nreflection.\"\n\n\"None for the stomach?\" asked the passenger who had spoken once before.\n\n\"We're figuring on that too,\" said Scipio. His crossness had melted\nentirely away.\n\n\"Why, they're cow-boys!\" exclaimed another passenger; and he moved\nnearer.\n\nFrom the station Trampas now came back, his herd following him less\ncompactly. They had found famine, and no hope of supplies until the\nnext train from the East. This was no fault of Trampas's; but they were\nfollowing him less compactly. They carried one piece of cheese, the\nsize of a fist, the weight of a brick, the hue of a corpse. And the\npassengers, seeing it, exclaimed, \"There's Old Faithful again!\" and took\noff their hats.\n\n\"You gentlemen met that cheese before, then?\" said Scipio, delighted.\n\n\"It's been offered me three times a day for four days,\" said the\npassenger. \"Did he want a dollar or a dollar and a half?\"\n\n\"Two dollars!\" blurted out the enthusiast. And all of us save Trampas\nfell into fits of imbecile laughter.\n\n\"Here comes our grub, anyway,\" said Scipio, looking off toward the\nmarshes. And his hilarity sobered away in a moment.\n\n\"Well, the train will be in soon,\" stated Trampas. \"I guess we'll get a\ndecent supper without frogs.\"\n\nAll interest settled now upon the Virginian. He was coming with his man\nand his gunny sack, and the gunny sack hung from his shoulder heavily,\nas a full sack should. He took no notice of the gathering, but sat down\nand partly emptied the sack. \"There,\" said he, very businesslike, to his\nassistant, \"that's all we'll want. I think you'll find a ready market\nfor the balance.\"\n\n\"Well, my gracious!\" said the enthusiast. \"What fool eats a frog?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm fool enough for a tadpole!\" cried the passenger. And they began\nto take out their pocket-books.\n\n\"You can cook yours right hyeh, gentlemen,\" said the Virginian, with\nhis slow Southern courtesy. \"The dining-cyars don't look like they were\nfired up.\"\n\n\"How much will you sell a couple for?\" inquired the enthusiast.\n\nThe Virginian looked at him with friendly surprise. \"Why, help yourself!\nWe're all together yet awhile. Help yourselves,\" he repeated, to Trampas\nand his followers. These hung back a moment, then, with a slinking\nmotion, set the cheese upon the earth and came forward nearer the fire\nto receive some supper.\n\n\"It won't scarcely be Delmonico style,\" said the Virginian to the\npassengers, \"nor yet Saynt Augustine.\" He meant the great Augustin, the\ntraditional chef of Philadelphia, whose history I had sketched for him\nat Colonel Cyrus Jones's eating palace.\n\nScipio now officiated. His frying-pan was busy, and prosperous odors\nrose from it.\n\n\"Run for a bucket of fresh water, Shorty,\" the Virginian continued,\nbeginning his meal. \"Colonel, yu' cook pretty near good. If yu' had sold\n'em as advertised, yu'd have cert'nly made a name.\"\n\nSeveral were now eating with satisfaction, but not Scipio. It was all\nthat he could do to cook straight. The whole man seemed to glisten.\nHis eye was shut to a slit once more, while the innocent passengers\nthankfully swallowed.\n\n\"Now, you see, you have made some money,\" began the Virginian to the\nnative who had helped him get the frogs.\n\n\"Bet your life!\" exclaimed the man. \"Divvy, won't you?\" And he held out\nhalf his gains.\n\n\"Keep 'em,\" returned the Southerner. \"I reckon we're square. But I\nexpaict they'll not equal Delmonico's, seh?\" he said to a passenger.\n\n\"Don't trust the judgment of a man as hungry as I am!\" exclaimed the\ntraveller, with a laugh. And he turned to his fellow-travellers. \"Did\nyou ever enjoy supper at Delmonico's more than this?\"\n\n\"Never!\" they sighed.\n\n\"Why, look here,\" said the traveller, \"what fools the people of this\ntown are! Here we've been all these starving days, and you come and get\nahead of them!\"\n\n\"That's right easy explained,\" said the Virginian. \"I've been where\nthere was big money in frawgs, and they 'ain't been. They're all cattle\nhyeh. Talk cattle, think cattle, and they're bankrupt in consequence.\nFallen through. Ain't that so?\" he inquired of the native.\n\n\"That's about the way,\" said the man.\n\n\"It's mighty hard to do what your neighbors ain't doin',\" pursued the\nVirginian. \"Montana is all cattle, an' these folks must be cattle,\nan' never notice the country right hyeh is too small for a range, an'\nswampy, anyway, an' just waitin' to be a frawg ranch.\"\n\nAt this, all wore a face of careful reserve.\n\n\"I'm not claimin' to be smarter than you folks hyeh,\" said the\nVirginian, deprecatingly, to his assistant. \"But travellin' learns a\nman many customs. You wouldn't do the business they done at Tulare,\nCalifornia, north side o' the lake. They cert'nly utilized them hopeless\nswamps splendid. Of course they put up big capital and went into it\nscientific, gettin' advice from the government Fish Commission, an' such\nlike knowledge. Yu' see, they had big markets for their frawgs,--San\nFrancisco, Los Angeles, and clear to New York afteh the Southern Pacific\nwas through. But up hyeh yu' could sell to passengers every day like yu'\ndone this one day. They would get to know yu' along the line. Competing\nswamps are scarce. The dining-cyars would take your frawgs, and yu'\nwould have the Yellowstone Park for four months in the year. Them hotels\nare anxious to please, an' they would buy off yu' what their Eastern\npatrons esteem as fine-eatin'. And you folks would be sellin' something\ninstead o' nothin'.\"\n\n\"That's a practical idea,\" said a traveller. \"And little cost.\"\n\n\"And little cost,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"Would Eastern people eat frogs?\" inquired the man.\n\n\"Look at us!\" said the traveller.\n\n\"Delmonico doesn't give yu' such a treat!\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"Not exactly!\" the traveller exclaimed.\n\n\"How much would be paid for frogs?\" said Trampas to him. And I saw\nScipio bend closer to his cooking.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" said the traveller. \"We've paid pretty well, you\nsee.\"\n\n\"You're late for Tulare, Trampas,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"I was not thinking of Tulare,\" Trampas retorted. Scipio's nose was in\nthe frying-pan.\n\n\"Mos' comical spot you ever struck!\" said the Virginian, looking round\nupon the whole company. He allowed himself a broad smile of retrospect.\n\"To hear 'em talk frawgs at Tulare! Same as other folks talks hawsses or\nsteers or whatever they're raising to sell. Yu'd fall into it yourselves\nif yu' started the business. Anything a man's bread and butter depends\non, he's going to be earnest about. Don't care if it is a frawg.\"\n\n\"That's so,\" said the native. \"And it paid good?\"\n\n\"The only money in the county was right there,\" answered the Virginian.\n\"It was a dead county, and only frawgs was movin'. But that business was\na-fannin' to beat four of a kind. It made yu' feel strange at first, as\nI said. For all the men had been cattle-men at one time or another.\nTill yu' got accustomed, it would give 'most anybody a shock to hear 'em\nspeak about herdin' the bulls in a pasture by themselves.\" The Virginian\nallowed himself another smile, but became serious again. \"That was their\npolicy,\" he explained. \"Except at certain times o' year they kept the\nbulls separate. The Fish Commission told 'em they'd better, and it\ncert'nly worked mighty well. It or something did--for, gentlemen, hush!\nbut there was millions. You'd have said all the frawgs in the world had\ntaken charge at Tulare. And the money rolled in! Gentlemen, hush! 'twas\na gold mine for the owners. Forty per cent they netted some years.\nAnd they paid generous wages. For they could sell to all them French\nrestaurants in San Francisco, yu' see. And there was the Cliff House.\nAnd the Palace Hotel made it a specialty. And the officers took frawgs\nat the Presidio, an' Angel Island, an' Alcatraz, an' Benicia. Los\nAngeles was beginnin' its boom. The corner-lot sharps wanted something\nby way of varnish. An' so they dazzled Eastern investors with\nadvertisin' Tulare frawgs clear to New Orleans an' New York. 'Twas only\nin Sacramento frawgs was dull. I expaict the California legislature\nwas too or'n'ry for them fine-raised luxuries. They tell of one of them\nsenators that he raked a million out of Los Angeles real estate, and\nstarted in for a bang-up meal with champagne. Wanted to scatter his new\ngold thick an' quick. But he got astray among all the fancy dishes,\nan' just yelled right out before the ladies, 'Damn it! bring me forty\ndollars' worth of ham and aiggs.' He was a funny senator, now.\"\n\nThe Virginian paused, and finished eating a leg. And then with diabolic\nart he made a feint at wandering to new fields of anecdote. \"Talkin' of\nsenators,\" he resumed, \"Senator Wise--\"\n\n\"How much did you say wages were at Tulare?\" inquired one of the Trampas\nfaction.\n\n\"How much? Why, I never knew what the foreman got. The regular hands got\na hundred. Senator Wise--\"\n\n\"A hundred a MONTH?\"\n\n\"Why, it was wet an' muddy work, yu' see. A man risked rheumatism some.\nHe risked it a good deal. Well, I was going to tell about Senator Wise.\nWhen Senator Wise was speaking of his visit to Alaska--\"\n\n\"Forty per cent, was it?\" said Trampas.\n\n\"Oh, I must call my wife,\" said the traveller behind me. \"This is what I\ncame West for.\" And he hurried away.\n\n\"Not forty per cent the bad years,\" replied the Virginian. \"The frawgs\nhad enemies, same as cattle. I remember when a pelican got in the spring\npasture, and the herd broke through the fence--\"\n\n\"Fence?\" said a passenger.\n\n\"Ditch, seh, and wire net. Every pasture was a square swamp with a ditch\naround, and a wire net. Yu've heard the mournful, mixed-up sound a big\nbunch of cattle will make? Well, seh, as yu' druv from the railroad to\nthe Tulare frawg ranch yu' could hear 'em a mile. Springtime they'd sing\nlike girls in the organ loft, and by August they were about ready to\nhire out for bass. And all was fit to be soloists, if I'm a judge. But\nin a bad year it might only be twenty per cent. The pelican rushed 'em\nfrom the pasture right into the San Joaquin River, which was close\nby the property. The big balance of the herd stampeded, and though of\ncourse they came out on the banks again, the news had went around, and\nfolks below at Hemlen eat most of 'em just to spite the company. Yu'\nsee, a frawg in a river is more hopeless than any maverick loose on the\nrange. And they never struck any plan to brand their stock and prove\nownership.\"\n\n\"Well, twenty per cent is good enough for me,\" said Trampas, \"if Rawhide\ndon't suit me.\"\n\n\"A hundred a month!\" said the enthusiast. And busy calculations began to\narise among them.\n\n\"It went to fifty per cent,\" pursued the Virginian, \"when New York and\nPhiladelphia got to biddin' agaynst each other. Both cities had signs\nall over 'em claiming to furnish the Tulare frawg. And both had 'em all\nright. And same as cattle trains, yu'd see frawg trains tearing acrosst\nArizona--big glass tanks with wire over 'em--through to New York, an'\nthe frawgs starin' out.\"\n\n\"Why, George,\" whispered a woman's voice behind me, \"he's merely\ndeceiving them! He's merely making that stuff up out of his head.\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear, that's merely what he's doing.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't see why you imagined I should care for this. I think I'll\ngo back.\"\n\n\"Better see it out, Daisy. This beats the geysers or anything we're\nlikely to find in the Yellowstone.\"\n\n\"Then I wish we had gone to Bar Harbor as usual,\" said the lady, and she\nreturned to her Pullman.\n\nBut her husband stayed. Indeed, the male crowd now was a goodly sight\nto see, how the men edged close, drawn by a common tie. Their different\nkinds of feet told the strength of the bond--yellow sleeping-car\nslippers planted miscellaneous and motionless near a pair of Mexican\nspurs. All eyes watched the Virginian and gave him their entire\nsympathy. Though they could not know his motive for it, what he was\ndoing had fallen as light upon them--all except the excited calculators.\nThese were loudly making their fortunes at both Rawhide and Tulare,\ndrugged by their satanically aroused hopes of gold, heedless of the\nslippers and the spurs. Had a man given any sign to warn them, I think\nhe would have been lynched. Even the Indian chiefs had come to see in\ntheir show war bonnets and blankets. They naturally understood nothing\nof it, yet magnetically knew that the Virginian was the great man. And\nthey watched him with approval. He sat by the fire with the frying-pan,\nlooking his daily self--engaging and saturnine. And now as Trampas\ndeclared tickets to California would be dear and Rawhide had better come\nfirst, the Southerner let loose his heaven-born imagination.\n\n\"There's a better reason for Rawhide than tickets, Trampas,\" said he. \"I\nsaid it was too late for Tulare.\"\n\n\"I heard you,\" said Trampas. \"Opinions may differ. You and I don't think\nalike on several points.\"\n\n\"Gawd, Trampas!\" said the Virginian, \"d' yu' reckon I'd be rotting hyeh\non forty dollars if Tulare was like it used to be? Tulare is broke.\"\n\n\"What broke it? Your leaving?\"\n\n\"Revenge broke it, and disease,\" said the Virginian, striking the\nfrying-pan on his knee, for the frogs were all gone. At those lurid\nwords their untamed child minds took fire, and they drew round him again\nto hear a tale of blood. The crowd seemed to lean nearer.\n\nBut for a short moment it threatened to be spoiled. A passenger came\nalong, demanding in an important voice, \"Where are these frogs?\" He was\na prominent New York after-dinner speaker, they whispered me, and\nout for a holiday in his private car. Reaching us and walking to the\nVirginian, he said cheerily, \"How much do you want for your frogs, my\nfriend?\"\n\n\"You got a friend hyeh?\" said the Virginian. \"That's good, for yu'\nneed care taken of yu'.\" And the prominent after-dinner speaker did not\nfurther discommode us.\n\n\"That's worth my trip,\" whispered a New York passenger to me.\n\n\"Yes, it was a case of revenge,\" resumed the Virginian, \"and disease.\nThere was a man named Saynt Augustine got run out of Domingo, which is\na Dago island. He come to Philadelphia, an' he was dead broke. But Saynt\nAugustine was a live man, an' he saw Philadelphia was full o' Quakers\nthat dressed plain an' eat humdrum. So he started cookin' Domingo\nway for 'em, an' they caught right ahold. Terrapin, he gave 'em,\nan' croakeets, an' he'd use forty chickens to make a broth he called\nconsommay. An' he got rich, and Philadelphia got well known, an'\nDelmonico in New York he got jealous. He was the cook that had the\nsay-so in New York.\"\n\n\"Was Delmonico one of them I-talians?\" inquired a fascinated mutineer.\n\n\"I don't know. But he acted like one. Lorenzo was his front name. He\naimed to cut--\"\n\n\"Domingo's throat?\" breathed the enthusiast.\n\n\"Aimed to cut away the trade from Saynt Augustine an' put Philadelphia\nback where he thought she belonged. Frawgs was the fashionable rage\nthen. These foreign cooks set the fashion in eatin', same as foreign\ndressmakers do women's clothes. Both cities was catchin' and swallowin'\nall the frawgs Tulare could throw at 'em. So he--\"\n\n\"Lorenzo?\" said the enthusiast.\n\n\"Yes, Lorenzo Delmonico. He bid a dollar a tank higher. An' Saynt\nAugustine raised him fifty cents. An' Lorenzo raised him a dollar.\nAn' Saynt Augustine shoved her up three. Lorenzo he didn't expect\nPhiladelphia would go that high, and he got hot in the collar, an' flew\nround his kitchen in New York, an' claimed he'd twist Saynt Augustine's\nDomingo tail for him and crack his ossified system. Lorenzo raised his\nlanguage to a high temperature, they say. An' then quite sudden off\nhe starts for Tulare. He buys tickets over the Santa Fe, and he goes\na-fannin' and a-foggin'. But, gentlemen, hush! The very same day Saynt\nAugustine he tears out of Philadelphia. He travelled by the way o'\nWashington, an' out he comes a-fannin' an' a-foggin' over the Southern\nPacific. Of course Tulare didn't know nothin' of this. All it knowed\nwas how the frawg market was on soarin' wings, and it was feelin' like\na flight o' rawckets. If only there'd been some preparation,--a telegram\nor something,--the disaster would never have occurred. But Lorenzo and\nSaynt Augustine was that absorbed watchin' each other--for, yu' see, the\nSanta Fe and the Southern Pacific come together at Mojave, an' the\ntwo cooks travelled a matter of two hundred an' ten miles in the\nsame cyar--they never thought about a telegram. And when they arruv,\nbreathless, an' started in to screechin' what they'd give for the\nmonopoly, why, them unsuspectin' Tulare boys got amused at 'em. I never\nheard just all they done, but they had Lorenzo singin' and dancin',\nwhile Saynt Augustine played the fiddle for him. And one of Lorenzo's\nheels did get a trifle grazed. Well, them two cooks quit that ranch\nwithout disclosin' their identity, and soon as they got to a safe\ndistance they swore eternal friendship, in their excitable foreign way.\nAnd they went home over the Union Pacific, sharing the same stateroom.\nTheir revenge killed frawgs. The disease--\"\n\n\"How killed frogs?\" demanded Trampas.\n\n\"Just killed 'em. Delmonico and Saynt Augustine wiped frawgs off the\nslate of fashion. Not a banker in Fifth Avenue'll touch one now if\nanother banker's around watchin' him. And if ever yu' see a man that\nhides his feet an' won't take off his socks in company, he has worked in\nthem Tulare swamps an' got the disease. Catch him wadin', and yu'll find\nhe's web-footed. Frawgs are dead, Trampas, and so are you.\"\n\n\"Rise up, liars, and salute your king!\" yelled Scipio. \"Oh, I'm in love\nwith you!\" And he threw his arms round the Virginian.\n\n\"Let me shake hands with you,\" said the traveller, who had failed to\ninterest his wife in these things. \"I wish I was going to have more of\nyour company.\"\n\n\"Thank ye', seh,\" said the Virginian.\n\nOther passengers greeted him, and the Indian chiefs came, saying, \"How!\"\nbecause they followed their feelings without understanding.\n\n\"Don't show so humbled, boys,\" said the deputy foreman to his most\nsheepish crew. \"These gentlemen from the East have been enjoying yu'\nsome, I know. But think what a weary wait they have had hyeh. And you\ninsisted on playing the game with me this way, yu' see. What outlet did\nyu' give me? Didn't I have it to do? And I'll tell yu' one thing\nfor your consolation: when I got to the middle of the frawgs I 'most\nbelieved it myself.\" And he laughed out the first laugh I had heard him\ngive.\n\nThe enthusiast came up and shook hands. That led off, and the rest\nfollowed, with Trampas at the end. The tide was too strong for him. He\nwas not a graceful loser; but he got through this, and the Virginian\neased him down by treating him precisely like the others--apparently.\nPossibly the supreme--the most American--moment of all was when word\ncame that the bridge was open, and the Pullman trains, with noise and\ntriumph, began to move westward at last. Every one waved farewell to\nevery one, craning from steps and windows, so that the cars twinkled\nwith hilarity; and in twenty minutes the whole procession in front had\nmoved, and our turn came.\n\n\"Last chance for Rawhide,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"Last chance for Sunk Creek,\" said a reconstructed mutineer, and all\nsprang aboard. There was no question who had won his spurs now.\n\nOur caboose trundled on to Billings along the shingly cotton-wooded\nYellowstone; and as the plains and bluffs and the distant snow began to\ngrow well known, even to me, we turned to our baggage that was to come\noff, since camp would begin in the morning. Thus I saw the Virginian\ncarefully rewrapping Kenilworth, that he might bring it to its owner\nunharmed; and I said, \"Don't you think you could have played poker with\nQueen Elizabeth?\"\n\n\"No; I expaict she'd have beat me,\" he replied. \"She was a lady.\"\n\nIt was at Billings, on this day, that I made those reflections about\nequality. For the Virginian had been equal to the occasion: that is the\nonly kind of equality which I recognize.\n\n\n\n\nXVII. SCIPIO MORALIZES\n\n\nInto what mood was it that the Virginian now fell? Being less busy,\ndid he begin to \"grieve\" about the girl on Bear Creek? I only know\nthat after talking so lengthily he fell into a nine days' silence. The\ntalking part of him deeply and unbrokenly slept.\n\nOfficial words of course came from him as we rode southward from the\nrailroad, gathering the Judge's stray cattle. During the many weeks\nsince the spring round-up, some of these animals had as usual got\nvery far off their range, and getting them on again became the present\nbusiness of our party.\n\nDirections and commands--whatever communications to his subordinates\nwere needful to the forwarding of this--he duly gave. But routine has\nnever at any time of the world passed for conversation. His utterances,\nsuch as, \"We'll work Willo' Creek to-morro' mawnin',\" or, \"I want the\nwagon to be at the fawks o' Stinkin' Water by Thursday,\" though on some\noccasions numerous enough to sound like discourse, never once broke the\nman's true silence. Seeming to keep easy company with the camp, he yet\nkept altogether to himself. That talking part of him--the mood which\nbrings out for you your friend's spirit and mind as a free gift or as an\nexchange--was down in some dark cave of his nature, hidden away. Perhaps\nit had been dreaming; perhaps completely reposing. The Virginian was one\nof those rare ones who are able to refresh themselves in sections. To\nhave a thing on his mind did not keep his body from resting. During our\nrecent journey--it felt years ago now!--while our caboose on the freight\ntrain had trundled endlessly westward, and the men were on the ragged\nedge, the very jumping-off place, of mutiny and possible murder, I had\nseen him sleep like a child. He snatched the moments not necessary for\nvigil. I had also seen him sit all night watching his responsibility,\nready to spring on it and fasten his teeth in it. And now that he had\nconfounded them with their own attempted weapon of ridicule, his powers\nseemed to be profoundly dormant. That final pitched battle of wits had\nmade the men his captives and admirers--all save Trampas. And of him the\nVirginian did not seem to be aware.\n\nBut Scipio le Moyne would say to me now and then, \"If I was Trampas, I'd\npull my freight.\" And once he added, \"Pull it kind of casual, yu' know,\nlike I wasn't noticing myself do it.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" our friend Shorty murmured pregnantly, with his eye upon the\nquiet Virginian, \"he's sure studying his revenge.\"\n\n\"Studying your pussy-cat,\" said Scipio. \"He knows what he'll do. The\ntime ain't arrived.\" This was the way they felt about it; and not\nunnaturally this was the way they made me, the inexperienced Easterner,\nfeel about it. That Trampas also felt something about it was easy\nto know. Like the leaven which leavens the whole lump, one spot of\nsulkiness in camp will spread its dull flavor through any company that\nsits near it; and we had to sit near Trampas at meals for nine days.\n\nHis sullenness was not wonderful. To feel himself forsaken by his recent\nadherents, to see them gone over to his enemy, could not have made\nhis reflections pleasant. Why he did not take himself off to other\nclimes--\"pull his freight casual,\" as Scipio said--I can explain only\nthus: pay was due him--\"time,\" as it was called in cow-land; if he would\nhave this money, he must stay under the Virginian's command until the\nJudge's ranch on Sunk Creek should be reached; meanwhile, each day's\nwork added to the wages in store for him; and finally, once at Sunk\nCreek, it would be no more the Virginian who commanded him; it would be\nthe real ranch foreman. At the ranch he would be the Virginian's equal\nagain, both of them taking orders from their officially recognized\nsuperior, this foreman. Shorty's word about \"revenge\" seemed to me\nlike putting the thing backwards. Revenge, as I told Scipio, was what I\nshould be thinking about if I were Trampas.\n\n\"He dassent,\" was Scipio's immediate view. \"Not till he's got strong\nagain. He got laughed plumb sick by the bystanders, and whatever spirit\nhe had was broke in the presence of us all. He'll have to recuperate.\"\nScipio then spoke of the Virginian's attitude. \"Maybe revenge ain't just\nthe right word for where this affair has got to now with him. When yu'\nbeat another man at his own game like he done to Trampas, why, yu've had\nall the revenge yu' can want, unless you're a hog. And he's no hog. But\nhe has got it in for Trampas. They've not reckoned to a finish. Would\nyou let a man try such spite-work on you and quit thinkin' about him\njust because yu'd headed him off?\" To this I offered his own notion\nabout hogs and being satisfied. \"Hogs!\" went on Scipio, in a way that\ndashed my suggestion to pieces; \"hogs ain't in the case. He's got to\ndeal with Trampas somehow--man to man. Trampas and him can't stay this\nway when they get back and go workin' same as they worked before. No,\nsir; I've seen his eye twice, and I know he's goin' to reckon to a\nfinish.\"\n\nI still must, in Scipio's opinion, have been slow to understand, when on\nthe afternoon following this talk I invited him to tell me what sort\nof \"finish\" he wanted, after such a finishing as had been dealt Trampas\nalready. Getting \"laughed plumb sick by the bystanders\" (I borrowed his\nown not overstated expression) seemed to me a highly final finishing.\nWhile I was running my notions off to him, Scipio rose, and, with the\nfrying-pan he had been washing, walked slowly at me.\n\n\"I do believe you'd oughtn't to be let travel alone the way you do.\"\nHe put his face close to mine. His long nose grew eloquent in its\nshrewdness, while the fire in his bleached blue eye burned with amiable\nsatire. \"What has come and gone between them two has only settled the\none point he was aimin' to make. He was appointed boss of this outfit in\nthe absence of the regular foreman. Since then all he has been playin'\nfor is to hand back his men to the ranch in as good shape as they'd been\nhanded to him, and without losing any on the road through desertion or\nshooting or what not. He had to kick his cook off the train that day,\nand the loss made him sorrowful, I could see. But I'd happened to come\nalong, and he jumped me into the vacancy, and I expect he is pretty near\nconsoled. And as boss of the outfit he beat Trampas, who was settin' up\nfor opposition boss. And the outfit is better than satisfied it come out\nthat way, and they're stayin' with him; and he'll hand them all back in\ngood condition, barrin' that lost cook. So for the present his point is\nmade, yu' see. But look ahead a little. It may not be so very far ahead\nyu'll have to look. We get back to the ranch. He's not boss there any\nmore. His responsibility is over. He is just one of us again, taking\norders from a foreman they tell me has showed partiality to Trampas\nmore'n a few times. Partiality! That's what Trampas is plainly trusting\nto. Trusting it will fix him all right and fix his enemy all wrong.\nHe'd not otherwise dare to keep sour like he's doing. Partiality! D' yu'\nthink it'll scare off the enemy?\" Scipio looked across a little creek\nto where the Virginian was helping throw the gathered cattle on the\nbedground. \"What odds\"--he pointed the frying-pan at the Southerner--\"d'\nyu' figure Trampas's being under any foreman's wing will make to a man\nlike him? He's going to remember Mr. Trampas and his spite-work if he's\ngot to tear him out from under the wing, and maybe tear off the wing in\nthe operation. And I am goin' to advise your folks,\" ended the complete\nScipio, \"not to leave you travel so much alone--not till you've learned\nmore life.\"\n\nHe had made me feel my inexperience, convinced me of innocence,\nundoubtedly; and during the final days of our journey I no longer\ninvoked his aid to my reflections upon this especial topic: What would\nthe Virginian do to Trampas? Would it be another intellectual crushing\nof him, like the frog story, or would there be something this time more\nmaterial--say muscle, or possibly gunpowder--in it? And was Scipio,\nafter all, infallible? I didn't pretend to understand the Virginian;\nafter several years' knowledge of him he remained utterly beyond me.\nScipio's experience was not yet three weeks long. So I let him alone as\nto all this, discussing with him most other things good and evil in\nthe world, and being convinced of much further innocence; for Scipio's\ntwenty odd years were indeed a library of life. I have never met a\nbetter heart, a shrewder wit, and looser morals, with yet a native sense\nof decency and duty somewhere hard and fast enshrined.\n\nBut all the while I was wondering about the Virginian: eating with him,\nsleeping with him (only not so sound as he did), and riding beside him\noften for many hours.\n\nExperiments in conversation I did make--and failed. One day particularly\nwhile, after a sudden storm of hail had chilled the earth numb and white\nlike winter in fifteen minutes, we sat drying and warming ourselves by\na fire that we built, I touched upon that theme of equality on which I\nknew him to hold opinions as strong as mine. \"Oh,\" he would reply, and\n\"Cert'nly\"; and when I asked him what it was in a man that made him a\nleader of men, he shook his head and puffed his pipe. So then, noticing\nhow the sun had brought the earth in half an hour back from winter to\nsummer again, I spoke of our American climate.\n\nIt was a potent drug, I said, for millions to be swallowing every day.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, wiping the damp from his Winchester rifle.\n\nOur American climate, I said, had worked remarkable changes, at least.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said; and did not ask what they were.\n\nSo I had to tell him. \"It has made successful politicians of the Irish.\nThat's one. And it has given our whole race the habit of poker.\"\n\nBang went his Winchester. The bullet struck close to my left. I sat up\nangrily.\n\n\"That's the first foolish thing I ever saw you do!\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" he drawled slowly, \"I'd ought to have done it sooner. He was\npretty near lively again.\" And then he picked up a rattlesnake six feet\nbehind me. It had been numbed by the hail, part revived by the sun, and\nhe had shot its head off.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII. \"WOULD YOU BE A PARSON?\"\n\n\nAfter this I gave up my experiments in conversation. So that by the\nfinal afternoon of our journey, with Sunk Creek actually in sight, and\nthe great grasshoppers slatting their dry song over the sage-brush, and\nthe time at hand when the Virginian and Trampas would be \"man to man,\"\nmy thoughts rose to a considerable pitch of speculation.\n\nAnd now that talking part of the Virginian, which had been nine days\nasleep, gave its first yawn and stretch of waking. Without preface, he\nsuddenly asked me, \"Would you be a parson?\"\n\nI was mentally so far away that I couldn't get back in time to\ncomprehend or answer before he had repeated: \"What would yu' take to be\na parson?\"\n\nHe drawled it out in his gentle way, precisely as if no nine days stood\nbetween it and our last real intercourse.\n\n\"Take?\" I was still vaguely moving in my distance. \"How?\"\n\nHis next question brought me home.\n\n\"I expect the Pope's is the biggest of them parson jobs?\"\n\nIt was with an \"Oh!\" that I now entirely took his idea. \"Well, yes;\ndecidedly the biggest.\"\n\n\"Beats the English one? Archbishop--ain't it?--of Canterbury? The Pope\ncomes ahead of him?\"\n\n\"His Holiness would say so if his Grace did not.\"\n\nThe Virginian turned half in his saddle to see my face--I was, at the\nmoment, riding not quite abreast of him--and I saw the gleam of his\nteeth beneath his mustache. It was seldom I could make him smile, even\nto this slight extent. But his eyes grew, with his next words, remote\nagain in their speculation.\n\n\"His Holiness and his Grace. Now if I was to hear 'em namin' me\nthat-a-way every mawnin', I'd sca'cely get down to business.\"\n\n\"Oh, you'd get used to the pride of it.\"\n\n\"'Tisn't the pride. The laugh is what would ruin me. 'Twould take 'most\nall my attention keeping a straight face. The Archbishop\"--here he\ntook one of his wide mental turns--\"is apt to be a big man in them\nShakespeare plays. Kings take talk from him they'd not stand from\nanybody else; and he talks fine, frequently. About the bees, for\ninstance, when Henry is going to fight France. He tells him a beehive\nis similar to a kingdom. I learned that piece.\" The Virginian could not\nhave expected to blush at uttering these last words. He knew that his\nsudden color must tell me in whose book it was he had learned the piece.\nWas not her copy of Kenilworth even now in his cherishing pocket? So\nhe now, to cover his blush, very deliberately recited to me the\nArchbishop's discourse upon bees and their kingdom:\n\n     \"'Where some, like magistrates, correct at home...\n      Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings,\n      Make loot upon the summer's velvet buds;\n      Which pillage they with merry march bring home\n      To the tent-royal of their emperor:\n      He, busied in his majesty, surveys\n      The singing masons building roofs of gold.'\n\n\"Ain't that a fine description of bees a-workin'? 'The singing masons\nbuilding roofs of gold!' Puts 'em right before yu', and is poetry\nwithout bein' foolish. His Holiness and his Grace. Well, they could not\nhire me for either o' those positions. How many religions are there?\"\n\n\"All over the earth?\"\n\n\"Yu' can begin with ourselves. Right hyeh at home I know there's\nRomanists, and Episcopals--\"\n\n\"Two kinds!\" I put in. \"At least two of Episcopals.\"\n\n\"That's three. Then Methodists and Baptists, and--\"\n\n\"Three Methodists!\"\n\n\"Well, you do the countin'.\"\n\nI accordingly did it, feeling my revolving memory slip cogs all the way\nround. \"Anyhow, there are safely fifteen.\"\n\n\"Fifteen.\" He held this fact a moment. \"And they don't worship a whole\nheap o' different gods like the ancients did?\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\"\n\n\"It's just the same one?\"\n\n\"The same one.\"\n\nThe Virginian folded his hands over the horn of his saddle, and leaned\nforward upon them in contemplation of the wide, beautiful landscape.\n\n\"One God and fifteen religions,\" was his reflection. \"That's a right\nsmart of religions for just one God.\"\n\nThis way of reducing it was, if obvious to him, so novel to me that my\nlaugh evidently struck him as a louder and livelier comment than was\nrequired. He turned on me as if I had somehow perverted the spirit of\nhis words.\n\n\"I ain't religious. I know that. But I ain't unreligious. And I know\nthat too.\"\n\n\"So do I know it, my friend.\"\n\n\"Do you think there ought to be fifteen varieties of good people?\" His\nvoice, while it now had an edge that could cut anything it came against,\nwas still not raised. \"There ain't fifteen. There ain't two. There's one\nkind. And when I meet it, I respect it. It is not praying nor preaching\nthat has ever caught me and made me ashamed of myself, but one or two\npeople I have knowed that never said a superior word to me. They thought\nmore o' me than I deserved, and that made me behave better than I\nnaturally wanted to. Made me quit a girl onced in time for her not to\nlose her good name. And so that's one thing I have never done. And if\never I was to have a son or somebody I set store by, I would wish their\nlot to be to know one or two good folks mighty well--men or women--women\npreferred.\"\n\nHe had looked away again to the hills behind Sunk Creek ranch, to which\nour walking horses had now almost brought us.\n\n\"As for parsons \"--the gesture of his arm was a disclaiming one--\"I\nreckon some parsons have a right to tell yu' to be good. The bishop\nof this hyeh Territory has a right. But I'll tell yu' this: a middlin'\ndoctor is a pore thing, and a middlin' lawyer is a pore thing; but keep\nme from a middlin' man of God.\"\n\nOnce again he had reduced it, but I did not laugh this time. I thought\nthere should in truth be heavy damages for malpractice on human souls.\nBut the hot glow of his words, and the vision of his deepest inner man\nit revealed, faded away abruptly.\n\n\"What do yu' make of the proposition yondeh?\" As he pointed to the cause\nof this question he had become again his daily, engaging, saturnine\nself.\n\nThen I saw over in a fenced meadow, to which we were now close, what he\nwas pleased to call \"the proposition.\" Proposition in the West does, in\nfact, mean whatever you at the moment please,--an offer to sell you a\nmine, a cloud-burst, a glass of whiskey, a steamboat. This time it meant\na stranger clad in black, and of a clerical deportment which would in\nthat atmosphere and to a watchful eye be visible for a mile or two.\n\n\"I reckoned yu' hadn't noticed him,\" was the Virginian's reply to my\nejaculation. \"Yes. He set me goin' on the subject a while back. I expect\nhe is another missionary to us pore cow-boys.\"\n\nI seemed from a hundred yards to feel the stranger's forceful\npersonality. It was in his walk--I should better say stalk--as he\npromenaded along the creek. His hands were behind his back, and there\nwas an air of waiting, of displeased waiting, in his movement.\n\n\"Yes, he'll be a missionary,\" said the Virginian, conclusively; and he\ntook to singing, or rather to whining, with his head tilted at an absurd\nangle upward at the sky:\n\n     \"'Dar is a big Car'lina nigger,\n      About de size of dis chile or p'raps a little bigger,\n      By de name of Jim Crow.\n      Dat what de white folks call him.\n      If ever I sees him I 'tends for to maul him,\n      Just to let de white folks see\n      Such an animos as he\n      Can't walk around the streets and scandalize me.'\"\n\nThe lane which was conducting us to the group of ranch buildings now\nturned a corner of the meadow, and the Virginian went on with his second\nverse:\n\n    \"'Great big fool, he hasn't any knowledge.\n    Gosh! how could he, when he's never been to scollege?\n    Neither has I.\n    But I'se come mighty nigh;\n    I peaked through de door as I went by.'\"\n\nHe was beginning a third stanza, but stopped short; a horse had neighed\nclose behind us.\n\n\"Trampas,\" said he, without turning his head, \"we are home.\"\n\n\"It looks that way.\" Some ten yards were between ourselves and Trampas,\nwhere he followed.\n\n\"And I'll trouble yu' for my rope yu' took this mawnin' instead o' your\nown.\"\n\n\"I don't know as it's your rope I've got.\" Trampas skilfully spoke this\nso that a precisely opposite meaning flowed from his words.\n\nIf it was discussion he tried for, he failed. The Virginian's hand\nmoved, and for one thick, flashing moment my thoughts were evidently\nalso the thoughts of Trampas. But the Virginian only held out to Trampas\nthe rope which he had detached from his saddle.\n\n\"Take your hand off your gun, Trampas. If I had wanted to kill yu'\nyou'd be lying nine days back on the road now. Here's your rope. Did yu'\nexpect I'd not know it? It's the only one in camp the stiffness ain't\nall drug out of yet. Or maybe yu' expected me to notice and--not take\nnotice?\"\n\n\"I don't spend my time in expectations about you. If--\"\n\nThe Virginian wheeled his horse across the road. \"Yu're talkin' too soon\nafter reachin' safety, Trampas. I didn't tell yu' to hand me that rope\nthis mawnin', because I was busy. I ain't foreman now; and I want that\nrope.\"\n\nTrampas produced a smile as skilful as his voice. \"Well, I guess your\nhaving mine proves this one is yours.\" He rode up and received the coil\nwhich the Virginian held out, unloosing the disputed one on his saddle.\nIf he had meant to devise a slippery, evasive insult, no small trick in\ncow-land could be more offensive than this taking another man's rope.\nAnd it is the small tricks which lead to the big bullets. Trampas put\na smooth coating of plausibility over the whole transaction. \"After\nthe rope corral we had to make this morning\"--his tone was mock\nexplanatory--\"the ropes was all strewed round camp, and in the hustle\nI--\"\n\n\"Pardon me,\" said a sonorous voice behind us, \"do you happen to have\nseen Judge Henry?\" It was the reverend gentleman in his meadow, come\nto the fence. As we turned round to him he spoke on, with much rotund\nauthority in his eye. \"From his answer to my letter, Judge Henry\nundoubtedly expects me here. I have arrived from Fetterman according to\nmy plan which I announced to him, to find that he has been absent all\nday--absent the whole day.\"\n\nThe Virginian sat sidewise to talk, one long, straight leg supporting\nhim on one stirrup, the other bent at ease, the boot half lifted from\nits dangling stirrup. He made himself the perfection of courtesy. \"The\nJudge is frequently absent all night, seh.\"\n\n\"Scarcely to-night, I think. I thought you might know something about\nhim.\"\n\n\"I have been absent myself, seh.\"\n\n\"Ah! On a vacation, perhaps?\" The divine had a ruddy facet. His strong\nglance was straight and frank and fearless; but his smile too much\nreminded me of days bygone, when we used to return to school from the\nChristmas holidays, and the masters would shake our hands and welcome\nus with: \"Robert, John, Edward, glad to see you all looking so well!\nRested, and ready for hard work, I'm sure!\"\n\nThat smile does not really please even good, tame little boys; and the\nVirginian was nearing thirty.\n\n\"It has not been vacation this trip, seh,\" said he, settling straight in\nhis saddle. \"There's the Judge driving in now, in time for all questions\nyu' have to ask him.\"\n\nHis horse took a step, but was stopped short. There lay the Virginian's\nrope on the ground. I had been aware of Trampas's quite proper departure\nduring the talk; and as he was leaving, I seemed also to be aware of\nhis placing the coil across the cantle of its owner's saddle. Had he\nintended it to fall and have to be picked up? It was another evasive\nlittle business, and quite successful, if designed to nag the owner of\nthe rope. A few hundred yards ahead of us Trampas was now shouting loud\ncow-boy shouts. Were they to announce his return to those at home, or\ndid they mean derision? The Virginian leaned, keeping his seat, and,\nswinging down his arm, caught up the rope, and hung it on his saddle\nsomewhat carefully. But the hue of rage spread over his face.\n\nFrom his fence the divine now spoke, in approbation, but with another\nstrong, cheerless smile. \"You pick up that rope as if you were well\ntrained to it.\"\n\n\"It's part of our business, seh, and we try to mind it like the rest.\"\nBut this, stated in a gentle drawl, did not pierce the missionary's\narmor; his superiority was very thick.\n\nWe now rode on, and I was impressed by the reverend gentleman's robust,\ndictatorial back as he proceeded by a short cut through the meadow\nto the ranch. You could take him for nothing but a vigorous, sincere,\ndominating man, full of the highest purpose. But whatever his creed, I\nalready doubted if he were the right one to sow it and make it grow in\nthese new, wild fields. He seemed more the sort of gardener to keep\nold walks and vines pruned in their antique rigidity. I admired him for\ncoming all this way with his clean, short, gray whiskers and his black,\nwell-brushed suit. And he made me think of a powerful locomotive stuck\npuffing on a grade.\n\nMeanwhile, the Virginian rode beside me, so silent in his volcanic wrath\nthat I did not perceive it. The missionary coming on top of Trampas\nhad been more than he could stand. But I did not know, and I spoke with\ninnocent cheeriness.\n\n\"Is the parson going to save us?\" I asked; and I fairly jumped at\nhis voice: \"Don't talk so much!\" he burst out. I had got the whole\naccumulation!\n\n\"Who's been talking?\" I in equal anger screeched back. \"I'm not trying\nto save you. I didn't take your rope.\" And having poured this out, I\nwhipped up my pony.\n\nBut he spurred his own alongside of me; and glancing at him, I saw that\nhe was now convulsed with internal mirth. I therefore drew down to a\nwalk, and he straightened into gravity.\n\n\"I'm right obliged to yu',\" he laid his hand in its buckskin gauntlet\nupon my horse's mane as he spoke, \"for bringing me back out o' my\nnonsense. I'll be as serene as a bird now--whatever they do. A man,\"\nhe stated reflectively, \"any full-sized man, ought to own a big lot of\ntemper. And like all his valuable possessions, he'd ought to keep it and\nnot lose any.\" This was his full apology. \"As for salvation, I have got\nthis far: somebody,\" he swept an arm at the sunset and the mountains,\n\"must have made all that, I know. But I know one more thing I would tell\nHim to His face: if I can't do nothing long enough and good enough to\nearn eternal happiness, I can't do nothing long enough and bad enough to\nbe damned. I reckon He plays a square game with us if He plays at all,\nand I ain't bothering my haid about other worlds.\"\n\nAs we reached the stables, he had become the serene bird he promised,\nand was sentimentally continuing:\n\n     \"'De sun is made of mud from de bottom of de river;\n     De moon is made o' fox-fire, as you might disciver;\n     De stars like de ladies' eyes,\n     All round de world dey flies,\n     To give a little light when de moon don't rise.'\"\n\nIf words were meant to conceal our thoughts, melody is perhaps a still\nthicker veil for them. Whatever temper he had lost, he had certainly\nfound again; but this all the more fitted him to deal with Trampas, when\nthe dealing should begin. I had half a mind to speak to the Judge, only\nit seemed beyond a mere visitor's business. Our missionary was at this\nmoment himself speaking to Judge Henry at the door of the home ranch.\n\n\"I reckon he's explaining he has been a-waiting.\" The Virginian was\nthrowing his saddle off as I loosened the cinches of mine. \"And the\nJudge don't look like he was hopelessly distressed.\"\n\nI now surveyed the distant parley, and the Judge, from the wagonful of\nguests whom he had evidently been driving upon a day's excursion, waved\nme a welcome, which I waved back. \"He's got Miss Molly Wood there!\" I\nexclaimed.\n\n\"Yes.\" The Virginian was brief about this fact. \"I'll look afteh your\nsaddle. You go and get acquainted with the company.\"\n\nThis favor I accepted; it was the means he chose for saying he hoped,\nafter our recent boiling over, that all was now more than right between\nus. So for the while I left him to his horses, and his corrals, and his\nTrampas, and his foreman, and his imminent problem.\n\n\n\n\nXIX. DR. MACBRIDE BEGS PARDON\n\n\nJudge and Mrs. Henry, Molly Wood, and two strangers, a lady and\na gentleman, were the party which had been driving in the large\nthree-seated wagon. They had seemed a merry party. But as I came within\nhearing of their talk, it was a fragment of the minister's sonority\nwhich reached me first: \"--more opportunity for them to have the benefit\nof hearing frequent sermons,\" was the sentence I heard him bring to\ncompletion.\n\n\"Yes, to be sure, sir.\" Judge Henry gave me (it almost seemed)\nadditional warmth of welcome for arriving to break up the present\ndiscourse. \"Let me introduce you to the Rev. Dr. Alexander MacBride.\nDoctor, another guest we have been hoping for about this time,\" was my\nhost's cordial explanation to him of me. There remained the gentleman\nwith his wife from New York, and to these I made my final bows. But I\nhad not broken up the discourse.\n\n\"We may be said to have met already.\" Dr. MacBride had fixed upon me his\nfull, mastering eye; and it occurred to me that if they had policemen\nin heaven, he would be at least a centurion in the force. But he did not\nmean to be unpleasant; it was only that in a mind full of matters less\nworldly, pleasure was left out. \"I observed your friend was a skilful\nhorseman,\" he continued. \"I was saying to Judge Henry that I could wish\nsuch skilful horsemen might ride to a church upon the Sabbath. A church,\nthat is, of right doctrine, where they would have opportunity to hear\nfrequent sermons.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Judge Henry, \"yes. It would be a good thing.\"\n\nMrs. Henry, with some murmur about the kitchen, here went into the\nhouse.\n\n\"I was informed,\" Dr. MacBride held the rest of us, \"before undertaking\nmy journey that I should find a desolate and mainly godless country. But\nnobody gave me to understand that from Medicine Bow I was to drive three\nhundred miles and pass no church of any faith.\"\n\nThe Judge explained that there had been a few a long way to the right\nand left of him. \"Still,\" he conceded, \"you are quite right. But don't\nforget that this is the newest part of a new world.\"\n\n\"Judge,\" said his wife, coming to the door, \"how can you keep them\nstanding in the dust with your talking?\"\n\nThis most efficiently did break up the discourse. As our little party,\nwith the smiles and the polite holdings back of new acquaintanceship,\nmoved into the house, the Judge detained me behind all of them long\nenough to whisper dolorously, \"He's going to stay a whole week.\"\n\nI had hopes that he would not stay a whole week when I presently learned\nof the crowded arrangements which our hosts, with many hospitable\napologies, disclosed to us. They were delighted to have us, but they\nhadn't foreseen that we should all be simultaneous. The foreman's house\nhad been prepared for two of us, and did we mind? The two of us were\nDr. MacBride and myself; and I expected him to mind. But I wronged him\ngrossly. It would be much better, he assured Mrs. Henry, than straw in a\nstable, which he had tried several times, and was quite ready for. So I\nsaw that though he kept his vigorous body clean when he could, he cared\nnothing for it in the face of his mission. How the foreman and his wife\nrelished being turned out during a week for a missionary and myself\nwas not my concern, although while he and I made ready for supper over\nthere, it struck me as hard on them. The room with its two cots and\nfurniture was as nice as possible; and we closed the door upon the\nadjoining room, which, however, seemed also untenanted.\n\nMrs. Henry gave us a meal so good that I have remembered it, and her\nhusband the Judge strove his best that we should eat it in merriment. He\npoured out his anecdotes like wine, and we should have quickly warmed\nto them; but Dr. MacBride sat among us, giving occasional heavy ha-ha's,\nwhich produced, as Miss Molly Wood whispered to me, a \"dreadfully\ncavernous effect.\" Was it his sermon, we wondered, that he was thinking\nover? I told her of the copious sheaf of them I had seen him pull from\nhis wallet over at the foreman's. \"Goodness!\" said she. \"Then are we to\nhear one every evening?\" This I doubted; he had probably been picking\none out suitable for the occasion. \"Putting his best foot foremost,\" was\nher comment; \"I suppose they have best feet, like the rest of us.\" Then\nshe grew delightfully sharp. \"Do you know, when I first heard him I\nthought his voice was hearty. But if you listen, you'll find it's\nmerely militant. He never really meets you with it. He's off on his hill\nwatching the battle-field the whole time.\"\n\n\"He will find a hardened pagan here.\"\n\n\"Judge Henry?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! The wild man you're taming brought you Kenilworth safe back.\"\n\nShe was smooth. \"Oh, as for taming him! But don't you find him\nintelligent?\"\n\nSuddenly I somehow knew that she didn't want to tame him. But what did\nshe want to do? The thought of her had made him blush this afternoon. No\nthought of him made her blush this evening.\n\nA great laugh from the rest of the company made me aware that the Judge\nhad consummated his tale of the \"Sole Survivor.\"\n\n\"And so,\" he finished, \"they all went off as mad as hops because\nit hadn't been a massacre.\" Mr. and Mrs. Ogden--they were the New\nYorkers--gave this story much applause, and Dr. MacBride half a minute\nlater laid his \"ha-ha,\" like a heavy stone, upon the gayety.\n\n\"I'll never be able to stand seven sermons,\" said Miss Wood to me.\n\n\"Talking of massacres,\"--I now hastened to address the already saddened\ntable,--\"I have recently escaped one myself.\"\n\nThe Judge had come to an end of his powers. \"Oh, tell us!\" he implored.\n\n\"Seriously, sir, I think we grazed pretty wet tragedy but your\nextraordinary man brought us out into comedy safe and dry.\"\n\nThis gave me their attention; and, from that afternoon in Dakota when I\nhad first stepped aboard the caboose, I told them the whole tale of my\nexperience: how I grew immediately aware that all was not right, by the\nVirginian's kicking the cook off the train; how, as we journeyed, the\ndark bubble of mutiny swelled hourly beneath my eyes; and how, when it\nwas threatening I know not what explosion, the Virginian had pricked it\nwith humor, so that it burst in nothing but harmless laughter.\n\nTheir eyes followed my narrative: the New Yorkers, because such events\ndo not happen upon the shores of the Hudson; Mrs. Henry, because she was\nmy hostess; Miss Wood followed for whatever her reasons were--I couldn't\nsee her eyes; rather, I FELT her listening intently to the deeds and\ndangers of the man she didn't care to tame. But it was the eyes of the\nJudge and the missionary which I saw riveted upon me indeed until the\nend; and they forthwith made plain their quite dissimilar opinions.\n\nJudge Henry struck the table lightly with his fist. \"I knew it!\" And he\nleaned back in his chair with a face of contentment. He had trusted his\nman, and his man had proved worthy.\n\n\"Pardon me.\" Dr. MacBride had a manner of saying \"pardon me,\" which\nrendered forgiveness well-nigh impossible.\n\nThe Judge waited for him.\n\n\"Am I to understand that these--a--cow-boys attempted to mutiny, and\nwere discouraged in this attempt upon finding themselves less skilful at\nlying than the man they had plotted to depose?\"\n\nI began an answer. \"It was other qualities, sir, that happened to be\nrevealed and asserted by what you call his lying that--\"\n\n\"And what am I to call it, if it is not lying? A competition in deceit\nin which, I admit, he out did them.\n\n\"It's their way to--\"\n\n\"Pardon me. Their way to lie? They bow down to the greatest in this?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Miss Wood in my ear, \"give him up.\"\n\nThe Judge took a turn. \"We-ell, Doctor--\" He seemed to stick here.\n\nMr. Ogden handsomely assisted him. \"You've said the word yourself,\nDoctor. It's the competition, don't you see? The trial of strength by no\nmatter what test.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Miss Wood, unexpectedly. \"And it wasn't that George\nWashington couldn't tell a lie. He just wouldn't. I'm sure if he'd\nundertaken to he'd have told a much better one than Cornwall's.\"\n\n\"Ha-ha, madam! You draw an ingenious subtlety from your books.\"\n\n\"It's all plain to me,\" Ogden pursued. \"The men were morose. This\nforeman was in the minority. He cajoled them into a bout of tall\nstories, and told the tallest himself. And when they found they had\nswallowed it whole--well, it would certainly take the starch out of me,\"\nhe concluded. \"I couldn't be a serious mutineer after that.\"\n\nDr. MacBride now sounded his strongest bass. \"Pardon me. I cannot accept\nsuch a view, sir. There is a levity abroad in our land which I must\ndeplore. No matter how leniently you may try to put it, in the end we\nhave the spectacle of a struggle between men where lying decides the\nsurvival of the fittest. Better, far better, if it was to come, that\nthey had shot honest bullets. There are worse evils than war.\"\n\nThe Doctor's eye glared righteously about him. None of us, I think,\ntrembled; or, if we did, it was with emotions other than fear. Mrs.\nHenry at once introduced the subject of trout-fishing, and thus happily\nremoved us from the edge of whatever sort of precipice we seemed to have\napproached; for Dr. MacBride had brought his rod. He dilated upon this\nsport with fervor, and we assured him that the streams upon the west\nslope of the Bow Leg Mountains would afford him plenty of it. Thus we\nended our meal in carefully preserved amity.\n\n\n\n\nXX. THE JUDGE IGNORES PARTICULARS\n\n\n\"Do you often have these visitations?\" Ogden inquired of Judge Henry.\nOur host was giving us whiskey in his office, and Dr. MacBride, while\nwe smoked apart from the ladies, had repaired to his quarters in the\nforeman's house previous to the service which he was shortly to hold.\n\nThe Judge laughed. \"They come now and then through the year. I like the\nbishop to come. And the men always like it. But I fear our friend will\nscarcely please them so well.\"\n\n\"You don't mean they'll--\"\n\n\"Oh, no. They'll keep quiet. The fact is, they have a good deal better\nmanners than he has, if he only knew it. They'll be able to bear him.\nBut as for any good he'll do--\"\n\n\"I doubt if he knows a word of science,\" said I, musing about the\nDoctor.\n\n\"Science! He doesn't know what Christianity is yet. I've entertained\nmany guests, but none--The whole secret,\" broke off Judge Henry, \"lies\nin the way you treat people. As soon as you treat men as your brothers,\nthey are ready to acknowledge you--if you deserve it--as their superior.\nThat's the whole bottom of Christianity, and that's what our missionary\nwill never know.\"\n\nThere was a somewhat heavy knock at the office door, and I think we all\nfeared it was Dr. MacBride. But when the Judge opened, the Virginian was\nstanding there in the darkness.\n\n\"So!\" The Judge opened the door wide. He was very hearty to the man he\nhad trusted. \"You're back at last.\"\n\n\"I came to repawt.\"\n\nWhile they shook hands, Ogden nudged me. \"That the fellow?\" I nodded.\n\"Fellow who kicked the cook off the train?\" I again nodded, and he\nlooked at the Virginian, his eye and his stature.\n\nJudge Henry, properly democratic, now introduced him to Ogden.\n\nThe New Yorker also meant to be properly democratic. \"You're the man\nI've been hearing such a lot about.\"\n\nBut familiarity is not equality. \"Then I expect yu' have the advantage\nof me, seh,\" said the Virginian, very politely. \"Shall I repawt\nto-morro'?\" His grave eyes were on the Judge again. Of me he had taken\nno notice; he had come as an employee to see his employer.\n\n\"Yes, yes; I'll want to hear about the cattle to-morrow. But step inside\na moment now. There's a matter--\" The Virginian stepped inside, and took\noff his hat. \"Sit down. You had trouble--I've heard something about it,\"\nthe Judge went on.\n\nThe Virginian sat down, grave and graceful. But he held the brim of\nhis hat all the while. He looked at Ogden and me, and then back at his\nemployer. There was reluctance in his eye. I wondered if his employer\ncould be going to make him tell his own exploits in the presence of\nus outsiders; and there came into my memory the Bengal tiger at a\ntrained-animal show I had once seen.\n\n\"You had some trouble,\" repeated the Judge.\n\n\"Well, there was a time when they maybe wanted to have notions. They're\ngood boys.\" And he smiled a very little.\n\nContentment increased in the Judge's face. \"Trampas a good boy too?\"\n\nBut this time the Bengal tiger did not smile. He sat with his eye\nfastened on his employer.\n\nThe Judge passed rather quickly on to his next point. \"You've brought\nthem all back, though, I understand, safe and sound, without a scratch?\"\n\nThe Virginian looked down at his hat, then up again at the Judge,\nmildly. \"I had to part with my cook.\"\n\nThere was no use; Ogden and myself exploded. Even upon the embarrassed\nVirginian a large grin slowly forced itself. \"I guess yu' know about\nit,\" he murmured. And he looked at me with a sort of reproach. He knew\nit was I who had told tales out of school.\n\n\"I only want to say,\" said Ogden, conciliatingly, \"that I know I\ncouldn't have handled those men.\"\n\nThe Virginian relented. \"Yu' never tried, seh.\"\n\nThe Judge had remained serious; but he showed himself plainly more and\nmore contented. \"Quite right,\" he said. \"You had to part with your\ncook. When I put a man in charge, I put him in charge. I don't make\nparticulars my business. They're to be always his. Do you understand?\"\n\n\"Thank yu'.\" The Virginian understood that his employer was praising his\nmanagement of the expedition. But I don't think he at all discerned--as\nI did presently--that his employer had just been putting him to a\nfurther test, had laid before him the temptation of complaining of a\nfellow-workman and blowing his own trumpet, and was delighted with his\nreticence. He made a movement to rise.\n\n\"I haven't finished,\" said the Judge. \"I was coming to the matter.\nThere's one particular--since I do happen to have been told. I fancy\nTrampas has learned something he didn't expect.\"\n\nThis time the Virginian evidently did not understand, any more than I\ndid. One hand played with his hat, mechanically turning it round.\n\nThe Judge explained. \"I mean about Roberts.\"\n\nA pulse of triumph shot over the Southerner's face, turning it savage\nfor that fleeting instant. He understood now, and was unable to suppress\nthis much answer. But he was silent.\n\n\"You see,\" the Judge explained to me, \"I was obliged to let Roberts, my\nold foreman, go last week. His wife could not have stood another winter\nhere, and a good position was offered to him near Los Angeles.\"\n\nI did see. I saw a number of things. I saw why the foreman's house had\nbeen empty to receive Dr. MacBride and me. And I saw that the Judge\nhad been very clever indeed. For I had abstained from telling any tales\nabout the present feeling between Trampas and the Virginian; but he had\ndivined it. Well enough for him to say that \"particulars\" were something\nhe let alone; he evidently kept a deep eye on the undercurrents at his\nranch. He knew that in Roberts, Trampas had lost a powerful friend. And\nthis was what I most saw, this final fact, that Trampas had no longer\nany intervening shield. He and the Virginian stood indeed man to man.\n\n\"And so,\" the Judge continued speaking to me, \"here I am at a very\ninconvenient time without a foreman. Unless,\" I caught the twinkle in\nhis eyes before he turned to the Virginian, \"unless you're willing to\ntake the position yourself. Will you?\"\n\nI saw the Southerner's hand grip his hat as he was turning it round. He\nheld it still now, and his other hand found it and gradually crumpled\nthe soft crown in. It meant everything to him: recognition, higher\nstation, better fortune, a separate house of his own, and--perhaps--one\nstep nearer to the woman he wanted. I don't know what words he might\nhave said to the Judge had they been alone, but the Judge had chosen\nto do it in our presence, the whole thing from beginning to end. The\nVirginian sat with the damp coming out on his forehead, and his eyes\ndropped from his employer's.\n\n\"Thank yu',\" was what he managed at last to say.\n\n\"Well, now, I'm greatly relieved!\" exclaimed the Judge, rising at once.\nHe spoke with haste, and lightly. \"That's excellent. I was in some thing\nof a hole,\" he said to Ogden and me; \"and this gives me one thing less\nto think of. Saves me a lot of particulars,\" he jocosely added to the\nVirginian, who was now also standing up. \"Begin right off. Leave the\nbunk house. The gentlemen won't mind your sleeping in your own house.\"\n\nThus he dismissed his new foreman gayly. But the new foreman, when he\ngot outside, turned back for one gruff word,--\"I'll try to please yu'.\"\nThat was all. He was gone in the darkness. But there was light enough\nfor me, looking after him, to see him lay his hand on a shoulder-high\ngate and vault it as if he had been the wind. Sounds of cheering came\nto us a few moments later from the bunk house. Evidently he had \"begun\nright away,\" as the Judge had directed. He had told his fortune to his\nbrother cow-punchers, and this was their answer.\n\n\"I wonder if Trampas is shouting too?\" inquired Ogden.\n\n\"Hm!\" said the Judge. \"That is one of the particulars I wash my hands\nof.\"\n\nI knew that he entirely meant it. I knew, once his decision taken of\nappointing the Virginian his lieutenant for good and all, that, like a\nwise commander-in-chief, he would trust his lieutenant to take care of\nhis own business.\n\n\"Well,\" Ogden pursued with interest, \"haven't you landed Trampas plump\nat his mercy?\"\n\nThe phrase tickled the Judge. \"That is where I've landed him!\" he\ndeclared. \"And here is Dr. MacBride.\"\n\n\n\n\nXXI. IN A STATE OF SIN\n\n\nThunder sat imminent upon the missionary's brow. Many were to be at his\nmercy soon. But for us he had sunshine still. \"I am truly sorry to be\nturning you upside down,\" he said importantly. \"But it seems the best\nplace for my service.\" He spoke of the tables pushed back and the chairs\ngathered in the hall, where the storm would presently break upon the\ncongregation. \"Eight-thirty?\" he inquired.\n\nThis was the hour appointed, and it was only twenty minutes off. We\nthrew the unsmoked fractions of our cigars away, and returned to offer\nour services to the ladies. This amused the ladies. They had done\nwithout us. All was ready in the hall.\n\n\"We got the cook to help us,\" Mrs. Ogden told me, \"so as not to\ndisturb your cigars. In spite of the cow-boys, I still recognize my own\ncountry.\"\n\n\"In the cook?\" I rather densely asked.\n\n\"Oh, no! I don't have a Chinaman. It's in the length of after-dinner\ncigars.\"\n\n\"Had you been smoking,\" I returned, \"you would have found them short\nthis evening.\"\n\n\"You make it worse,\" said the lady; \"we have had nothing but Dr. MacBride.\"\n\n\"We'll share him with you now,\" I exclaimed.\n\n\"Has he announced his text? I've got one for him,\" said Molly Wood,\njoining us. She stood on tiptoe and spoke it comically in our ears. \"'I\nsaid in my haste, All men are liars.'\" This made us merry as we stood\namong the chairs in the congested hall.\n\nI left the ladies, and sought the bunk house. I had heard the cheers,\nbut I was curious also to see the men, and how they were taking it.\nThere was but little for the eye. There was much noise in the room. They\nwere getting ready to come to church,--brushing their hair, shaving, and\nmaking themselves clean, amid talk occasionally profane and continuously\ndiverting.\n\n\"Well, I'm a Christian, anyway,\" one declared.\n\n\"I'm a Mormon, I guess,\" said another.\n\n\"I belong to the Knights of Pythias,\" said a third.\n\n\"I'm a Mohammedist,\" said a fourth; \"I hope I ain't goin' to hear\nnothin' to shock me.\"\n\nAnd they went on with their joking. But Trampas was out of the joking.\nHe lay on his bed reading a newspaper, and took no pains to look\npleasant. My eyes were considering him when the blithe Scipio came in.\n\n\"Don't look so bashful,\" said he. \"There's only us girls here.\"\n\nHe had been helping the Virginian move his belongings from the bunk\nhouse over to the foreman's cabin. He himself was to occupy the\nVirginian's old bed here. \"And I hope sleepin' in it will bring me some\nof his luck,\" said Scipio. \"Yu'd ought to've seen us when he told us in\nhis quiet way. Well,\" Scipio sighed a little, \"it must feel good to have\nyour friends glad about you.\"\n\n\"Especially Trampas,\" said I. \"The Judge knows about that,\" I added.\n\n\"Knows, does he? What's he say?\" Scipio drew me quickly out of the bunk\nhouse.\n\n\"Says it's no business of his.\"\n\n\"Said nothing but that?\" Scipio's curiosity seemed strangely intense.\n\"Made no suggestion? Not a thing?\"\n\n\"Not a thing. Said he didn't want to know and didn't care.\"\n\n\"How did he happen to hear about it?\" snapped Scipio. \"You told him!\"\nhe immediately guessed. \"He never would.\" And Scipio jerked his thumb\nat the Virginian, who appeared for a moment in the lighted window of the\nnew quarters he was arranging. \"He never would tell,\" Scipio repeated.\n\"And so the Judge never made a suggestion to him,\" he muttered, nodding\nin the darkness. \"So it's just his own notion. Just like him, too, come\nto think of it. Only I didn't expect--well, I guess he could surprise me\nany day he tried.\"\n\n\"You're surprising me now,\" I said. \"What's it all about?\"\n\n\"Oh, him and Trampas.\"\n\n\"What? Nothing surely happened yet?\" I was as curious as Scipio had\nbeen.\n\n\"No, not yet. But there will.\"\n\n\"Great Heavens, man! when?\"\n\n\"Just as soon as Trampas makes the first move,\" Scipio replied easily.\n\nI became dignified. Scipio had evidently been told things by the\nVirginian.\n\n\"Yes, I up and asked him plumb out,\" Scipio answered. \"I was liftin' his\ntrunk in at the door, and I couldn't stand it no longer, and I asked him\nplumb out. 'Yu've sure got Trampas where yu' want him.' That's what\nI said. And he up and answered and told me. So I know.\" At this point\nScipio stopped; I was not to know.\n\n\"I had no idea,\" I said, \"that your system held so much meanness.\"\n\n\"Oh, it ain't meanness!\" And he laughed ecstatically.\n\n\"What do you call it, then?\"\n\n\"He'd call it discretion,\" said Scipio. Then he became serious. \"It's\ntoo blamed grand to tell yu'. I'll leave yu' to see it happen. Keep\naround, that's all. Keep around. I pretty near wish I didn't know it\nmyself.\"\n\nWhat with my feelings at Scipio's discretion, and my human curiosity, I\nwas not in that mood which best profits from a sermon. Yet even though\nmy expectations had been cruelly left quivering in mid air, I was not\nsure how much I really wanted to \"keep around.\" You will therefore\nunderstand how Dr. MacBride was able to make a prayer and to read\nScripture without my being conscious of a word that he had uttered. It\nwas when I saw him opening the manuscript of his sermon that I suddenly\nremembered I was sitting, so to speak, in church, and began once more to\nthink of the preacher and his congregation. Our chairs were in the\nfront line, of course; but, being next the wall, I could easily see\nthe cow-boys behind me. They were perfectly decorous. If Mrs. Ogden had\nlooked for pistols, daredevil attitudes, and so forth, she must have\nbeen greatly disappointed. Except for their weather-beaten cheeks and\neyes, they were simply American young men with mustaches and without,\nand might have been sitting, say, in Danbury, Connecticut. Even Trampas\nmerged quietly with the general placidity. The Virginian did not, to be\nsure, look like Danbury, and his frame and his features showed out\nof the mass; but his eyes were upon Dr. MacBride with a creamlike\npropriety.\n\nOur missionary did not choose Miss Wood's text. He made his selection\nfrom another of the Psalms; and when it came, I did not dare to look at\nanybody; I was much nearer unseemly conduct than the cow-boys. Dr. MacBride\ngave us his text sonorously, \"'They are altogether become filthy;\nThere is none of them that doeth good, no, not one.'\" His eye showed us\nplainly that present company was not excepted from this. He repeated the\ntext once more, then, launching upon his discourse, gave none of us a\nray of hope.\n\nI had heard it all often before; but preached to cow-boys it took on\na new glare of untimeliness, of grotesque obsoleteness--as if some one\nshould say, \"Let me persuade you to admire woman,\" and forthwith hold\nout her bleached bones to you. The cow-boys were told that not only they\ncould do no good, but that if they did contrive to, it would not help\nthem. Nay, more: not only honest deeds availed them nothing, but even if\nthey accepted this especial creed which was being explained to them as\nnecessary for salvation, still it might not save them. Their sin was\nindeed the cause of their damnation, yet, keeping from sin, they might\nnevertheless be lost. It had all been settled for them not only before\nthey were born, but before Adam was shaped. Having told them this, he\ninvited them to glorify the Creator of the scheme. Even if damned, they\nmust praise the person who had made them expressly for damnation. That\nis what I heard him prove by logic to these cow-boys. Stone upon stone\nhe built the black cellar of his theology, leaving out its beautiful\npark and the sunshine of its garden. He did not tell them the splendor\nof its past, the noble fortress for good that it had been, how its tonic\nhad strengthened generations of their fathers. No; wrath he spoke of,\nand never once of love. It was the bishop's way, I knew well, to hold\ncow-boys by homely talk of their special hardships and temptations.\nAnd when they fell he spoke to them of forgiveness and brought them\nencouragement. But Dr. MacBride never thought once of the lives of\nthese waifs. Like himself, like all mankind, they were invisible dots in\ncreation; like him, they were to feel as nothing, to be swept up in the\npotent heat of his faith. So he thrust out to them none of the sweet but\nall the bitter of his creed, naked and stern as iron. Dogma was his all\nin all, and poor humanity was nothing but flesh for its canons.\n\nThus to kill what chance he had for being of use seemed to me more\ndeplorable than it did evidently to them. Their attention merely\nwandered. Three hundred years ago they would have been frightened; but\nnot in this electric day. I saw Scipio stifling a smile when it came to\nthe doctrine of original sin. \"We know of its truth,\" said Dr. MacBride,\n\"from the severe troubles and distresses to which infants are liable,\nand from death passing upon them before they are capable of sinning.\"\nYet I knew he was a good man; and I also knew that if a missionary is to\nbe tactless, he might almost as well be bad.\n\nI said their attention wandered, but I forgot the Virginian. At first\nhis attitude might have been mere propriety. One can look respectfully\nat a preacher and be internally breaking all the commandments. But even\nwith the text I saw real attention light in the Virginian's eye. And\nkeeping track of the concentration that grew on him with each minute\nmade the sermon short for me. He missed nothing. Before the end his gaze\nat the preacher had become swerveless. Was he convert or critic? Convert\nwas incredible. Thus was an hour passed before I had thought of time.\n\nWhen it was over we took it variously. The preacher was genial and spoke\nof having now broken ground for the lessons that he hoped to instil.\nHe discoursed for a while about trout-fishing and about the rumored\nuneasiness of the Indians northward where he was going. It was plain\nthat his personal safety never gave him a thought. He soon bade us good\nnight. The Ogdens shrugged their shoulders and were amused. That was\ntheir way of taking it. Dr. MacBride sat too heavily on the Judge's\nshoulders for him to shrug them. As a leading citizen in the Territory\nhe kept open house for all comers. Policy and good nature made him bid\nwelcome a wide variety of travellers. The cow-boy out of employment\nfound bed and a meal for himself and his horse, and missionaries had\nbefore now been well received at Sunk Creek Ranch.\n\n\"I suppose I'll have to take him fishing,\" said the Judge, ruefully.\n\n\"Yes, my dear,\" said his wife, \"you will. And I shall have to make his\ntea for six days.\"\n\n\"Otherwise,\" Ogden suggested, \"it might be reported that you were\nenemies of religion.\"\n\n\"That's about it,\" said the Judge. \"I can get on with most people. But\nelephants depress me.\"\n\nSo we named the Doctor \"Jumbo,\" and I departed to my quarters.\n\nAt the bunk house, the comments were similar but more highly salted. The\nmen were going to bed. In spite of their outward decorum at the service,\nthey had not liked to be told that they were \"altogether become filthy.\"\nIt was easy to call names; they could do that themselves. And they\nappealed to me, several speaking at once, like a concerted piece at\nthe opera: \"Say, do you believe babies go to hell?\"--\"Ah, of course he\ndon't.\"--\"There ain't no hereafter, anyway.\"--\"Ain't there?\"--\"Who\ntold yu'?\"--\"Same man as told the preacher we were all a sifted set of\nsons-of-guns.\"--\"Well, I'm going to stay a Mormon.\"--\"Well, I'm going\nto quit fleeing from temptation.\"--\"that's so! Better get it in the\nneck after a good time than a poor one.\" And so forth. Their wit was not\nextreme, yet I should like Dr. MacBride to have heard it. One fellow put\nhis natural soul pretty well into words, \"If I happened to learn what\nthey had predestinated me to do, I'd do the other thing, just to show\n'em!\"\n\nAnd Trampas? And the Virginian? They were out of it. The Virginian had\ngone straight to his new abode. Trampas lay in his bed, not asleep, and\nsullen as ever.\n\n\"He ain't got religion this trip,\" said Scipio to me.\n\n\"Did his new foreman get it?\" I asked.\n\n\"Huh! It would spoil him. You keep around that's all. Keep around.\"\n\nScipio was not to be probed; and I went, still baffled, to my repose.\n\nNo light burned in the cabin as I approached its door.\n\nThe Virginian's room was quiet and dark; and that Dr. MacBride slumbered\nwas plainly audible to me, even before I entered. Go fishing with him!\nI thought, as I undressed. And I selfishly decided that the Judge might\nhave this privilege entirely to himself. Sleep came to me fairly\nsoon, in spite of the Doctor. I was wakened from it by my bed's being\njolted--not a pleasant thing that night. I must have started. And it\nwas the quiet voice of the Virginian that told me he was sorry to have\naccidentally disturbed me. This disturbed me a good deal more. But\nhis steps did not go to the bunk house, as my sensational mind had\nsuggested. He was not wearing much, and in the dimness he seemed taller\nthan common. I next made out that he was bending over Dr. MacBride. The\ndivine at last sprang upright.\n\n\"I am armed,\" he said. \"Take care. Who are you?\"\n\n\"You can lay down your gun, seh. I feel like my spirit was going to bear\nwitness. I feel like I might get an enlightening.\"\n\nHe was using some of the missionary's own language. The baffling I had\nbeen treated to by Scipio melted to nothing in this. Did living men\npetrify, I should have changed to mineral between the sheets. The Doctor\ngot out of bed, lighted his lamp, and found a book; and the two retired\ninto the Virginian's room, where I could hear the exhortations as I\nlay amazed. In time the Doctor returned, blew out his lamp, and settled\nhimself. I had been very much awake, but was nearly gone to sleep again,\nwhen the door creaked and the Virginian stood by the Doctor's side.\n\n\"Are you awake, seh?\"\n\n\"What? What's that? What is it?\"\n\n\"Excuse me, seh. The enemy is winning on me. I'm feeling less inward\nopposition to sin.\"\n\nThe lamp was lighted, and I listened to some further exhortations.\nThey must have taken half an hour. When the Doctor was in bed again, I\nthought that I heard him sigh. This upset my composure in the dark;\nbut I lay face downward in the pillow, and the Doctor was soon again\nsnoring. I envied him for a while his faculty of easy sleep. But I must\nhave dropped off myself; for it was the lamp in my eyes that now waked\nme as he came back for the third time from the Virginian's room. Before\nblowing the light out he looked at his watch, and thereupon I inquired\nthe hour of him.\n\n\"Three,\" said he.\n\nI could not sleep any more now, and I lay watching the darkness.\n\n\"I'm afeared to be alone!\" said the Virginian's voice presently in the\nnext room. \"I'm afeared.\" There was a short pause, and then he shouted\nvery loud, \"I'm losin' my desire afteh the sincere milk of the Word!\"\n\n\"What? What's that? What?\" The Doctor's cot gave a great crack as he\nstarted up listening, and I put my face deep in the pillow.\n\n\"I'm afeared! I'm afeared! Sin has quit being bitter in my belly.\"\n\n\"Courage, my good man.\" The Doctor was out of bed with his lamp again,\nand the door shut behind him. Between them they made it long this time.\nI saw the window become gray; then the corners of the furniture grow\nvisible; and outside, the dry chorus of the blackbirds began to fill the\ndawn. To these the sounds of chickens and impatient hoofs in the stable\nwere added, and some cow wandered by loudly calling for her calf. Next,\nsome one whistling passed near and grew distant. But although the cold\nhue that I lay staring at through the window warmed and changed, the\nDoctor continued working hard over his patient in the next room. Only a\nword here and there was distinct; but it was plain from the Virginian's\nfewer remarks that the sin in his belly was alarming him less. Yes, they\nmade this time long. But it proved, indeed, the last one. And though\nsome sort of catastrophe was bound to fall upon us, it was myself who\nprecipitated the thing that did happen.\n\nDay was wholly come. I looked at my own watch, and it was six. I had\nbeen about seven hours in my bed, and the Doctor had been about seven\nhours out of his. The door opened, and he came in with his book and\nlamp. He seemed to be shivering a little, and I saw him cast a longing\neye at his couch. But the Virginian followed him even as he blew out\nthe now quite superfluous light. They made a noticeable couple in their\nunderclothes: the Virginian with his lean racehorse shanks running to\na point at his ankle, and the Doctor with his stomach and his fat\nsedentary calves.\n\n\"You'll be going to breakfast and the ladies, seh, pretty soon,\" said\nthe Virginian, with a chastened voice. \"But I'll worry through the day\nsomehow without yu'. And to-night you can turn your wolf loose on me\nagain.\"\n\nOnce more it was no use. My face was deep in the pillow, but I made\nsounds as of a hen who has laid an egg. It broke on the Doctor with a\ntotal instantaneous smash, quite like an egg.\n\nHe tried to speak calmly. \"This is a disgrace. An infamous disgrace.\nNever in my life have I--\" Words forsook him, and his face grew redder.\n\"Never in my life--\" He stopped again, because, at the sight of him\nbeing dignified in his red drawers, I was making the noise of a dozen\nhens. It was suddenly too much for the Virginian. He hastened into his\nroom, and there sank on the floor with his head in his hands. The Doctor\nimmediately slammed the door upon him, and this rendered me easily fit\nfor a lunatic asylum. I cried into my pillow, and wondered if the Doctor\nwould come and kill me. But he took no notice of me whatever. I could\nhear the Virginian's convulsions through the door, and also the Doctor\nfuriously making his toilet within three feet of my head; and I lay\nquite still with my face the other way, for I was really afraid to look\nat him. When I heard him walk to the door in his boots, I ventured to\npeep; and there he was, going out with his bag in his hand. As I still\ncontinued to lie, weak and sore, and with a mind that had ceased all\noperation, the Virginian's door opened. He was clean and dressed and\ndecent, but the devil still sported in his eye. I have never seen a\ncreature more irresistibly handsome.\n\nThen my mind worked again. \"You've gone and done it,\" said I. \"He's\npacked his valise. He'll not sleep here.\"\n\nThe Virginian looked quickly out of the door. \"Why, he's leavin' us!\" he\nexclaimed. \"Drivin' away right now in his little old buggy!\" He turned\nto me, and our eyes met solemnly over this large fact. I thought that\nI perceived the faintest tincture of dismay in the features of Judge\nHenry's new, responsible, trusty foreman. This was the first act of his\nadministration. Once again he looked out at the departing missionary.\n\"Well,\" he vindictively stated, \"I cert'nly ain't goin' to run afteh\nhim.\" And he looked at me again.\n\n\"Do you suppose the Judge knows?\" I inquired.\n\nHe shook his head. \"The windo' shades is all down still oveh yondeh.\"\nHe paused. \"I don't care,\" he stated, quite as if he had been ten years\nold. Then he grinned guiltily. \"I was mighty respectful to him all\nnight.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, respectful! Especially when you invited him to turn his wolf\nloose.\"\n\nThe Virginian gave a joyous gulp. He now came and sat down on the edge\nof my bed. \"I spoke awful good English to him most of the time,\" said\nhe. \"I can, yu' know, when I cinch my attention tight on to it. Yes,\nI cert'nly spoke a lot o' good English. I didn't understand some of it\nmyself!\"\n\nHe was now growing frankly pleased with his exploit. He had builded so\nmuch better than he knew. He got up and looked out across the crystal\nworld of light. \"The Doctor is at one-mile crossing,\" he said. \"He'll\nget breakfast at the N-lazy-Y.\" Then he returned and sat again on my\nbed, and began to give me his real heart. \"I never set up for being\nbetter than others. Not even to myself. My thoughts ain't apt to travel\naround making comparisons. And I shouldn't wonder if my memory took\nas much notice of the meannesses I have done as of--as of the other\nactions. But to have to sit like a dumb lamb and let a stranger tell yu'\nfor an hour that yu're a hawg and a swine, just after you have acted in\na way which them that know the facts would call pretty near white--\"\n\n\"Trampas!\" I could not help exclaiming.\n\nFor there are moments of insight when a guess amounts to knowledge.\n\n\"Has Scipio told--\"\n\n\"No. Not a word. He wouldn't tell me.\"\n\n\"Well, yu' see, I arrived home hyeh this evenin' with several thoughts\nworkin' and stirrin' inside me. And not one o' them thoughts was what\nyu'd call Christian. I ain't the least little bit ashamed of 'em. I'm a\nhuman. But after the Judge--well, yu' heard him. And so when I went away\nfrom that talk and saw how positions was changed--\"\n\nA step outside stopped him short. Nothing more could be read in his\nface, for there was Trampas himself in the open door.\n\n\"Good morning,\" said Trampas, not looking at us. He spoke with the same\ncool sullenness of yesterday.\n\nWe returned his greeting.\n\n\"I believe I'm late in congratulating you on your promotion,\" said he.\n\nThe Virginian consulted his watch. \"It's only half afteh six,\" he\nreturned.\n\nTrampas's sullenness deepened. \"Any man is to be congratulated on\ngetting a rise, I expect.\"\n\nThis time the Virginian let him have it. \"Cert'nly. And I ain't\nforgetting how much I owe mine to you.\"\n\nTrampas would have liked to let himself go. \"I've not come here for any\nforgiveness,\" he sneered.\n\n\"When did yu' feel yu' needed any?\" The Virginian was impregnable.\n\nTrampas seemed to feel how little he was gaining this way. He came out\nstraight now. \"Oh, I haven't any Judge behind me, I know. I heard you'd\nbe paying the boys this morning, and I've come for my time.\"\n\n\"You're thinking of leaving us?\" asked the new foreman. \"What's your\ndissatisfaction?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm not needing anybody back of me. I'll get along by myself.\" It\nwas thus he revealed his expectation of being dismissed by his enemy.\n\nThis would have knocked any meditated generosity out of my heart. But\nI was not the Virginian. He shifted his legs, leaned back a little, and\nlaughed. \"Go back to your job, Trampas, if that's all your complaint.\nYou're right about me being in luck. But maybe there's two of us in\nluck.\"\n\nIt was this that Scipio had preferred me to see with my own eyes. The\nfight was between man and man no longer. The case could not be one of\nforgiveness; but the Virginian would not use his official position to\ncrush his subordinate.\n\nTrampas departed with something muttered that I did not hear, and the\nVirginian closed intimate conversation by saying, \"You'll be late for\nbreakfast.\" With that he also took himself away.\n\nThe ladies were inclined to be scandalized, but not the Judge. When my\nwhole story was done, he brought his fist down on the table, and not\nlightly this time. \"I'd make him lieutenant general if the ranch offered\nthat position!\" he declared.\n\nMiss Molly Wood said nothing at the time. But in the afternoon, by her\nwish, she went fishing, with the Virginian deputed to escort her. I\nrode with them, for a while. I was not going to continue a third in that\nparty; the Virginian was too becomingly dressed, and I saw KENILWORTH\npeeping out of his pocket. I meant to be fishing by myself when that\nvolume was returned.\n\nBut Miss Wood talked with skilful openness as we rode. \"I've heard all\nabout you and Dr. MacBride,\" she said. \"How could you do it, when the\nJudge places such confidence in you?\"\n\nHe looked pleased. \"I reckon,\" he said, \"I couldn't be so good if I\nwasn't bad onced in a while.\"\n\n\"Why, there's a skunk,\" said I, noticing the pretty little animal\ntrotting in front of us at the edge of the thickets.\n\n\"Oh, where is it? Don't let me see it!\" screamed Molly. And at this\ndeeply feminine remark, the Virginian looked at her with such a smile\nthat, had I been a woman, it would have made me his to do what he\npleased with on the spot.\n\nUpon the lady, however, it seemed to make less impression. Or rather, I\nhad better say, whatever were her feelings, she very naturally made no\ndisplay of them, and contrived not to be aware of that expression which\nhad passed over the Virginian's face.\n\nIt was later that these few words reached me while I was fishing alone:\n\"Have you anything different to tell me yet?\" I heard him say.\n\n\"Yes; I have.\" She spoke in accents light and well intrenched. \"I wish\nto say that I have never liked any man better than you. But I expect\nto!\"\n\nHe must have drawn small comfort from such an answer as that. But he\nlaughed out indomitably: \"Don't yu' go betting on any such expectation!\"\nAnd then their words ceased to be distinct, and it was only their two\nvoices that I heard wandering among the windings of the stream.\n\n\n\n\nXXII. \"WHAT IS A RUSTLER?\"\n\n\nWe all know what birds of a feather do. And it may be safely surmised\nthat if a bird of any particular feather has been for a long while\nunable to see other birds of its kind, it will flock with them all the\nmore assiduously when they happen to alight in its vicinity.\n\nNow the Ogdens were birds of Molly's feather. They wore Eastern, and not\nWestern, plumage, and their song was a different song from that which\nthe Bear Creek birds sang. To be sure, the piping of little George\nTaylor was full of hopeful interest; and many other strains, both\nstriking and melodious, were lifted in Cattle Land, and had given\npleasure to Molly's ear. But although Indians, and bears, and mavericks,\nmake worthy themes for song, these are not the only songs in the world.\nTherefore the Eastern warblings of the Ogdens sounded doubly sweet to\nMolly Wood. Such words as Newport, Bar Harbor, and Tiffany's thrilled\nher exceedingly. It made no difference that she herself had never been\nto Newport or Bar Harbor, and had visited Tiffany's more often to admire\nthan to purchase. On the contrary, this rather added a dazzle to the\nmusic of the Ogdens. And Molly, whose Eastern song had been silent in\nthis strange land, began to chirp it again during the visit that she\nmade at the Sunk Creek Ranch.\n\nThus the Virginian's cause by no means prospered at this time. His\nforces were scattered, while Molly's were concentrated. The girl was\nnot at that point where absence makes the heart grow fonder. While the\nVirginian was trundling his long, responsible miles in the caboose,\ndelivering the cattle at Chicago, vanquishing Trampas along the\nYellowstone, she had regained herself.\n\nThus it was that she could tell him so easily during those first hours\nthat they were alone after his return, \"I expect to like another man\nbetter than you.\"\n\nAbsence had recruited her. And then the Ogdens had reenforced her. They\nbrought the East back powerfully to her memory, and her thoughts filled\nwith it. They did not dream that they were assisting in any battle. No\none ever had more unconscious allies than did Molly at that time. But\nshe used them consciously, or almost consciously. She frequented them;\nshe spoke of Eastern matters; she found that she had acquaintances whom\nthe Ogdens also knew, and she often brought them into the conversation.\nFor it may be said, I think, that she was fighting a battle--nay, a\ncampaign. And perhaps this was a hopeful sign for the Virginian (had he\nbut known it), that the girl resorted to allies. She surrounded herself,\nshe steeped herself, with the East, to have, as it were, a sort of\ncounteractant against the spell of the black-haired horse man.\n\nAnd his forces were, as I have said, scattered. For his promotion gave\nhim no more time for love-making. He was foreman now. He had said to\nJudge Henry, \"I'll try to please yu'.\" And after the throb of emotion\nwhich these words had both concealed and conveyed, there came to him\nthat sort of intention to win which amounts to a certainty. Yes, he\nwould please Judge Henry!\n\nHe did not know how much he had already pleased him. He did not know\nthat the Judge was humorously undecided which of his new foreman's first\nacts had the more delighted him: his performance with the missionary, or\nhis magnanimity to Trampas.\n\n\"Good feeling is a great thing in any one,\" the Judge would say; \"but I\nlike to know that my foreman has so much sense.\"\n\n\"I am personally very grateful to him,\" said Mrs. Henry.\n\nAnd indeed so was the whole company. To be afflicted with Dr. MacBride\nfor one night instead of six was a great liberation.\n\nBut the Virginian never saw his sweetheart alone again; while she was at\nthe Sunk Creek Ranch, his duties called him away so much that there was\nno chance for him. Worse still, that habit of birds of a feather brought\nabout a separation more considerable. She arranged to go East with the\nOgdens. It was so good an opportunity to travel with friends, instead of\nmaking the journey alone!\n\nMolly's term of ministration at the schoolhouse had so pleased Bear\nCreek that she was warmly urged to take a holiday. School could afford\nto begin a little late. Accordingly, she departed.\n\nThe Virginian hid his sore heart from her during the moment of farewell\nthat they had.\n\n\"No, I'll not want any more books,\" he said, \"till yu' come back.\" And\nthen he made cheerfulness. \"It's just the other way round!\" said he.\n\n\"What is the other way round?\"\n\n\"Why, last time it was me that went travelling, and you that stayed\nbehind.\"\n\n\"So it was!\" And here she gave him a last scratch. \"But you'll be busier\nthan ever,\" she said; \"no spare time to grieve about me!\"\n\nShe could wound him, and she knew it. Nobody else could. That is why she\ndid it.\n\nBut he gave her something to remember, too.\n\n\"Next time,\" he said, \"neither of us will stay behind. We'll both go\ntogether.\"\n\nAnd with these words he gave her no laughing glance. It was a look that\nmingled with the words; so that now and again in the train, both came\nback to her, and she sat pensive, drawing near to Bennington and hearing\nhis voice and seeing his eyes.\n\nHow is it that this girl could cry at having to tell Sam Bannett she\ncould not think of him, and then treat another lover as she treated the\nVirginian? I cannot tell you, having never (as I said before) been a\nwoman myself.\n\nBennington opened its arms to its venturesome daughter. Much was made\nof Molly Wood. Old faces and old places welcomed her. Fatted calves of\nvarying dimensions made their appearance. And although the fatted calf\nis an animal that can assume more divergent shapes than any other known\ncreature,--being sometimes champagne and partridges, and again cake and\ncurrant wine,--through each disguise you can always identify the same\ncalf. The girl from Bear Creek met it at every turn.\n\nThe Bannetts at Hoosic Falls offered a large specimen to Molly--a dinner\n(perhaps I should say a banquet) of twenty-four. And Sam Bannett of\ncourse took her to drive more than once.\n\n\"I want to see the Hoosic Bridge,\" she would say. And when they reached\nthat well-remembered point, \"How lovely it is!\" she exclaimed. And as\nshe gazed at the view up and down the valley, she would grow pensive.\n\"How natural the church looks,\" she continued. And then, having crossed\nboth bridges, \"Oh, there's the dear old lodge gate!\" Or again, while\nthey drove up the valley of the little Hoosic: \"I had forgotten it was\nso nice and lonely. But after all, no woods are so interesting as\nthose where you might possibly see a bear or an elk.\" And upon another\noccasion, after a cry of enthusiasm at the view from the top of Mount\nAnthony, \"It's lovely, lovely, lovely,\" she said, with diminishing\ncadence, ending in pensiveness once more. \"Do you see that little bit\njust there? No, not where the trees are--that bare spot that looks\nbrown and warm in the sun. With a little sagebrush, that spot would look\nsomething like a place I know on Bear Creek. Only of course you don't\nget the clear air here.\"\n\n\"I don't forget you,\" said Sam. \"Do you remember me? Or is it out of\nsight out of mind?\"\n\nAnd with this beginning he renewed his suit. She told him that she\nforgot no one; that she should return always, lest they might forget\nher.\n\n\"Return always!\" he exclaimed. \"You talk as if your anchor was\ndragging.\"\n\nWas it? At all events, Sam failed in his suit.\n\nOver in the house at Dunbarton, the old lady held Molly's hand and\nlooked a long while at her. \"You have changed very much,\" she said\nfinally.\n\n\"I am a year older,\" said the girl.\n\n\"Pshaw, my dear!\" said the great-aunt. \"Who is he?\"\n\n\"Nobody!\" cried Molly, with indignation.\n\n\"Then you shouldn't answer so loud,\" said the great-aunt.\n\nThe girl suddenly hid her face. \"I don't believe I can love any one,\"\nshe said, \"except myself.\"\n\nAnd then that old lady, who in her day had made her courtesy to\nLafayette, began to stroke her niece's buried head, because she more\nthan half understood. And understanding thus much, she asked no prying\nquestions, but thought of the days of her own youth, and only spoke a\nlittle quiet love and confidence to Molly.\n\n\"I am an old, old woman,\" she said. \"But I haven't forgotten about it.\nThey objected to him because he had no fortune. But he was brave and\nhandsome, and I loved him, my dear. Only I ought to have loved him more.\nI gave him my promise to think about it. And he and his ship were lost.\"\nThe great-aunt's voice had become very soft and low, and she spoke with\nmany pauses. \"So then I knew. If I had--if--perhaps I should have lost\nhim; but it would have been after--ah, well! So long as you can help\nit, never marry! But when you cannot help it a moment longer, then\nlisten to nothing but that; for, my dear, I know your choice would be\nworthy of the Starks. And now--let me see his picture.\"\n\n\"Why, aunty!\" said Molly.\n\n\"Well, I won't pretend to be supernatural,\" said the aunt, \"but I\nthought you kept one back when you were showing us those Western views\nlast night.\"\n\nNow this was the precise truth. Molly had brought a number of\nphotographs from Wyoming to show to her friends at home. These, however,\nwith one exception, were not portraits. They were views of scenery and\nof cattle round-ups, and other scenes characteristic of ranch life. Of\nyoung men she had in her possession several photographs, and all but one\nof these she had left behind her. Her aunt's penetration had in a way\nmesmerized the girl; she rose obediently and sought that picture of\nthe Virginian. It was full length, displaying him in all his cow-boy\ntrappings,--the leathern chaps, the belt and pistol, and in his hand a\ncoil of rope.\n\nNot one of her family had seen it, or suspected its existence. She now\nbrought it downstairs and placed it in her aunt's hand.\n\n\"Mercy!\" cried the old lady.\n\nMolly was silent, but her eye grew warlike.\n\n\"Is that the way--\" began the aunt. \"Mercy!\" she murmured; and she sat\nstaring at the picture.\n\nMolly remained silent.\n\nHer aunt looked slowly up at her. \"Has a man like that presumed--\"\n\n\"He's not a bit like that. Yes, he's exactly like that,\" said Molly. And\nshe would have snatched the photograph away, but her aunt retained it.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"I suppose there are days when he does not kill\npeople.\"\n\n\"He never killed anybody!\" And Molly laughed.\n\n\"Are you seriously--\" said the old lady.\n\n\"I almost might--at times. He is perfectly splendid.\"\n\n\"My dear, you have fallen in love with his clothes.\"\n\n\"It's not his clothes. And I'm not in love. He often wears others. He\nwears a white collar like anybody.\"\n\n\"Then that would be a more suitable way to be photographed, I think. He\ncouldn't go round like that here. I could not receive him myself.\"\n\n\"He'd never think of such a thing. Why, you talk as if he were a\nsavage.\"\n\nThe old lady studied the picture closely for a minute. \"I think it is a\ngood face,\" she finally remarked. \"Is the fellow as handsome as that, my\ndear?\"\n\nMore so, Molly thought. And who was he, and what were his prospects?\nwere the aunt's next inquiries. She shook her head at the answers which\nshe received; and she also shook her head over her niece's emphatic\ndenial that her heart was lost to this man. But when their parting came,\nthe old lady said: \"God bless you and keep you, my dear. I'll not try to\nmanage you. They managed me--\" A sigh spoke the rest of this sentence.\n\"But I'm not worried about you--at least, not very much. You have never\ndone anything that was not worthy of the Starks. And if you're going\nto take him, do it before I die so that I can bid him welcome for your\nsake. God bless you, my dear.\"\n\nAnd after the girl had gone back to Bennington, the great-aunt had this\nthought: \"She is like us all. She wants a man that is a man.\" Nor did\nthe old lady breathe her knowledge to any member of the family. For she\nwas a loyal spirit, and her girl's confidence was sacred to her.\n\n\"Besides,\" she reflected, \"if even I can do nothing with her, what a\nmess THEY'D make of it! We should hear of her elopement next.\"\n\nSo Molly's immediate family never saw that photograph, and never heard\na word from her upon this subject. But on the day that she left for Bear\nCreek, as they sat missing her and discussing her visit in the evening,\nMrs. Bell observed: \"Mother, how did you think she was?\"--\"I never saw\nher better, Sarah. That horrible place seems to agree with her.\"--\"Oh,\nyes, agree. It seemed to me--\"--\"Well?\"--\"Oh, just somehow that she\nwas thinking.\"--\"Thinking?\"--\"Well, I believe she has something on her\nmind.\"--\"You mean a man,\" said Andrew Bell.--\"A man, Andrew?\"--\"Yes,\nMrs. Wood, that's what Sarah always means.\"\n\nIt may be mentioned that Sarah's surmises did not greatly contribute to\nher mother's happiness. And rumor is so strange a thing that presently\nfrom the malicious outside air came a vague and dreadful word--one of\nthose words that cannot be traced to its source. Somebody said to Andrew\nBell that they heard Miss Molly Wood was engaged to marry a RUSTLER.\n\n\"Heavens, Andrew!\" said his wife; \"what is a rustler?\"\n\nIt was not in any dictionary, and current translations of it were\ninconsistent. A man at Hoosic Falls said that he had passed through\nCheyenne, and heard the term applied in a complimentary way to people\nwho were alive and pushing. Another man had always supposed it meant\nsome kind of horse. But the most alarming version of all was that a\nrustler was a cattle thief.\n\nNow the truth is that all these meanings were right. The word ran a sort\nof progress in the cattle country, gathering many meanings as it went.\nIt gathered more, however, in Bennington. In a very few days, gossip had\nit that Molly was engaged to a gambler, a gold miner, an escaped stage\nrobber, and a Mexican bandit; while Mrs. Flynt feared she had married a\nMormon.\n\nAlong Bear Creek, however, Molly and her \"rustler\" took a ride soon\nafter her return. They were neither married nor engaged, and she was\ntelling him about Vermont.\n\n\"I never was there,\" said he. \"Never happened to strike in that\ndirection.\"\n\n\"What decided your direction?\"\n\n\"Oh, looking for chances. I reckon I must have been more ambitious than\nmy brothers--or more restless. They stayed around on farms. But I got\nout. When I went back again six years afterward, I was twenty. They was\ntalking about the same old things. Men of twenty-five and thirty--yet\njust sittin' and talkin' about the same old things. I told my mother\nabout what I'd seen here and there, and she liked it, right to her\ndeath. But the others--well, when I found this whole world was hawgs and\nturkeys to them, with a little gunnin' afteh small game throwed in, I\nput on my hat one mawnin' and told 'em maybe when I was fifty I'd look\nin on 'em again to see if they'd got any new subjects. But they'll\nnever. My brothers don't seem to want chances.\"\n\n\"You have lost a good many yourself,\" said Molly.\n\n\"That's correct.\"\n\n\"And yet,\" said she, \"sometimes I think you know a great deal more than\nI ever shall.\"\n\n\"Why, of course I do,\" said he, quite simply. \"I have earned my living\nsince I was fourteen. And that's from old Mexico to British Columbia.\nI have never stolen or begged a cent. I'd not want yu' to know what I\nknow.\"\n\nShe was looking at him, half listening and half thinking of her\ngreat-aunt.\n\n\"I am not losing chances any more,\" he continued. \"And you are the best\nI've got.\"\n\nShe was not sorry to have Georgie Taylor come galloping along at this\nmoment and join them. But the Virginian swore profanely under his\nbreath. And on this ride nothing more happened.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII. VARIOUS POINTS\n\n\nLove had been snowbound for many weeks. Before this imprisonment its\ncourse had run neither smooth nor rough, so far as eye could see; it\nhad run either not at all, or, as an undercurrent, deep out of sight. In\ntheir rides, in their talks, love had been dumb, as to spoken words at\nleast; for the Virginian had set himself a heavy task of silence and of\npatience. Then, where winter barred his visits to Bear Creek, and there\nwas for the while no ranch work or responsibility to fill his thoughts\nand blood with action, he set himself a task much lighter. Often,\ninstead of Shakespeare and fiction, school books lay open on his cabin\ntable; and penmanship and spelling helped the hours to pass. Many sheets\nof paper did he fill with various exercises, and Mrs. Henry gave him her\nassistance in advice and corrections.\n\n\"I shall presently be in love with him myself,\" she told the Judge. \"And\nit's time for you to become anxious.\"\n\n\"I am perfectly safe,\" he retorted. \"There's only one woman for him any\nmore.\"\n\n\"She is not good enough for him,\" declared Mrs. Henry. \"But he'll never\nsee that.\"\n\nSo the snow fell, the world froze, and the spelling-books and exercises\nwent on. But this was not the only case of education which was\nprogressing at the Sunk Creek Ranch while love was snowbound.\n\nOne morning Scipio le Moyne entered the Virginian's sitting room--that\napartment where Dr. MacBride had wrestled with sin so courageously all\nnight.\n\nThe Virginian sat at his desk. Open books lay around him; a\nhalf-finished piece of writing was beneath his fist; his fingers were\ncoated with ink. Education enveloped him, it may be said. But there was\nnone in his eye. That was upon the window, looking far across the cold\nplain.\n\nThe foreman did not move when Scipio came in, and this humorous spirit\nsmiled to himself. \"It's Bear Creek he's havin' a vision of,\" he\nconcluded. But he knew instantly that this was not so. The Virginian\nwas looking at something real, and Scipio went to the window to see for\nhimself.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, having seen, \"when is he going to leave us?\"\n\nThe foreman continued looking at two horsemen riding together. Their\nshapes, small in the distance, showed black against the universal\nwhiteness.\n\n\"When d' yu' figure he'll leave us?\" repeated Scipio.\n\n\"He,\" murmured the Virginian, always watching the distant horsemen; and\nagain, \"he.\"\n\nScipio sprawled down, familiarly, across a chair. He and the Virginian\nhad come to know each other very well since that first meeting at\nMedora. They were birds many of whose feathers were the same, and the\nVirginian often talked to Scipio without reserve. Consequently, Scipio\nnow understood those two syllables that the Virginian had pronounced\nprecisely as though the sentences which lay between them had been fully\nexpressed.\n\n\"Hm,\" he remarked. \"Well, one will be a gain, and the other won't be no\nloss.\"\n\n\"Poor Shorty!\" said the Virginian. \"Poor fool!\"\n\nScipio was less compassionate. \"No,\" he persisted, \"I ain't sorry for\nhim. Any man old enough to have hair on his face ought to see through\nTrampas.\"\n\nThe Virginian looked out of the window again, and watched Shorty and\nTrampas as they rode in the distance. \"Shorty is kind to animals,\" he\nsaid. \"He has gentled that hawss Pedro he bought with his first money.\nGentled him wonderful. When a man is kind to dumb animals, I always say\nhe had got some good in him.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Scipio reluctantly admitted. \"Yes. But I always did hate a fool.\"\n\n\"This hyeh is a mighty cruel country,\" pursued the Virginian. \"To\nanimals that is. Think of it! Think what we do to hundreds an' thousands\nof little calves! Throw 'em down, brand 'em, cut 'em, ear mark 'em, turn\n'em loose, and on to the next. It has got to be, of course. But I say\nthis. If a man can go jammin' hot irons on to little calves and slicin'\npieces off 'em with his knife, and live along, keepin' a kindness for\nanimals in his heart, he has got some good in him. And that's what\nShorty has got. But he is lettin' Trampas get a hold of him, and both of\nthem will leave us.\" And the Virginian looked out across the huge winter\nwhiteness again. But the riders had now vanished behind some foot-hills.\n\nScipio sat silent. He had never put these thoughts about men and animals\nto himself, and when they were put to him, he saw that they were true.\n\n\"Queer,\" he observed finally.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Everything.\"\n\n\"Nothing's queer,\" stated the Virginian, \"except marriage and lightning.\nThem two occurrences can still give me a sensation of surprise.\"\n\n\"All the same it is queer,\" Scipio insisted\n\n\"Well, let her go at me.\"\n\n\"Why, Trampas. He done you dirt. You pass that over. You could have\nfired him, but you let him stay and keep his job. That's goodness. And\nbadness is resultin' from it, straight. Badness right from goodness.\"\n\n\"You're off the trail a whole lot,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"Which side am I off, then?\"\n\n\"North, south, east, and west. First point. I didn't expect to do\nTrampas any good by not killin' him, which I came pretty near doin'\nthree times. Nor I didn't expect to do Trampas any good by lettin' him\nkeep his job. But I am foreman of this ranch. And I can sit and tell all\nmen to their face: 'I was above that meanness.' Point two: it ain't any\nGOODNESS, it is TRAMPAS that badness has resulted from. Put him anywhere\nand it will be the same. Put him under my eye, and I can follow his\nmoves a little, anyway. You have noticed, maybe, that since you and I\nrun on to that dead Polled Angus cow, that was still warm when we got\nto her, we have found no more cows dead of sudden death. We came mighty\nclose to catchin' whoever it was that killed that cow and ran her calf\noff to his own bunch. He wasn't ten minutes ahead of us. We can prove\nnothin'; and he knows that just as well as we do. But our cows have all\nquit dyin' of sudden death. And Trampas he's gettin' ready for a change\nof residence. As soon as all the outfits begin hirin' new hands in the\nspring, Trampas will leave us and take a job with some of them. And\nmaybe our cows'll commence gettin' killed again, and we'll have to take\nsteps that will be more emphatic--maybe.\"\n\nScipio meditated. \"I wonder what killin' a man feels like?\" he said.\n\n\"Why, nothing to bother yu'--when he'd ought to have been killed. Next\npoint: Trampas he'll take Shorty with him, which is certainly bad for\nShorty. But it's me that has kept Shorty out of harm's way this long. If\nI had fired Trampas, he'd have worked Shorty into dissatisfaction that\nmuch sooner.\"\n\nScipio meditated again. \"I knowed Trampas would pull his freight,\" he\nsaid. \"But I didn't think of Shorty. What makes you think it?\"\n\n\"He asked me for a raise.\"\n\n\"He ain't worth the pay he's getting now.\"\n\n\"Trampas has told him different.\"\n\n\"When a man ain't got no ideas of his own,\" said Scipio, \"he'd ought to\nbe kind o' careful who he borrows 'em from.\"\n\n\"That's mighty correct,\" said the Virginian. \"Poor Shorty! He has told\nme about his life. It is sorrowful. And he will never get wise. It was\ntoo late for him to get wise when he was born. D' yu' know why he's\nafter higher wages? He sends most all his money East.\"\n\n\"I don't see what Trampas wants him for,\" said Scipio.\n\n\"Oh, a handy tool some day.\"\n\n\"Not very handy,\" said Scipio.\n\n\"Well, Trampas is aimin' to train him. Yu' see, supposin' yu' were\nfiguring to turn professional thief--yu'd be lookin' around for a nice\nyoung trustful accomplice to take all the punishment and let you take\nthe rest.\"\n\n\"No such thing!\" cried Scipio, angrily. \"I'm no shirker.\" And then,\nperceiving the Virginian's expression, he broke out laughing. \"Well,\" he\nexclaimed, \"yu' fooled me that time.\"\n\n\"Looks that way. But I do mean it about Trampas.\"\n\nPresently Scipio rose, and noticed the half-finished exercise upon the\nVirginian's desk. \"Trampas is a rolling stone,\" he said.\n\n\"A rolling piece of mud,\" corrected the Virginian.\n\n\"Mud! That's right. I'm a rolling stone. Sometimes I'd most like to quit\nbeing.\"\n\n\"That's easy done,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"No doubt, when yu've found the moss yu' want to gather.\" As Scipio\nglanced at the school books again, a sparkle lurked in his bleached blue\neye. \"I can cipher some,\" he said. \"But I expect I've got my own notions\nabout spelling.\"\n\n\"I retain a few private ideas that way myself,\" remarked the Virginian,\ninnocently; and Scipio's sparkle gathered light.\n\n\"As to my geography,\" he pursued, \"that's away out loose in the brush.\nIs Bennington the capital of Vermont? And how d' yu' spell bridegroom?\"\n\n\"Last point!\" shouted the Virginian, letting a book fly after him:\n\"don't let badness and goodness worry yu', for yu'll never be a judge of\nthem.\"\n\nBut Scipio had dodged the book, and was gone. As he went his way, he\nsaid to himself, \"All the same, it must pay to fall regular in love.\"\nAt the bunk house that afternoon it was observed that he was unusually\nsilent. His exit from the foreman's cabin had let in a breath of winter\nso chill that the Virginian went to see his thermometer, a Christmas\npresent from Mrs. Henry. It registered twenty below zero. After reviving\nthe fire to a white blaze, the foreman sat thinking over the story\nof Shorty: what its useless, feeble past had been; what would be its\nuseless, feeble future. He shook his head over the sombre question,\nWas there any way out for Shorty? \"It may be,\" he reflected, \"that them\nwhose pleasure brings yu' into this world owes yu' a living. But that\ndon't make the world responsible. The world did not beget you. I reckon\nman helps them that help themselves. As for the universe, it looks like\nit did too wholesale a business to turn out an article up to standard\nevery clip. Yes, it is sorrowful. For Shorty is kind to his hawss.\"\n\nIn the evening the Virginian brought Shorty into his room. He usually\nknew what he had to say, usually found it easy to arrange his thoughts;\nand after such arranging the words came of themselves. But as he looked\nat Shorty, this did not happen to him. There was not a line of badness\nin the face; yet also there was not a line of strength; no promise in\neye, or nose, or chin; the whole thing melted to a stubby, featureless\nmediocrity. It was a countenance like thousands; and hopelessness filled\nthe Virginian as he looked at this lost dog, and his dull, wistful eyes.\n\nBut some beginning must be made.\n\n\"I wonder what the thermometer has got to be,\" he said. \"Yu' can see it,\nif yu'll hold the lamp to that right side of the window.\"\n\nShorty held the lamp. \"I never used any,\" he said, looking out at the\ninstrument, nevertheless.\n\nThe Virginian had forgotten that Shorty could not read. So he looked\nout of the window himself, and found that it was twenty-two below zero.\n\"This is pretty good tobacco,\" he remarked; and Shorty helped himself,\nand filled his pipe.\n\n\"I had to rub my left ear with snow to-day,\" said he. \"I was just in\ntime.\"\n\n\"I thought it looked pretty freezy out where yu' was riding,\" said the\nforeman.\n\nThe lost dog's eyes showed plain astonishment. \"We didn't see you out\nthere,\" said he.\n\n\"Well,\" said the foreman, \"it'll soon not be freezing any more; and then\nwe'll all be warm enough with work. Everybody will be working all over\nthe range. And I wish I knew somebody that had a lot of stable work to\nbe attended to. I cert'nly do for your sake.\"\n\n\"Why?\" said Shorty.\n\n\"Because it's the right kind of a job for you.\"\n\n\"I can make more--\" began Shorty, and stopped.\n\n\"There is a time coming,\" said the Virginian, \"when I'll want somebody\nthat knows how to get the friendship of hawsses. I'll want him to handle\nsome special hawsses the Judge has plans about. Judge Henry would pay\nfifty a month for that.\"\n\n\"I can make more,\" said Shorty, this time with stubbornness.\n\n\"Well, yes. Sometimes a man can--when he's not worth it, I mean. But it\ndon't generally last.\"\n\nShorty was silent. \"I used to make more myself,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"You're making a lot more now,\" said Shorty.\n\n\"Oh, yes. But I mean when I was fooling around the earth, jumping from\njob to job, and helling all over town between whiles. I was not worth\nfifty a month then, nor twenty-five. But there was nights I made a heap\nmore at cyards.\"\n\nShorty's eyes grew large.\n\n\"And then, bang! it was gone with treatin' the men and the girls.\"\n\n\"I don't always--\" said Shorty, and stopped again.\n\nThe Virginian knew that he was thinking about the money he sent East.\n\"After a while,\" he continued, \"I noticed a right strange fact. The\nmoney I made easy that I WASN'T worth, it went like it came. I strained\nmyself none gettin' or spendin' it. But the money I made hard that I WAS\nworth, why I began to feel right careful about that. And now I have got\nsavings stowed away. If once yu' could know how good that feels--\"\n\n\"So I would know,\" said Shorty, \"with your luck.\"\n\n\"What's my luck?\" said the Virginian, sternly.\n\n\"Well, if I had took up land along a creek that never goes dry and\nproved upon it like you have, and if I had saw that land raise its value\non me with me lifting no finger--\"\n\n\"Why did you lift no finger?\" cut in the Virginian. \"Who stopped yu'\ntaking up land? Did it not stretch in front of yu', behind yu', all\naround yu', the biggest, baldest opportunity in sight? That was the time\nI lifted my finger; but yu' didn't.\"\n\nShorty stood stubborn.\n\n\"But never mind that,\" said the Virginian. \"Take my land away to-morrow,\nand I'd still have my savings in bank. Because, you see, I had to work\nright hard gathering them in. I found out what I could do, and I settled\ndown and did it. Now you can do that too. The only tough part is the\nfinding out what you're good for. And for you, that is found. If you'll\njust decide to work at this thing you can do, and gentle those hawsses\nfor the Judge, you'll be having savings in a bank yourself.\"\n\n\"I can make more,\" said the lost dog.\n\nThe Virginian was on the point of saying, \"Then get out!\" But instead,\nhe spoke kindness to the end. \"The weather is freezing yet,\" he said,\n\"and it will be for a good long while. Take your time, and tell me if\nyu' change your mind.\"\n\nAfter that Shorty returned to the bunk house, and the Virginian knew\nthat the boy had learned his lesson of discontent from Trampas with\na thoroughness past all unteaching. This petty triumph of evil seemed\nscarce of the size to count as any victory over the Virginian. But all\nmen grasp at straws. Since that first moment, when in the Medicine Bow\nsaloon the Virginian had shut the mouth of Trampas by a word, the man\nhad been trying to get even without risk; and at each successive clash\nof his weapon with the Virginian's, he had merely met another public\nhumiliation. Therefore, now at the Sunk Creek Ranch in these cold white\ndays, a certain lurking insolence in his gait showed plainly his opinion\nthat by disaffecting Shorty he had made some sort of reprisal.\n\nYes, he had poisoned the lost dog. In the springtime, when the\nneighboring ranches needed additional hands, it happened as the\nVirginian had foreseen,--Trampas departed to a \"better job,\" as he took\npains to say, and with him the docile Shorty rode away upon his horse\nPedro.\n\nLove now was not any longer snowbound. The mountain trails were open\nenough for the sure feet of love's steed--that horse called Monte.\nBut duty blocked the path of love. Instead of turning his face to Bear\nCreek, the foreman had other journeys to make, full of heavy work,\nand watchfulness, and councils with the Judge. The cattle thieves were\ngrowing bold, and winter had scattered the cattle widely over the range.\nTherefore the Virginian, instead of going to see her, wrote a letter to\nhis sweetheart. It was his first.\n\n\n\n\nXXIV. A LETTER WITH A MORAL\n\n\nThe letter which the Virginian wrote to Molly Wood was, as has been\nstated, the first that he had ever addressed to her. I think, perhaps,\nhe may have been a little shy as to his skill in the epistolary art, a\nlittle anxious lest any sustained production from his pen might contain\nblunders that would too staringly remind her of his scant learning. He\ncould turn off a business communication about steers or stock cars, or\nany other of the subjects involved in his profession, with a brevity\nand a clearness that led the Judge to confide three-quarters of such\ncorrespondence to his foreman. \"Write to the 76 outfit,\" the Judge would\nsay, \"and tell them that my wagon cannot start for the round-up until,\"\netc.; or \"Write to Cheyenne and say that if they will hold a meeting\nnext Monday week, I will,\" etc. And then the Virginian would write such\ncommunications with ease.\n\nBut his first message to his lady was scarcely written with ease. It\nmust be classed, I think, among those productions which are styled\nliterary EFFORTS. It was completed in pencil before it was copied in\nink; and that first draft of it in pencil was well-nigh illegible with\nerasures and amendments. The state of mind of the writer during its\ncomposition may be gathered without further description on my part from\na slight interruption which occurred in the middle.\n\nThe door opened, and Scipio put his head in. \"You coming to dinner?\" he\ninquired.\n\n\"You go to hell,\" replied the Virginian.\n\n\"My jinks!\" said Scipio, quietly, and he shut the door without further\nobservation.\n\nTo tell the truth, I doubt if this letter would ever have been\nundertaken, far less completed and despatched, had not the lover's heart\nbeen wrung with disappointment. All winter long he had looked to that\nday when he should knock at the girl's door, and hear her voice bid him\ncome in. All winter long he had been choosing the ride he would take\nher. He had imagined a sunny afternoon, a hidden grove, a sheltering\ncleft of rock, a running spring, and some words of his that should\nconquer her at last and leave his lips upon hers. And with this\ncontrolled fire pent up within him, he had counted the days, scratching\nthem off his calendar with a dig each night that once or twice snapped\nthe pen. Then, when the trail stood open, this meeting was deferred,\nput off for indefinite days, or weeks; he could not tell how long.\nSo, gripping his pencil and tracing heavy words, he gave himself what\nconsolation he could by writing her.\n\nThe letter, duly stamped and addressed to Bear Creek, set forth upon\nits travels; and these were devious and long. When it reached its\ndestination, it was some twenty days old. It had gone by private hand\nat the outset, taken the stagecoach at a way point, become late in\nthat stagecoach, reached a point of transfer, and waited there for the\npostmaster to begin, continue, end, and recover from a game of poker,\nmingled with whiskey. Then it once more proceeded, was dropped at\nthe right way point, and carried by private hand to Bear Creek. The\nexperience of this letter, however, was not at all a remarkable one at\nthat time in Wyoming.\n\nMolly Wood looked at the envelope. She had never before seen the\nVirginian's handwriting. She knew it instantly. She closed her door and\nsat down to read it with a beating heart.\n\nSUNK CREEK RANCH, May 5, 188-\n\nMy Dear Miss Wood: I am sorry about this. My plan was different. It was\nto get over for a ride with you about now or sooner. This year Spring is\nearly. The snow is off the flats this side the range and where the\nsun gets a chance to hit the earth strong all day it is green and has\nflowers too, a good many. You can see them bob and mix together in the\nwind. The quaking-asps down low on the South side are in small leaf and\nwill soon be twinkling like the flowers do now. I had planned to take a\nlook at this with you and that was a better plan than what I have got to\ndo. The water is high but I could have got over and as for the snow on\ntop of the mountain a man told me nobody could cross it for a week yet,\nbecause he had just done it himself. Was not he a funny man? You ought\nto see how the birds have streamed across the sky while Spring was\ncoming. But you have seen them on your side of the mountain. But I can't\ncome now Miss Wood. There is a lot for me to do that has to be done and\nJudge Henry needs more than two eyes just now. I could not think much of\nmyself if I left him for my own wishes.\n\nBut the days will be warmer when I come. We will not have to quit by\nfive, and we can get off and sit too. We could not sit now unless for a\nvery short while. If I know when I can come I will try to let you know,\nbut I think it will be this way. I think you will just see me coming for\nI have things to do of an unsure nature and a good number of such. Do\nnot believe reports about Indians. They are started by editors to keep\nthe soldiers in the country. The friends of the editors get the hay and\nbeef contracts. Indians do not come to settled parts like Bear Creek is.\nIt is all editors and politicianists.\n\nNothing has happened worth telling you. I have read that play Othello.\nNo man should write down such a thing. Do you know if it is true? I have\nseen one worse affair down in Arizona. He killed his little child as\nwell as his wife but such things should not be put down in fine language\nfor the public. I have read Romeo and Juliet. That is beautiful language\nbut Romeo is no man. I like his friend Mercutio that gets killed. He\nis a man. If he had got Juliet there would have been no foolishness and\ntrouble.\n\nWell Miss Wood I would like to see you to-day. Do you know what I think\nMonte would do if I rode him out and let the rein slack? He would come\nstraight to your gate for he is a horse of great judgement. (\"That's the\nfirst word he has misspelled,\" said Molly.) I suppose you are sitting\nwith George Taylor and those children right now. Then George will get\nold enough to help his father but Uncle Hewie's twins will be ready for\nyou about then and the supply will keep coming from all quarters all\nsizes for you to say big A little a to them. There is no news here. Only\ncalves and cows and the hens are laying now which does always seem news\nto a hen every time she does it. Did I ever tell you about a hen Emily\nwe had here? She was venturesome to an extent I have not seen in other\nhens only she had poor judgement and would make no family ties. She\nwould keep trying to get interest in the ties of others taking charge\nof little chicks and bantams and turkeys and puppies one time, and she\nthought most anything was an egg. I will tell you about her sometime.\nShe died without family ties one day while I was building a house for\nher to teach school in. (\"The outrageous wretch!\" cried Molly! And her\ncheeks turned deep pink as she sat alone with her lover's letter.)\n\nI am coming the first day I am free. I will be a hundred miles from you\nmost of the time when I am not more but I will ride a hundred miles for\none hour and Monte is up to that. After never seeing you for so long I\nwill make one hour do if I have to. Here is a flower I have just been\nout and picked. I have kissed it now. That is the best I can do yet.\n\nMolly laid the letter in her lap and looked at the flower. Then suddenly\nshe jumped up and pressed it to her lips, and after a long moment held\nit away from her.\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"No, no, no.\" She sat down.\n\nIt was some time before she finished the letter. Then once more she got\nup and put on her hat.\n\nMrs. Taylor wondered where the girl could be walking so fast. But she\nwas not walking anywhere, and in half an hour she returned, rosy with\nher swift exercise, but with a spirit as perturbed as when she had set\nout.\n\nNext morning at six, when she looked out of her window, there was Monte\ntied to the Taylor's gate. Ah, could he have come the day before, could\nshe have found him when she returned from that swift walk of hers!\n\n\n\n\nXXV. PROGRESS OF THE LOST DOG\n\n\nIt was not even an hour's visit that the Virginian was able to pay\nhis lady love. But neither had he come a hundred miles to see her. The\nnecessities of his wandering work had chanced to bring him close enough\nfor a glimpse of her, and this glimpse he took, almost on the wing. For\nhe had to rejoin a company of men at once.\n\n\"Yu' got my letter?\" he said.\n\n\"Yesterday.\"\n\n\"Yesterday! I wrote it three weeks ago. Well, yu' got it. This cannot\nbe the hour with you that I mentioned. That is coming, and maybe very\nsoon.\"\n\nShe could say nothing. Relief she felt, and yet with it something like a\npang.\n\n\"To-day does not count,\" he told her, \"except that every time I see you\ncounts with me. But this is not the hour that I mentioned.\"\n\nWhat little else was said between them upon this early morning shall be\ntold duly. For this visit in its own good time did count momentously,\nthough both of them took it lightly while its fleeting minutes passed.\nHe returned to her two volumes that she had lent him long ago and\nwith Taylor he left a horse which he had brought for her to ride. As a\ngood-by, he put a bunch of flowers in her hand. Then he was gone, and\nshe watched him going by the thick bushes along the stream. They were\npink with wild roses; and the meadow-larks, invisible in the grass,\nlike hiding choristers, sent up across the empty miles of air their\nunexpected song. Earth and sky had been propitious, could he have\nstayed; and perhaps one portion of her heart had been propitious too.\nSo, as he rode away on Monte, she watched him, half chilled by reason,\nhalf melted by passion, self-thwarted, self-accusing, unresolved.\nTherefore the days that came for her now were all of them unhappy ones,\nwhile for him they were filled with work well done and with changeless\nlonging.\n\nOne day it seemed as if a lull was coming, a pause in which he could\nat last attain that hour with her. He left the camp and turned his face\ntoward Bear Creek. The way led him along Butte Creek. Across the stream\nlay Balaam's large ranch; and presently on the other bank he saw Balaam\nhimself, and reined in Monte for a moment to watch what Balaam was\ndoing.\n\n\"That's what I've heard,\" he muttered to himself. For Balaam had led\nsome horses to the water, and was lashing them heavily because they\nwould not drink. He looked at this spectacle so intently that he did not\nsee Shorty approaching along the trail.\n\n\"Morning,\" said Shorty to him, with some constraint.\n\nBut the Virginian gave him a pleasant greeting, \"I was afraid I'd not\ncatch you so quick,\" said Shorty. \"This is for you.\" He handed his\nrecent foreman a letter of much battered appearance. It was from the\nJudge. It had not come straight, but very gradually, in the pockets of\nthree successive cow-punchers. As the Virginian glanced over it and saw\nthat the enclosure it contained was for Balaam, his heart fell. Here\nwere new orders for him, and he could not go to see his sweetheart.\n\n\"Hello, Shorty!\" said Balaam, from over the creek. To the Virginian he\ngave a slight nod. He did not know him, although he knew well enough who\nhe was.\n\n\"Hyeh's a letter from Judge Henry for yu'\" said the Virginian, and he\ncrossed the creek.\n\nMany weeks before, in the early spring, Balaam had borrowed two horses\nfrom the Judge, promising to return them at once. But the Judge, of\ncourse, wrote very civilly. He hoped that \"this dunning reminder\" might\nbe excused. As Balaam read the reminder, he wished that he had sent the\nhorses before. The Judge was a greater man than he in the Territory.\nBalaam could not but excuse the \"dunning reminder,\"--but he was ready to\nbe disagreeable to somebody at once.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, musing aloud in his annoyance, \"Judge Henry wants them\nby the 30th. Well, this is the 24th, and time enough yet.\"\n\n\"This is the 27th,\" said the Virginian, briefly.\n\nThat made a difference! Not so easy to reach Sunk Creek in good order by\nthe 30th! Balaam had drifted three sunrises behind the progress of the\nmonth. Days look alike, and often lose their very names in the quiet\ndepths of Cattle Land. The horses were not even here at the ranch.\nBalaam was ready to be very disagreeable now. Suddenly he perceived the\ndate of the Judge's letter. He held it out to the Virginian, and struck\nthe paper.\n\n\"What's your idea in bringing this here two weeks late?\" he said.\n\nNow, when he had struck that paper, Shorty looked at the Virginian. But\nnothing happened beyond a certain change of light in the Southerner's\neyes. And when the Southerner spoke, it was with his usual gentleness\nand civility. He explained that the letter had been put in his hands\njust now by Shorty.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Balaam. He looked at Shorty. How had he come to be a\nmessenger? \"You working for the Sunk Creek outfit again?\" said he.\n\n\"No,\" said Shorty.\n\nBalaam turned to the Virginian again. \"How do you expect me to get those\nhorses to Sunk Creek by the 30th?\"\n\nThe Virginian levelled a lazy eye on Balaam. \"I ain' doin' any\nexpecting,\" said he. His native dialect was on top to-day. \"The Judge\nhas friends goin' to arrive from New Yawk for a trip across the Basin,\"\nhe added. \"The hawsses are for them.\"\n\nBalaam grunted with displeasure, and thought of the sixty or seventy\ndays since he had told the Judge he would return the horses at once.\nHe looked across at Shorty seated in the shade, and through his uneasy\nthoughts his instinct irrelevantly noted what a good pony the youth\nrode. It was the same animal he had seen once or twice before. But\nsomething must be done. The Judge's horses were far out on the big\nrange, and must be found and driven in, which would take certainly the\nrest of this day, possibly part of the next.\n\nBalaam called to one of his men and gave some sharp orders, emphasizing\ndetails, and enjoining haste, while the Virginian leaned slightly\nagainst his horse, with one arm over the saddle, hearing and\nunderstanding, but not smiling outwardly. The man departed to saddle up\nfor his search on the big range, and Balaam resumed the unhitching of\nhis team.\n\n\"So you're not working for the Sunk Creek outfit now?\" he inquired of\nShorty. He ignored the Virginian. \"Working for the Goose Egg?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Shorty.\n\n\"Sand Hill outfit, then?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Shorty.\n\nBalaam grinned. He noticed how Shorty's yellow hair stuck through a hole\nin his hat, and how old and battered were Shorty's overalls. Shorty had\nbeen glad to take a little accidental pay for becoming the bearer of the\nletter which he had delivered to the Virginian. But even that sum was no\nlonger in his possession. He had passed through Drybone on his way, and\nat Drybone there had been a game of poker. Shorty's money was now in the\npocket of Trampas. But he had one valuable possession in the world left\nto him, and that was his horse Pedro.\n\n\"Good pony of yours,\" said Balaam to him now, from across Butte Creek.\nThen he struck his own horse in the jaw because he held back from coming\nto the water as the other had done.\n\n\"Your trace ain't unhitched,\" commented the Virginian, pointing.\n\nBalaam loosed the strap he had forgotten, and cut the horse again for\nconsistency's sake. The animal, bewildered, now came down to the water,\nwith its head in the air, and snuffing as it took short, nervous steps.\n\nThe Virginian looked on at this, silent and sombre. He could scarcely\ninterfere between another man and his own beast. Neither he nor Balaam\nwas among those who say their prayers. Yet in this omission they were\nnot equal. A half-great poet once had a wholly great day, and in that\ngreat day he was able to write a poem that has lived and become, with\nmany, a household word. He called it The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.\nAnd it is rich with many lines that possess the memory; but these are\nthe golden ones:\n\n    \"He prayeth well who loveth well\n     Both man and bird and beast.\n\n     He prayeth best who loveth best\n     All things both great and small;\n     For the dear God who loveth us,\n     He made and loveth all.\"\n\nThese lines are the pure gold. They are good to teach children; because\nafter the children come to be men, they may believe at least some part\nof them still. The Virginian did not know them,--but his heart had\ntaught him many things. I doubt if Balaam knew them either. But on him\nthey would have been as pearls to swine.\n\n\"So you've quit the round-up?\" he resumed to Shorty.\n\nShorty nodded and looked sidewise at the Virginian.\n\nFor the Virginian knew that he had been turned off for going to sleep\nwhile night-herding.\n\nThen Balaam threw another glance on Pedro the horse.\n\n\"Hello, Shorty!\" he called out, for the boy was departing. \"Don't you\nlike dinner any more? It's ready about now.\"\n\nShorty forded the creek and slung his saddle off, and on invitation\nturned Pedro, his buckskin pony, into Balaam's pasture. This was green,\nthe rest of the wide world being yellow, except only where Butte Creek,\nwith its bordering cottonwoods, coiled away into the desert distance\nlike a green snake without end. The Virginian also turned his horse into\nthe pasture. He must stay at the ranch till the Judge's horses should be\nfound.\n\n\"Mrs. Balaam's East yet,\" said her lord, leading the way to his dining\nroom.\n\nHe wanted Shorty to dine with him, and could not exclude the Virginian,\nmuch as he should have enjoyed this.\n\n\"See any Indians?\" he enquired.\n\n\"Na-a!\" said Shorty, in disdain of recent rumors.\n\n\"They're headin' the other way,\" observed the Virginian. \"Bow Laig Range\nis where they was repawted.\"\n\n\"What business have they got off the reservation, I'd like to know,\"\nsaid the ranchman, \"Bow Leg, or anywhere?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's just a hunt, and a kind of visitin' their friends on the South\nReservation,\" Shorty explained. \"Squaws along and all.\"\n\n\"Well, if the folks at Washington don't keep squaws and all where they\nbelong,\" said Balaam, in a rage, \"the folks in Wyoming Territory 'ill do\na little job that way themselves.\"\n\n\"There's a petition out,\" said Shorty. \"Paper's goin' East with a lot of\nnames to it. But they ain't no harm, them Indians ain't.\"\n\n\"No harm?\" rasped out Balaam. \"Was it white men druv off the O. C.\nyearlings?\"\n\nBalaam's Eastern grammar was sometimes at the mercy of his Western\nfeelings. The thought of the perennial stultification of Indian affairs\nat Washington, whether by politician or philanthropist, was always sure\nto arouse him. He walked impatiently about while he spoke, and halted\nimpatiently at the window. Out in the world the unclouded day was\nshining, and Balaam's eye travelled across the plains to where a blue\nline, faint and pale, lay along the end of the vast yellow distance.\nThat was the beginning of the Bow Leg Mountains. Somewhere over there\nwere the red men, ranging in unfrequented depths of rock and pine--their\nforbidden ground.\n\nDinner was ready, and they sat down.\n\n\"And I suppose,\" Balaam continued, still hot on the subject, \"you'd\nclaim Indians object to killing a white man when they run on to him good\nand far from human help? These peaceable Indians are just the worst in\nthe business.\"\n\n\"That's so,\" assented the easy-opinioned Shorty, exactly as if he had\nalways maintained this view. \"Chap started for Sunk Creek three weeks\nago. Trapper he was; old like, with a red shirt. One of his horses come\ninto the round-up Toosday. Man ain't been heard from.\" He ate in silence\nfor a while, evidently brooding in his childlike mind. Then he said,\nquerulously, \"I'd sooner trust one of them Indians than I would\nTrampas.\"\n\nBalaam slanted his fat bullet head far to one side, and laying his spoon\ndown (he had opened some canned grapes) laughed steadily at his guest\nwith a harsh relish of irony.\n\nThe guest ate a grape, and perceiving he was seen through, smiled back\nrather miserably.\n\n\"Say, Shorty,\" said Balaam, his head still slanted over, \"what's the\nfigures of your bank balance just now?\"\n\n\"I ain't usin' banks,\" murmured the youth.\n\nBalaam put some more grapes on Shorty's plate, and drawing a cigar from\nhis waistcoat, sent it rolling to his guest.\n\n\"Matches are behind you,\" he added. He gave a cigar to the Virginian as\nan afterthought, but to his disgust, the Southerner put it in his pocket\nand lighted a pipe.\n\nBalaam accompanied his guest, Shorty, when he went to the pasture to\nsaddle up and depart. \"Got a rope?\" he asked the guest, as they lifted\ndown the bars.\n\n\"Don't need to rope him. I can walk right up to Pedro. You stay back.\"\n\nHiding his bridle behind him, Shorty walked to the river-bank, where the\npony was switching his long tail in the shade; and speaking persuasively\nto him, he came nearer, till he laid his hand on Pedro's dusky mane,\nwhich was many shades darker than his hide. He turned expectantly, and\nhis master came up to his expectations with a piece of bread.\n\n\"Eats that, does he?\" said Balaam, over the bars.\n\n\"Likes the salt,\" said Shorty. \"Now, n-n-ow, here! Yu' don't guess\nyu'll be bridled, don't you? Open your teeth! Yu'd like to play yu' was\nnobody's horse and live private? Or maybe yu'd prefer ownin' a saloon?\"\n\nPedro evidently enjoyed this talk, and the dodging he made about the\nbit. Once fairly in his mouth, he accepted the inevitable, and followed\nShorty to the bars. Then Shorty turned and extended his hand.\n\n\"Shake!\" he said to his pony, who lifted his forefoot quietly and put it\nin his master's hand. Then the master tickled his nose, and he wrinkled\nit and flattened his ears, pretending to bite. His face wore an\nexpression of knowing relish over this performance. \"Now the other\nhoof,\" said Shorty; and the horse and master shook hands with their\nleft. \"I learned him that,\" said the cow-boy, with pride and affection.\n\"Say, Pede,\" he continued, in Pedro's ear, \"ain't yu' the best little\nhorse in the country? What? Here, now! Keep out of that, you dead-beat!\nThere ain't no more bread.\" He pinched the pony's nose, one quarter of\nwhich was wedged into his pocket.\n\n\"Quite a lady's little pet!\" said Balaam, with the rasp in his voice.\n\"Pity this isn't New York, now, where there's a big market for harmless\nhorses. Gee-gees, the children call them.\"\n\n\"He ain't no gee-gee,\" said Shorty, offended. \"He'll beat any cow-pony\nworkin' you've got. Yu' can turn him on a half-dollar. Don't need to\ntouch the reins. Hang 'em on one finger and swing your body, and he'll\nturn.\"\n\nBalaam knew this, and he knew that the pony was only a four-year-old.\n\"Well,\" he said, \"Drybone's had no circus this season. Maybe they'd buy\ntickets to see Pedro. He's good for that, anyway.\"\n\nShorty became gloomy. The Virginian was grimly smoking. Here was\nsomething else going on not to his taste, but none of his business.\n\n\"Try a circus,\" persisted Balaam. \"Alter your plans for spending cash in\ntown, and make a little money instead.\"\n\nShorty having no plans to alter and no cash to spend, grew still more\ngloomy.\n\n\"What'll you take for that pony?\" said Balaam.\n\nShorty spoke up instantly. \"A hundred dollars couldn't buy that piece\nof stale mud off his back,\" he asserted, looking off into the sky\ngrandiosely.\n\nBut Balaam looked at Shorty, \"You keep the mud,\" he said, \"and I'll give\nyou thirty dollars for the horse.\"\n\nShorty did a little professional laughing, and began to walk toward his\nsaddle.\n\n\"Give you thirty dollars,\" repeated Balaam, picking a stone up and\nslinging it into the river.\n\n\"How far do yu' call it to Drybone?\" Shorty remarked, stooping to\ninvestigate the bucking-strap on his saddle--a superfluous performance,\nfor Pedro never bucked.\n\n\"You won't have to walk,\" said Balaam. \"Stay all night, and I'll send\nyou over comfortably in the morning, when the wagon goes for the mail.\"\n\n\"Walk?\" Shorty retorted. \"Drybone's twenty-five miles. Pedro'll put me\nthere in three hours and not know he done it.\" He lifted the saddle on\nthe horse's back. \"Come, Pedro,\" said he.\n\n\"Come, Pedro!\" mocked Balaam.\n\nThere followed a little silence.\n\n\"No, sir,\" mumbled Shorty, with his head under Pedro's belly, busily\ncinching. \"A hundred dollars is bottom figures.\"\n\nBalaam, in his turn, now duly performed some professional laughing,\nwhich was noted by Shorty under the horse's belly. He stood up and\nsquared round on Balaam. \"Well, then,\" he said, \"what'll yu give for\nhim?\"\n\n\"Thirty dollars,\" said Balaam, looking far off into the sky, as Shorty\nhad looked.\n\n\"Oh, come, now,\" expostulated Shorty.\n\nIt was he who now did the feeling for an offer and this was what Balaam\nliked to see. \"Why yes,\" he said, \"thirty,\" and looked surprised that he\nshould have to mention the sum so often.\n\n\"I thought yu'd quit them first figures,\" said the cow-puncher, \"for yu'\ncan see I ain't goin' to look at em.\"\n\nBalaam climbed on the fence and sat there \"I'm not crying for your\nPedro,\" he observed dispassionately. \"Only it struck me you were dead\nbroke, and wanted to raise cash and keep yourself going till you hunted\nup a job and could buy him back.\" He hooked his right thumb inside his\nwaistcoat pocket. \"But I'm not cryin' for him,\" he repeated. \"He'd stay\nright here, of course. I wouldn't part with him. Why does he stand that\nway? Hello!\" Balaam suddenly straightened himself, like a man who has\nmade a discovery.\n\n\"Hello, what?\" said Shorty, on the defensive.\n\nBalaam was staring at Pedro with a judicial frown. Then he stuck out a\nfinger at the horse, keeping the thumb hooked in his pocket. So meagre\na gesture was felt by the ruffled Shorty to be no just way to point at\nPedro. \"What's the matter with that foreleg there?\" said Balaam.\n\n\"Which? Nothin's the matter with it!\" snapped Shorty.\n\nBalaam climbed down from his fence and came over with elaborate\ndeliberation. He passed his hand up and down the off foreleg. Then he\nspit slenderly. \"Mm!\" he said thoughtfully; and added, with a shade of\nsadness, \"that's always to be expected when they're worked too young.\"\n\nShorty slid his hand slowly over the disputed leg. \"What's to be\nexpected?\" he inquired--\"that they'll eat hearty? Well, he does.\"\n\nAt this retort the Virginian permitted himself to laugh in audible\nsympathy.\n\n\"Sprung,\" continued Balaam, with a sigh. \"Whirling round short when his\nbones were soft did that. Yes.\"\n\n\"Sprung!\" Shorty said, with a bark of indignation. \"Come on, Pede; you\nand me'll spring for town.\"\n\nHe caught the horn of the saddle, and as he swung into place the horse\nrushed away with him. \"O-ee! yoi-yup, yup, yup!\" sang Shorty, in the\nshrill cow dialect. He made Pedro play an exhibition game of speed,\nbringing him round close to Balaam in a wide circle, and then he\nvanished in dust down the left-bank trail.\n\nBalaam looked after him and laughed harshly. He had seen trout dash\nabout like that when the hook in their jaw first surprised them. He knew\nShorty would show the pony off, and he knew Shorty's love for Pedro\nwas not equal to his need of money. He called to one of his men, asked\nsomething about the dam at the mouth of the canyon, where the main\nirrigation ditch began, made a remark about the prolonged drought, and\nthen walked to his dining-room door, where, as he expected, Shorty met\nhim.\n\n\"Say,\" said the youth, \"do you consider that's any way to talk about a\ngood horse?\"\n\n\"Any dude could see the leg's sprung,\" said Balaam. But he looked at\nPedro's shoulder, which was well laid back; and he admired his points,\ndark in contrast with the buckskin, and also the width between the eyes.\n\n\"Now you know,\" whined Shorty, \"that it ain't sprung any more than your\nleg's cork. If you mean the right leg ain't plumb straight, I can tell\nyou he was born so. That don't make no difference, for it ain't weak.\nTry him onced. Just as sound and strong as iron. Never stumbles. And he\ndon't never go to jumpin' with yu'. He's kind and he's smart.\" And the\nmaster petted his pony, who lifted a hoof for another handshake.\n\nOf course Balaam had never thought the leg was sprung, and he now took\non an unprejudiced air of wanting to believe Shorty's statements if he\nonly could.\n\n\"Maybe there's two years' work left in that leg,\" he now observed.\n\n\"Better give your hawss away, Shorty,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"Is this your deal, my friend?\" inquired Balaam. And he slanted his\nbullet head at the Virginian.\n\n\"Give him away, Shorty,\" drawled the Southerner. \"His laig is busted.\nMr. Balaam says so.\"\n\nBalaam's face grew evil with baffled fury. But the Virginian was gravely\nconsidering Pedro. He, too, was not pleased. But he could not interfere.\nAlready he had overstepped the code in these matters. He would have\ndearly liked--for reasons good and bad, spite and mercy mingled--to\nhave spoiled Balaam's market, to have offered a reasonable or even an\nunreasonable price for Pedro, and taken possession of the horse himself.\nBut this might not be. In bets, in card games, in all horse transactions\nand other matters of similar business, a man must take care of himself,\nand wiser onlookers must suppress their wisdom and hold their peace.\n\nThat evening Shorty again had a cigar. He had parted with Pedro\nfor forty dollars, a striped Mexican blanket, and a pair of spurs.\nUndressing over in the bunk house, he said to the Virginian, \"I'll sure\nbuy Pedro back off him just as soon as ever I rustle some cash.\" The\nVirginian grunted. He was thinking he should have to travel hard to\nget the horses to the Judge by the 30th; and below that thought lay his\naching disappointment and his longing for Bear Creek.\n\nIn the early dawn Shorty sat up among his blankets on the floor of the\nbunk house and saw the various sleepers coiled or sprawled in their\nbeds; their breathing had not yet grown restless at the nearing of day.\nHe stepped to the door carefully, and saw the crowding blackbirds begin\ntheir walk and chatter in the mud of the littered and trodden corrals.\nFrom beyond among the cottonwoods, came continually the smooth\nunemphatic sound of the doves answering each other invisibly; and\nagainst the empty ridge of the river-bluff lay the moon, no longer\nshining, for there was established a new light through the sky. Pedro\nstood in the pasture close to the bars. The cow-boy slowly closed the\ndoor behind him, and sitting down on the step, drew his money out and\nidly handled it, taking no comfort just then from its possession. Then\nhe put it back, and after dragging on his boots, crossed to the pasture,\nand held a last talk with his pony, brushing the cakes of mud from his\nhide where he had rolled, and passing a lingering hand over his mane. As\nthe sounds of the morning came increasingly from tree and plain, Shorty\nglanced back to see that no one was yet out of the cabin, and then put\nhis arms round the horse's neck, laying his head against him. For a\nmoment the cow-boy's insignificant face was exalted by the emotion he\nwould never have let others see. He hugged tight this animal, who was\ndearer to his heart than anybody in the world.\n\n\"Good-by, Pedro,\" he said--\"good-by.\" Pedro looked for bread.\n\n\"No,\" said his master, sorrowfully, \"not any more. Yu' know well I'd\ngive it yu' if I had it. You and me didn't figure on this, did we,\nPedro? Good-by!\"\n\nHe hugged his pony again, and got as far as the bars of the pasture, but\nreturned once more. \"Good-by, my little horse, my dear horse, my little,\nlittle Pedro,\" he said, as his tears wet the pony's neck. Then he\nwiped them with his hand, and got himself back to the bunk house. After\nbreakfast he and his belongings departed to Drybone, and Pedro from his\nfield calmly watched this departure; for horses must recognize even less\nthan men the black corners that their destinies turn. The pony stopped\nfeeding to look at the mail-wagon pass by; but the master sitting in the\nwagon forebore to turn his head.\n\n\n\n\nXXVI. BALAAM AND PEDRO\n\n\nResigned to wait for the Judge's horses, Balaam went into his office\nthis dry, bright morning and read nine accumulated newspapers; for\nhe was behindhand. Then he rode out on the ditches, and met his man\nreturning with the troublesome animals at last. He hastened home and\nsent for the Virginian. He had made a decision.\n\n\"See here,\" he said; \"those horses are coming. What trail would you take\nover to the Judge's?\"\n\n\"Shortest trail's right through the Bow Laig Mountains,\" said the\nforeman, in his gentle voice.\n\n\"Guess you're right. It's dinner-time. We'll start right afterward.\nWe'll make Little Muddy Crossing by sundown, and Sunk Creek to-morrow,\nand the next day'll see us through. Can a wagon get through Sunk Creek\nCanyon?\"\n\nThe Virginian smiled. \"I reckon it can't, seh, and stay resembling a\nwagon.\"\n\nBalaam told them to saddle Pedro and one packhorse, and drive the bunch\nof horses into a corral, roping the Judge's two, who proved extremely\nwild. He had decided to take this journey himself on remembering certain\npolitics soon to be rife in Cheyenne. For Judge Henry was indeed a\ngreater man than Balaam. This personally conducted return of the horses\nwould temper its tardiness, and, moreover, the sight of some New York\nvisitors would be a good thing after seven months of no warmer touch\nwith that metropolis than the Sunday HERALD, always eight days old when\nit reached the Butte Creek Ranch.\n\nThey forded Butte Creek, and, crossing the well-travelled trail which\nfollows down to Drybone, turned their faces toward the uninhabited\ncountry that began immediately, as the ocean begins off a sandy shore.\nAnd as a single mast on which no sail is shining stands at the horizon\nand seems to add a loneliness to the surrounding sea, so the long gray\nline of fence, almost a mile away, that ended Balaam's land on this side\nthe creek, stretched along the waste ground and added desolation to\nthe plain. No solitary watercourse with margin of cottonwoods or willow\nthickets flowed here to stripe the dingy, yellow world with interrupting\ngreen, nor were cattle to be seen dotting the distance, nor moving\nobjects at all, nor any bird in the soundless air. The last gate was\nshut by the Virginian, who looked back at the pleasant trees of the\nranch, and then followed on in single file across the alkali of No Man's\nLand.\n\nNo cloud was in the sky. The desert's grim noon shone sombrely on flat\nand hill. The sagebrush was dull like zinc. Thick heat rose near at hand\nfrom the caked alkali, and pale heat shrouded the distant peaks.\n\nThere were five horses. Balaam led on Pedro, his squat figure stiff in\nthe saddle, but solid as a rock, and tilted a little forward, as his\nhabit was. One of the Judge's horses came next, a sorrel, dragging back\ncontinually on the rope by which he was led. After him ambled Balaam's\nwise pack-animal, carrying the light burden of two days' food and\nlodging. She was an old mare who could still go when she chose, but had\nbeen schooled by the years, and kept the trail, giving no trouble to the\nVirginian who came behind her. He also sat solid as a rock, yet subtly\nbending to the struggles of the wild horse he led, as a steel spring\nbends and balances and resumes its poise.\n\nThus they made but slow time, and when they topped the last dull rise of\nground and looked down on the long slant of ragged, caked earth to the\ncrossing of Little Muddy, with its single tree and few mean bushes, the\nfinal distance where eyesight ends had deepened to violet from the thin,\nsteady blue they had stared at for so many hours, and all heat was\ngone from the universal dryness. The horses drank a long time from the\nsluggish yellow water, and its alkaline taste and warmth were equally\nwelcome to the men. They built a little fire, and when supper was ended,\nsmoked but a short while and in silence, before they got in the blankets\nthat were spread in a smooth place beside the water.\n\nThey had picketed the two horses of the Judge in the best grass they\ncould find, letting the rest go free to find pasture where they could.\nWhen the first light came, the Virginian attended to breakfast, while\nBalaam rode away on the sorrel to bring in the loose horses. They had\ngone far out of sight, and when he returned with them, after some two\nhours, he was on Pedro. Pedro was soaking with sweat, and red froth\ncreamed from his mouth. The Virginian saw the horses must have been hard\nto drive in, especially after Balaam brought them the wild sorrel as a\nleader.\n\n\"If you'd kep' ridin' him, 'stead of changin' off on your hawss, they'd\nhave behaved quieter,\" said the foreman.\n\n\"That's good seasonable advice,\" said Balaam, sarcastically. \"I could\nhave told you that now.\"\n\n\"I could have told you when you started,\" said the Virginian, heating\nthe coffee for Balaam.\n\nBalaam was eloquent on the outrageous conduct of the horses. He had come\nup with them evidently striking back for Butte Creek, with the old mare\nin the lead.\n\n\"But I soon showed her the road she was to go,\" he said, as he drove\nthem now to the water.\n\nThe Virginian noticed the slight limp of the mare, and how her pastern\nwas cut as if with a stone or the sharp heel of a boot.\n\n\"I guess she'll not be in a hurry to travel except when she's wanted\nto,\" continued Balaam. He sat down, and sullenly poured himself some\ncoffee. \"We'll be in luck if we make any Sunk Creek this night.\"\n\nHe went on with his breakfast, thinking aloud for the benefit of his\ncompanion, who made no comments, preferring silence to the discomfort of\ntalking with a man whose vindictive humor was so thoroughly uppermost.\nHe did not even listen very attentively, but continued his preparations\nfor departure, washing the dishes, rolling the blankets, and moving\nabout in his usual way of easy and visible good nature.\n\n\"Six o'clock, already,\" said Balaam, saddling the horses. \"And we'll\nnot get started for ten minutes more.\" Then he came to Pedro. \"So you\nhaven't quit fooling yet, haven't you?\" he exclaimed, for the pony\nshrank as he lifted the bridle. \"Take that for your sore mouth!\" and he\nrammed the bit in, at which Pedro flung back and reared.\n\n\"Well, I never saw Pedro act that way yet,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"Ah, rubbish!\" said Balaam. \"They're all the same. Not a bastard one\nbut's laying for his chance to do for you. Some'll buck you off, and\nsome'll roll with you, and some'll fight you with their fore feet. They\nmay play good for a year, but the Western pony's man's enemy, and when\nhe judges he's got his chance, he's going to do his best. And if you\ncome out alive it won't be his fault.\" Balaam paused for a while,\npacking. \"You've got to keep them afraid of you,\" he said next; \"that's\nwhat you've got to do if you don't want trouble. That Pedro horse there\nhas been fed, hand-fed, and fooled with like a damn pet, and what's that\npolicy done? Why, he goes ugly when he thinks it's time, and decides\nhe'll not drive any horses into camp this morning. He knows better now.\"\n\n\"Mr. Balaam,\" said the Virginian, \"I'll buy that hawss off yu' right\nnow.\"\n\nBalaam shook his head. \"You'll not do that right now or any other time,\"\nsaid he. \"I happen to want him.\"\n\nThe Virginian could do no more. He had heard cow-punchers say to\nrefractory ponies, \"You keep still, or I'll Balaam you!\" and he now\nunderstood the aptness of the expression.\n\nMeanwhile Balaam began to lead Pedro to the creek for a last drink\nbefore starting across the torrid drought. The horse held back on the\nrein a little, and Balaam turned and cut the whip across his forehead.\nA delay of forcing and backing followed, while the Virginian, already\nin the saddle, waited. The minutes passed, and no immediate prospect,\napparently, of getting nearer Sunk Creek.\n\n\"He ain' goin' to follow you while you're beatin' his haid,\" the\nSoutherner at length remarked.\n\n\"Do you think you can teach me anything about horses?\" retorted Balaam.\n\n\"Well, it don't look like I could,\" said the Virginian, lazily.\n\n\"Then don't try it, so long as it's not your horse, my friend.\"\n\nAgain the Southerner levelled his eye on Balaam. \"All right,\" he said,\nin the same gentle voice. \"And don't you call me your friend. You've\nmade that mistake twiced.\"\n\nThe road was shadeless, as it had been from the start, and they could\nnot travel fast. During the first few hours all coolness was driven out\nof the glassy morning, and another day of illimitable sun invested the\nworld with its blaze. The pale Bow Leg Range was coming nearer, but its\nhard hot slants and rifts suggested no sort of freshness, and even\nthe pines that spread for wide miles along near the summit counted for\nnothing in the distance and the glare, but seemed mere patches of dull\ndry discoloration. No talk was exchanged between the two travellers, for\nthe cow-puncher had nothing to say and Balaam was sulky, so they moved\nalong in silent endurance of each other's company and the tedium of the\njourney.\n\nBut the slow succession of rise and fall in the plain changed and\nshortened. The earth's surface became lumpy, rising into mounds and\nknotted systems of steep small hills cut apart by staring gashes of\nsand, where water poured in the spring from the melting snow. After a\ntime they ascended through the foot-hills till the plain below was for a\nwhile concealed, but came again into view in its entirety, distant and a\nthing of the past, while some magpies sailed down to meet them from\nthe new country they were entering. They passed up through a small\ntransparent forest of dead trees standing stark and white, and a little\nhigher came on a line of narrow moisture that crossed the way and formed\na stale pool among some willow thickets. They turned aside to water\ntheir horses, and found near the pool a circular spot of ashes and some\npoles lying, and beside these a cage-like edifice of willow wands built\nin the ground.\n\n\"Indian camp,\" observed the Virginian.\n\nThere were the tracks of five or six horses on the farther side of the\npool, and they did not come into the trail, but led off among the rocks\non some system of their own.\n\n\"They're about a week old,\" said Balaam. \"It's part of that outfit\nthat's been hunting.\"\n\n\"They've gone on to visit their friends,\" added the cow-puncher.\n\n\"Yes, on the Southern Reservation. How far do you call Sunk Creek now?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the Virginian, calculating, \"it's mighty nigh fo'ty miles\nfrom Muddy Crossin', an' I reckon we've come eighteen.\"\n\n\"Just about. It's noon.\" Balaam snapped his watch shut. \"We'll rest here\ntill 12:30.\"\n\nWhen it was time to go, the Virginian looked musingly at the mountains.\n\"We'll need to travel right smart to get through the canyon to-night,\"\nhe said.\n\n\"Tell you what,\" said Balaam; \"we'll rope the Judge's horses together\nand drive 'em in front of us. That'll make speed.\"\n\n\"Mightn't they get away on us?\" objected the Virginian. \"They're pow'ful\nwild.\"\n\n\"They can't get away from me, I guess,\" said Balaam, and the arrangement\nwas adopted. \"We're the first this season over this piece of the trail,\"\nhe observed presently.\n\nHis companion had noticed the ground already, and assented. There were\nno tracks anywhere to be seen over which winter had not come and gone\nsince they had been made. Presently the trail wound into a sultry gulch\nthat hemmed in the heat and seemed to draw down the sun's rays more\nvertically. The sorrel horse chose this place to make a try for liberty.\nHe suddenly whirled from the trail, dragging with him his less inventive\nfellow. Leaving the Virginian with the old mare, Balaam headed them off,\nfor Pedro was quick, and they came jumping down the bank together, but\nswiftly crossed up on the other side, getting much higher before they\ncould be reached. It was no place for this sort of game, as the sides of\nthe ravine were ploughed with steep channels, broken with jutting knobs\nof rock, and impeded by short twisted pines that swung out from their\nroots horizontally over the pitch of the hill. The Virginian helped,\nbut used his horse with more judgment, keeping as much on the level as\npossible, and endeavoring to anticipate the next turn of the runaways\nbefore they made it, while Balaam attempted to follow them close,\nwheeling short when they doubled, heavily beating up the face of the\nslope, veering again to come down to the point he had left, and whenever\nhe felt Pedro begin to flag, driving his spurs into the horse and\nforcing him to keep up the pace. He had set out to overtake and capture\non the side of the mountain these two animals who had been running\nwild for many weeks, and now carried no weight but themselves, and\nthe futility of such work could not penetrate his obstinate and rising\ntemper. He had made up his mind not to give in. The Virginian soon\ndecided to move slowly along for the present, preventing the wild horses\nfrom passing down the gulch again, but otherwise saving his own animal\nfrom useless fatigue. He saw that Pedro was reeking wet, with mouth\nopen, and constantly stumbling, though he galloped on. The cow-puncher\nkept the group in sight, driving the packhorse in front of him, and\nwatching the tactics of the sorrel, who had now undoubtedly become\nthe leader of the expedition, and was at the top of the gulch, in vain\ntrying to find an outlet through its rocky rim to the levels above. He\nsoon judged this to be no thoroughfare, and changing his plan, trotted\ndown to the bottom and up the other side, gaining more and more; for\nin this new descent Pedro had fallen twice. Then the sorrel showed the\ncleverness of a genuinely vicious horse. The Virginian saw him stop\nand fall to kicking his companion with all the energy that a short rope\nwould permit. The rope slipped, and both, unencumbered, reached the top\nand disappeared. Leaving the packhorse for Balaam, the Virginian started\nafter them and came into a high tableland, beyond which the mountains\nbegan in earnest. The runaways were moving across toward these at an\neasy rate. He followed for a moment, then looking back, and seeing no\nsign of Balaam, waited, for the horses were sure not to go fast when\nthey reached good pasture or water.\n\nHe got out of the saddle and sat on the ground, watching, till the mare\ncame up slowly into sight, and Balaam behind her. When they were near,\nBalaam dismounted and struck Pedro fearfully, until the stick broke, and\nhe raised the splintered half to continue.\n\nSeeing the pony's condition, the Virginian spoke, and said, \"I'd let\nthat hawss alone.\"\n\nBalaam turned to him, but wholly possessed by passion did not seem to\nhear, and the Southerner noticed how white and like that of a maniac his\nface was. The stick slid to the ground.\n\n\"He played he was tired,\" said Balaam, looking at the Virginian with\nglazed eyes. The violence of his rage affected him physically, like some\nstroke of illness. \"He played out on me on purpose.\" The man's voice\nwas dry and light. \"He's perfectly fresh now,\" he continued, and turned\nagain to the coughing, swaying horse, whose eyes were closed. Not having\nthe stick, he seized the animal's unresisting head and shook it. The\nVirginian watched him a moment, and rose to stop such a spectacle. Then,\nas if conscious he was doing no real hurt, Balaam ceased, and turning\nagain in slow fashion looked across the level, where the runaways were\nstill visible.\n\n\"I'll have to take your horse,\" he said, \"mine's played out on me.\"\n\n\"You ain' goin' to touch my hawss.\"\n\nAgain the words seemed not entirely to reach Balaam's understanding, so\ndulled by rage were his senses. He made no answer, but mounted Pedro;\nand the failing pony walked mechanically forward, while the Virginian,\npuzzled, stood looking after him. Balaam seemed without purpose of going\nanywhere, and stopped in a moment. Suddenly he was at work at something.\nThis sight was odd and new to look at. For a few seconds it had no\nmeaning to the Virginian as he watched. Then his mind grasped the\nhorror, too late. Even with his cry of execration and the tiger spring\nthat he gave to stop Balaam, the monstrosity was wrought. Pedro sank\nmotionless, his head rolling flat on the earth. Balaam was jammed\nbeneath him. The man had struggled to his feet before the Virginian\nreached the spot, and the horse then lifted his head and turned it\npiteously round.\n\nThen vengeance like a blast struck Balaam. The Virginian hurled him to\nthe ground, lifted and hurled him again, lifted him and beat his face\nand struck his jaw. The man's strong ox-like fighting availed nothing.\nHe fended his eyes as best he could against these sledge-hammer blows\nof justice. He felt blindly for his pistol. That arm was caught and\nwrenched backward, and crushed and doubled. He seemed to hear his own\nbones, and set up a hideous screaming of hate and pain. Then the\npistol at last came out, and together with the hand that grasped it was\ninstantly stamped into the dust. Once again the creature was lifted and\nslung so that he lay across Pedro's saddle a blurred, dingy, wet pulp.\n\nVengeance had come and gone. The man and the horse were motionless.\nAround them, silence seemed to gather like a witness.\n\n\"If you are dead,\" said the Virginian, \"I am glad of it.\" He stood\nlooking down at Balaam and Pedro, prone in the middle of the open\ntableland. Then he saw Balaam looking at him. It was the quiet stare of\nsight without thought or feeling, the mere visual sense alone, almost\nfrightful in its separation from any self. But as he watched those\neyes, the self came back into them. \"I have not killed you,\" said the\nVirginian. \"Well, I ain't goin' to do any more to yu'--if that's a\nsatisfaction to know.\"\n\nThen he began to attend to Balaam with impersonal skill, like some one\nhired for the purpose. \"He ain't hurt bad,\" he asserted aloud, as if\nthe man were some nameless patient; and then to Balaam he remarked, \"I\nreckon it might have put a less tough man than you out of business for\nquite a while. I'm goin' to get some water now.\" When he returned with\nthe water, Balsam was sitting up, looking about him. He had not yet\nspoken, nor did he now speak. The sunlight flashed on the six-shooter\nwhere it lay, and the Virginian secured it. \"She ain't so pretty as she\nwas,\" he remarked, as he examined the weapon. \"But she'll go right handy\nyet.\"\n\nStrength was in a measure returning to Pedro. He was a young horse,\nand the exhaustion neither of anguish nor of over-riding was enough\nto affect him long or seriously. He got himself on his feet and walked\nwaveringly over to the old mare, and stood by her for comfort. The\ncow-puncher came up to him, and Pedro, after starting back slightly,\nseemed to comprehend that he was in friendly hands. It was plain that he\nwould soon be able to travel slowly if no weight was on him, and that he\nwould be a very good horse again. Whether they abandoned the runaways or\nnot, there was no staying here for night to overtake them without food\nor water. The day was still high, and what its next few hours had in\nstore the Virginian could not say, and he left them to take care of\nthemselves, determining meanwhile that he would take command of the\nminutes and maintain the position he had assumed both as to Balaam and\nPedro. He took Pedro's saddle off, threw the mare's pack to the ground,\nput Balaam's saddle on her, and on that stowed or tied her original\npack, which he could do, since it was so light. Then he went to Balaam,\nwho was sitting up.\n\n\"I reckon you can travel,\" said the Virginian. \"And your hawss can. If\nyou're comin' with me, you'll ride your mare. I'm goin' to trail them\nhawsses. If you're not comin' with me, your hawss comes with me, and\nyou'll take fifty dollars for him.\"\n\nBalaam was indifferent to this good bargain. He did not look at the\nother or speak, but rose and searched about him on the ground. The\nVirginian was also indifferent as to whether Balaam chose to answer or\nnot. Seeing Balaam searching the ground, he finished what he had to say.\n\n\"I have your six-shooter, and you'll have it when I'm ready for you to.\nNow, I'm goin',\" he concluded.\n\nBalaam's intellect was clear enough now, and he saw that though the rest\nof this journey would be nearly intolerable, it must go on. He looked\nat the impassive cow-puncher getting ready to go and tying a rope on\nPedro's neck to lead him, then he looked at the mountains where the\nrunaways had vanished, and it did not seem credible to him that he had\ncome into such straits. He was helped stiffly on the mare, and the three\nhorses in single file took up their journey once more, and came slowly\namong the mountains. The perpetual desert was ended, and they crossed a\nsmall brook, where they missed the trail. The Virginian dismounted to\nfind where the horses had turned off, and discovered that they had gone\nstraight up the ridge by the watercourse.\n\n\"There's been a man camped in hyeh inside a month,\" he said, kicking up\na rag of red flannel. \"White man and two hawsses. Ours have went up his\nold tracks.\"\n\nIt was not easy for Balaam to speak yet, and he kept his silence. But he\nremembered that Shorty had spoken of a trapper who had started for Sunk\nCreek.\n\nFor three hours they followed the runaways' course over softer ground,\nand steadily ascending, passed one or two springs, at length, where\nthe mud was not yet settled in the hoofprints. Then they came through\na corner of pine forest and down a sudden bank among quaking-asps to a\ngreen park. Here the runaways beside a stream were grazing at ease, but\nsaw them coming, and started on again, following down the stream.\nFor the present all to be done was to keep them in sight. This creek\nreceived tributaries and widened, making a valley for itself. Above\nthe bottom, lining the first terrace of the ridge, began the pines, and\nstretched back, unbroken over intervening summit and basin, to cease at\nlast where the higher peaks presided.\n\n\"This hyeh's the middle fork of Sunk Creek,\" said the Virginian. \"We'll\nget on to our right road again where they join.\"\n\nSoon a game trail marked itself along the stream. If this would only\ncontinue, the runaways would be nearly sure to follow it down into the\ncanyon. Then there would be no way for them but to go on and come out\ninto their own country, where they would make for the Judge's ranch of\ntheir own accord. The great point was to reach the canyon before dark.\nThey passed into permanent shadow; for though the other side of\nthe creek shone in full day, the sun had departed behind the ridges\nimmediately above them. Coolness filled the air, and the silence, which\nin this deep valley of invading shadow seemed too silent, was relieved\nby the birds. Not birds of song, but a freakish band of gray talkative\nobservers, who came calling and croaking along through the pines, and\ninspected the cavalcade, keeping it company for a while, and then flying\nup into the woods again. The travellers came round a corner on a little\nspread of marsh, and from somewhere in the middle of it rose a buzzard\nand sailed on its black pinions into the air above them, wheeling\nand wheeling, but did not grow distant. As it swept over the trail,\nsomething fell from its claw, a rag of red flannel; and each man in turn\nlooked at it as his horse went by.\n\n\"I wonder if there's plenty elk and deer hyeh?\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"I guess there is,\" Balaam replied, speaking at last. The travellers had\nbecome strangely reconciled.\n\n\"There's game 'most all over these mountains,\" the Virginian continued;\n\"country not been settled long enough to scare them out.\" So they fell\ninto casual conversation, and for the first time were glad of each\nother's company.\n\nThe sound of a new bird came from the pines above--the hoot of an\nowl--and was answered from some other part of the wood. This they did\nnot particularly notice at first, but soon they heard the same note,\nunexpectedly distant, like an echo. The game trail, now quite a defined\npath beside the river, showed no sign of changing its course or fading\nout into blank ground, as these uncertain guides do so often. It led\nconsistently in the desired direction, and the two men were relieved to\nsee it continue. Not only were the runaways easier to keep track of,\nbut better speed was made along this valley. The pervading imminence of\nnight more and more dispelled the lingering afternoon, though there was\nyet no twilight in the open, and the high peaks opposite shone yellow\nin the invisible sun. But now the owls hooted again. Their music had\nsomething in it that caused both the Virginian and Balaam to look up at\nthe pines and wish that this valley would end. Perhaps it was early for\nnight-birds to begin; or perhaps it was that the sound never seemed to\nfall behind, but moved abreast of them among the trees above, as they\nrode on without pause down below; some influence made the faces of the\ntravellers grave. The spell of evil which the sight of the wheeling\nbuzzard had begun, deepened as evening grew, while ever and again along\nthe creek the singular call and answer of the owls wandered among the\ndarkness of the trees not far away.\n\nThe sun was gone from the peaks when at length the other side of the\nstream opened into a long wide meadow. The trail they followed, after\ncrossing a flat willow thicket by the water, ran into dense pines, that\nhere for the first time reached all the way down to the water's edge.\nThe two men came out of the willows, and saw ahead the capricious\nrunaways leave the bottom and go up the hill and enter the wood.\n\n\"We must hinder that,\" said the Virginian; and he dropped Pedro's rope.\n\"There's your six-shooter. You keep the trail, and camp down there\"--he\npointed to where the trees came to the water--\"till I head them hawsses\noff. I may not get back right away.\" He galloped up the open hill\nand went into the pine, choosing a place above where the vagrants had\ndisappeared.\n\nBalaam dismounted, and picking up his six-shooter, took the rope off\nPedro's neck and drove him slowly down toward where the wood began.\nIts interior was already dim, and Balaam saw that here must be their\nstopping-place to-night, since there was no telling how wide this pine\nstrip might extend along the trail before they could come out of it and\nreach another suitable camping-ground. Pedro had recovered his strength,\nand he now showed signs of restlessness. He shied where there was not\neven a stone in the trail, and finally turned sharply round. Balaam\nexpected he was going to rush back on the way they had come; but the\nhorse stood still, breathing excitedly. He was urged forward again,\nthough he turned more than once. But when they were a few paces from the\nwood, and Balaam had got off preparatory to camping, the horse snorted\nand dashed into the water, and stood still there. The astonished Balaam\nfollowed to turn him; but Pedro seemed to lose control of himself,\nand plunged to the middle of the river, and was evidently intending to\ncross. Fearing that he would escape to the opposite meadow and add to\ntheir difficulties, Balaam, with the idea of turning him round, drew his\nsix-shooter and fired in front of the horse, divining, even as the flash\ncut the dusk, the secret of all this--the Indians; but too late. His\nbruised hand had stiffened, marring his aim, and he saw Pedro fall over\nin the water then rise and struggle up the bank on the farther shore,\nwhere he now hurried also, to find that he had broken the pony's leg.\n\nHe needed no interpreter for the voices of the seeming owls that had\nhaunted the latter hour of their journey, and he knew that his beast's\nkeener instinct had perceived the destruction that lurked in the\ninterior of the wood. The history of the trapper whose horse had\nreturned without him might have been--might still be--his own; and he\nthought of the rag that had fallen from the buzzard's talons when he had\nbeen disturbed at his meal in the marsh. \"Peaceable\" Indians were still\nin these mountains, and some few of them had for the past hour been\nskirting his journey unseen, and now waited for him in the wood which\nthey expected him to enter. They had been too wary to use their rifles\nor show themselves, lest these travellers should be only part of a\nlarger company following, who would hear the noise of a shot, and catch\nthem in the act of murder. So, safe under the cover of the pines, they\nhad planned to sling their silent noose, and drag the white man from his\nhorse as he passed through the trees.\n\nBalaam looked over the river at the ominous wood, and then he looked\nat Pedro, the horse that he had first maimed and now ruined, to whom he\nprobably owed his life. He was lying on the ground, quietly looking over\nthe green meadow, where dusk was gathering. Perhaps he was not suffering\nfrom his wound yet, as he rested on the ground; and into his animal\nintelligence there probably came no knowledge of this final stroke of\nhis fate. At any rate, no sound of pain came from Pedro, whose friendly\nand gentle face remained turned toward the meadow. Once more Balaam\nfired his pistol, and this time the aim was true, and the horse rolled\nover, with a ball through his brain. It was the best reward that\nremained for him.\n\nThen Balaam rejoined the old mare, and turned from the middle fork of\nSunk Creek. He dashed across the wide field, and went over a ridge, and\nfound his way along in the night till he came to the old trail--the\nroad which they would never have left but for him and his obstinacy. He\nunsaddled the weary mare by Sunk Creek, where the canyon begins, letting\nher drag a rope and find pasture and water, while he, lighting no fire\nto betray him, crouched close under a tree till the light came. He\nthought of the Virginian in the wood. But what could either have done\nfor the other had he stayed to look for him among the pines? If the\ncow-puncher came back to the corner, he would follow Balaam's tracks or\nnot. They would meet, at any rate, where the creeks joined.\n\nBut they did not meet. And then to Balaam the prospect of going onward\nto the Sunk Creek Ranch became more than he could bear. To come without\nthe horses, to meet Judge Henry, to meet the guests of the Judge's,\nlooking as he did now after his punishment by the Virginian, to give the\nnews about the Judge's favorite man--no, how could he tell such a story\nas this? Balaam went no farther than a certain cabin, where he slept,\nand wrote a letter to the Judge. This the owner of the cabin delivered.\nAnd so, having spread news which would at once cause a search for the\nVirginian, and having constructed such sentences to the Judge as would\nmost smoothly explain how, being overtaken by illness, he had not wished\nto be a burden at Sunk Creek, Balaam turned homeward by himself. By the\ntime he was once more at Butte Creek, his general appearance was a thing\nless to be noticed. And there was Shorty, waiting!\n\nOne way and another, the lost dog had been able to gather some ready\nmoney. He was cheerful because of this momentary purseful of prosperity.\n\n\"And so I come back, yu' see,\" he said. \"For I figured on getting Pedro\nback as soon as I could when I sold him to yu'.\"\n\n\"You're behind the times, Shorty,\" said Balaam.\n\nShorty looked blank. \"You've sure not sold Pedro?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"Them Indians,\" said Balaam, \"got after me on the Bow Leg trail. Got\nafter me and that Virginia man. But they didn't get me.\"\n\nBalaam wagged his bullet head to imply that this escape was due to his\nown superior intelligence. The Virginian had been stupid, and so the\nIndians had got him. \"And they shot your horse,\" Balaam finished. \"Stop\nand get some dinner with the boys.\"\n\nHaving eaten, Shorty rode away in mournful spirits. For he had made so\nsure of once more riding and talking with Pedro, his friend whom he had\ntaught to shake hands.\n\n\n\n\nXXVII. GRANDMOTHER STARK\n\n\nExcept for its chair and bed, the cabin was stripped almost bare. Amid\nits emptiness of dismantled shelves and walls and floor, only the tiny\nancestress still hung in her place, last token of the home that had\nbeen. This miniature, tacked against the despoiled boards, and its\ndescendant, the angry girl with her hand on an open box-lid, made a sort\nof couple in the loneliness: she on the wall sweet and serene, she by\nthe box sweet and stormy. The picture was her final treasure waiting to\nbe packed for the journey. In whatever room she had called her own\nsince childhood, there it had also lived and looked at her, not quite\nfamiliar, not quite smiling, but in its prim colonial hues delicate as\nsome pressed flower. Its pale oval, of color blue and rose and\nflaxen, in a battered, pretty gold frame, unconquerably pervaded any\nsurroundings with a something like last year's lavender. Till yesterday\na Crow Indian war-bonnet had hung next it, a sumptuous cascade of\nfeathers; on the other side a bow with arrows had dangled; opposite had\nbeen the skin of a silver fox; over the door had spread the antlers of\na black-tail deer; a bearskin stretched beneath it. Thus had the whole\ncosey log cabin been upholstered, lavish with trophies of the frontier;\nand yet it was in front of the miniature that the visitors used to stop.\n\nShining quietly now in the cabin's blackness this summer day, the\nheirloom was presiding until the end. And as Molly Wood's eyes fell upon\nher ancestress of Bennington, 1777, there flashed a spark of steel in\nthem, alone here in the room that she was leaving forever. She was not\ngoing to teach school any more on Bear Creek, Wyoming; she was going\nhome to Bennington, Vermont. When time came for school to open again,\nthere should be a new schoolmarm.\n\nThis was the momentous result of that visit which the Virginian had paid\nher. He had told her that he was coming for his hour soon. From that\nhour she had decided to escape. She was running away from her own heart.\nShe did not dare to trust herself face to face again with her potent,\nindomitable lover. She longed for him, and therefore she would never see\nhim again. No great-aunt at Dunbarton, or anybody else that knew her and\nher family, should ever say that she had married below her station, had\nbeen an unworthy Stark! Accordingly, she had written to the Virginian,\nbidding him good-by, and wishing him everything in the world. As she\nhappened to be aware that she was taking everything in the world away\nfrom him, this letter was not the most easy of letters to write. But\nshe had made the language very kind. Yes; it was a thoroughly kind\ncommunication. And all because of that momentary visit, when he had\nbrought back to her two novels, EMMA and PRIDE AND PREJUDICE.\n\n\"How do you like them?\" she had then inquired; and he had smiled slowly\nat her. \"You haven't read them!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Are you going to tell me there has been no time?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThen Molly had scolded her cow-puncher, and to this he had listened with\npleasure undisguised, as indeed he listened to every word that she said.\n\n\"Why, it has come too late,\" he had told her when the scolding was over.\n\"If I was one of your little scholars hyeh in Bear Creek schoolhouse,\nyu' could learn me to like such frillery I reckon. But I'm a mighty\nignorant, growed-up man.\"\n\n\"So much the worse for you!\" said Molly.\n\n\"No. I am pretty glad I am a man. Else I could not have learned the\nthing you have taught me.\"\n\nBut she shut her lips and looked away. On the desk was a letter written\nfrom Vermont. \"If you don't tell me at once when you decide,\" had said\nthe arch writer, \"never hope to speak to me again. Mary Wood, seriously,\nI am suspicious. Why do you never mention him nowadays? How exciting\nto have you bring a live cow-boy to Bennington! We should all come\nto dinner. Though of course I understand now that many of them have\nexcellent manners. But would he wear his pistol at table?\" So the letter\nran on. It recounted the latest home gossip and jokes. In answering it\nMolly Wood had taken no notice of its childish tone here and there.\n\n\"Hyeh's some of them cactus blossoms yu' wanted,\" said the Virginian.\nHis voice recalled the girl with almost a start. \"I've brought a good\nhawss I've gentled for yu', and Taylor'll keep him till I need him.\"\n\n\"Thank you so much! but I wish--\"\n\n\"I reckon yu' can't stop me lendin' Taylor a hawss. And you cert'nly'll\nget sick schoolteachin' if yu' don't keep outdoors some. Good-by--till\nthat next time.\"\n\n\"Yes; there's always a next time,\" she answered, as lightly as she\ncould.\n\n\"There always will be. Don't yu' know that?\"\n\nShe did not reply.\n\n\"I have discouraged spells,\" he pursued, \"but I down them. For I've told\nyu' you were going to love me. You are goin' to learn back the thing you\nhave taught me. I'm not askin' anything now; I don't want you to speak a\nword to me. But I'm never goin' to quit till 'next time' is no more, and\nit's 'all the time' for you and me.\"\n\nWith that he had ridden away, not even touching her hand. Long after\nhe had gone she was still in her chair, her eyes lingering upon his\nflowers, those yellow cups of the prickly pear. At length she had\nrisen impatiently, caught up the flowers, gone with them to the open\nwindow,--and then, after all, set them with pains in water.\n\nBut to-day Bear Creek was over. She was going home now. By the week's\nend she would be started. By the time the mail brought him her good-by\nletter she would be gone. She had acted.\n\nTo Bear Creek, the neighborly, the friendly, the not comprehending, this\nmove had come unlooked for, and had brought regret. Only one hard word\nhad been spoken to Molly, and that by her next-door neighbor and kindest\nfriend. In Mrs. Taylor's house the girl had daily come and gone as\na daughter, and that lady reached the subject thus:-- \"When I took\nTaylor,\" said she, sitting by as Robert Browning and Jane Austen were\ngoing into their box, \"I married for love.\"\n\n\"Do you wish it had been money?\" said Molly, stooping to her industries.\n\n\"You know both of us better than that, child.\"\n\n\"I know I've seen people at home who couldn't possibly have had any\nother reason. They seemed satisfied, too.\"\n\n\"Maybe the poor ignorant things were!\"\n\n\"And so I have never been sure how I might choose.\"\n\n\"Yes, you are sure, deary. Don't you think I know you? And when it comes\nover Taylor once in a while, and he tells me I'm the best thing in his\nlife, and I tell him he ain't merely the best thing but the only thing\nin mine,--him and the children,--why, we just agree we'd do it all over\nthe same way if we had the chance.\"\n\nMolly continued to be industrious.\n\n\"And that's why,\" said Mrs. Taylor, \"I want every girl that's anything\nto me to know her luck when it comes. For I was that near telling Taylor\nI wouldn't!\"\n\n\"If ever my luck comes,\" said Molly, with her back to her friend, \"I\nshall say 'I will' at once.\"\n\n\"Then you'll say it at Bennington next week.\"\n\nMolly wheeled round.\n\n\"Why, you surely will. Do you expect he's going to stay here, and you in\nBennington?\" And the campaigner sat back in her chair.\n\n\"He? Goodness! Who is he?\"\n\n\"Child, child, you're talking cross to-day because you're at outs with\nyourself. You've been at outs ever since you took this idea of leaving\nthe school and us and everything this needless way. You have not treated\nhim right. And why, I can't make out to save me. What have you found out\nall of a sudden? If he was not good enough for you, I--But, oh, it's a\nprime one you're losing, Molly. When a man like that stays faithful to a\ngirl 'spite all the chances he gets, her luck is come.\"\n\n\"Oh, my luck! People have different notions of luck.\"\n\n\"Notions!\"\n\n\"He has been very kind.\"\n\n\"Kind!\" And now without further simmering, Mrs. Taylor's wrath boiled\nup and poured copiously over Molly Wood. \"Kind! There's a word you\nshouldn't use, my dear. No doubt you can spell it. But more than its\nspelling I guess you don't know. The children can learn what it means\nfrom some of the rest of us folks that don't spell so correct, maybe.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Taylor, Mrs. Taylor--\"\n\n\"I can't wait, deary. Since the roughness looks bigger to you than the\ndiamond, you had better go back to Vermont. I expect you'll find better\ngrammar there, deary.\"\n\nThe good dame stalked out, and across to her own cabin, and left the\nangry girl among her boxes. It was in vain she fell to work upon them.\nPresently something had to be done over again, and when it was the box\nheld several chattels less than before the readjustment. She played a\nsort of desperate dominos to fit these objects in the space, but here\nwere a paper-weight, a portfolio, with two wretched volumes that no\nchink would harbor; and letting them fall all at once, she straightened\nherself, still stormy with revolt, eyes and cheeks still hot from\nthe sting of long-parried truth. There, on her wall still, was the\nminiature, the little silent ancestress; and upon this face the girl's\nglance rested. It was as if she appealed to Grandmother Stark for\nsupport and comfort across the hundred years which lay between them. So\nthe flaxen girl on the wall and she among the boxes stood a moment face\nto face in seeming communion, and then the descendant turned again to\nher work. But after a desultory touch here and there she drew a long\nbreath and walked to the open door. What use was in finishing to-day,\nwhen she had nearly a week? This first spurt of toil had swept the cabin\nbare of all indwelling charm, and its look was chill. Across the lane\nhis horse, the one he had \"gentled\" for her, was grazing idly. She\nwalked there and caught him, and led him to her gate. Mrs. Taylor saw\nher go in, and soon come out in riding-dress; and she watched the girl\nthrow the saddle on with quick ease--the ease he had taught her. Mrs.\nTaylor also saw the sharp cut she gave the horse, and laughed grimly\nto herself in her window as horse and rider galloped into the beautiful\nsunny loneliness.\n\nTo the punished animal this switching was new! and at its third\nrepetition he turned his head in surprise, but was no more heeded than\nwere the bluffs and flowers where he was taking his own undirected\nchoice of way. He carried her over ground she knew by heart--Corncliff\nMesa, Crowheart Butte, Westfall's Crossing, Upper Canyon; open land and\nwoodland, pines and sage-brush, all silent and grave and lustrous in the\nsunshine. Once and again a ranchman greeted her, and wondered if she\nhad forgotten who he was; once she passed some cow-punchers with a small\nherd of steers, and they stared after her too. Bear Creek narrowed, its\nmountain-sides drew near, its little falls began to rush white in midday\nshadow, and the horse suddenly pricked his ears. Unguided, he was taking\nthis advantage to go home. Though he had made but little way--a mere\nbeginning yet--on this trail over to Sunk Creek, here was already a\nSunk Creek friend whinnying good day to him, so he whinnied back and\nquickened his pace, and Molly started to life. What was Monte doing\nhere? She saw the black horse she knew also, saddled, with reins\ndragging on the trail as the rider had dropped them to dismount. A cold\nspring bubbled out beyond the next rock, and she knew her lover's horse\nwas waiting for him while he drank. She pulled at the reins, but loosed\nthem, for to turn and escape now was ridiculous; and riding boldly round\nthe rock, she came upon him by the spring. One of his arms hung up to\nits elbow in the pool, the other was crooked beside his head, but the\nface was sunk downward against the shelving rock, so that she saw only\nhis black, tangled hair. As her horse snorted and tossed his head she\nlooked swiftly at Monte, as if to question him. Seeing now the sweat\nmatted on his coat, and noting the white rim of his eye, she sprang and\nran to the motionless figure. A patch of blood at his shoulder behind\nstained the soft flannel shirt, spreading down beneath his belt, and the\nman's whole strong body lay slack and pitifully helpless.\n\nShe touched the hand beside his head, but it seemed neither warm nor\ncold to her; she felt for the pulse, as nearly as she could remember the\ndoctors did, but could not tell whether she imagined or not that it was\nstill; twice with painful care her fingers sought and waited for the\nbeat, and her face seemed like one of listening. She leaned down and\nlifted his other arm and hand from the water, and as their ice-coldness\nreached her senses, clearly she saw the patch near the shoulder she\nhad moved grow wet with new blood, and at that sight she grasped at the\nstones upon which she herself now sank. She held tight by two rocks,\nsitting straight beside him, staring, and murmuring aloud, \"I must\nnot faint; I will not faint;\" and the standing horses looked at her,\npricking their ears.\n\nIn this cup-like spread of the ravine the sun shone warmly down, the\ntall red cliff was warm, the pines were a warm film and filter of green;\noutside the shade across Bear Creek rose the steep, soft, open yellow\nhill, warm and high to the blue, and Bear Creek tumbled upon its\nsunsparkling stones. The two horses on the margin trail still looked\nat the spring and trees, where sat the neat flaxen girl so rigid by the\nslack prone body in its flannel shirt and leathern chaps. Suddenly her\nface livened. \"But the blood ran!\" she exclaimed, as if to the horses,\nher companions in this. She moved to him, and put her hand in through\nhis shirt against his heart.\n\nNext moment she had sprung up and was at his saddle, searching, then\nswiftly went on to her own and got her small flask and was back beside\nhim. Here was the cold water he had sought, and she put it against his\nforehead and drenched the wounded shoulder with it. Three times she\ntried to move him, so he might lie more easy, but his dead weight was\ntoo much, and desisting, she sat close and raised his head to let it\nrest against her. Thus she saw the blood that was running from in front\nof the shoulder also; but she said no more about fainting. She tore\nstrips from her dress and soaked them, keeping them cold and wet upon\nboth openings of his wound, and she drew her pocket-knife out and cut\nhis shirt away from the place. As she continually rinsed and cleaned\nit, she watched his eyelashes, long and soft and thick, but they did not\nstir. Again she tried the flask, but failed from being still too gentle,\nand her searching eyes fell upon ashes near the pool. Still undispersed\nby the weather lay the small charred ends of a fire he and she had made\nonce here together, to boil coffee and fry trout. She built another fire\nnow, and when the flames were going well, filled her flask-cup from the\nspring and set it to heat. Meanwhile, she returned to nurse his head\nand wound. Her cold water had stopped the bleeding. Then she poured\nher brandy in the steaming cup, and, made rough by her desperate\nhelplessness, forced some between his lips and teeth.\n\nInstantly, almost, she felt the tremble of life creeping back, and\nas his deep eyes opened upon her she sat still and mute. But the gaze\nseemed luminous with an unnoting calm, and she wondered if perhaps he\ncould not recognize her; she watched this internal clearness of his\nvision, scarcely daring to breathe, until presently he began to speak,\nwith the same profound and clear impersonality sounding in his slowly\nuttered words.\n\n\"I thought they had found me. I expected they were going to kill me.\"\nHe stopped, and she gave him more of the hot drink, which he took, still\nlying and looking at her as if the present did not reach his senses. \"I\nknew hands were touching me. I reckon I was not dead. I knew about them\nsoon as they began, only I could not interfere.\" He waited again. \"It is\nmighty strange where I have been. No. Mighty natural.\" Then he went back\ninto his revery, and lay with his eyes still full open upon her where\nshe sat motionless.\n\nShe began to feel a greater awe in this living presence than when it\nhad been his body with an ice-cold hand; and she quietly spoke his name,\nventuring scarcely more than a whisper.\n\nAt this, some nearer thing wakened in his look. \"But it was you all\nalong,\" he resumed. \"It is you now. You must not stay--\" Weakness\novercame him, and his eyes closed. She sat ministering to him, and when\nhe roused again, he began anxiously at once: \"You must not stay. They\nwould get you, too.\"\n\nShe glanced at him with a sort of fierceness, then reached for his\npistol, in which was nothing but blackened empty cartridges. She threw\nthese out and drew six from his belt, loaded the weapon, and snapped\nshut its hinge.\n\n\"Please take it,\" he said, more anxious and more himself. \"I ain't worth\ntryin' to keep. Look at me!\"\n\n\"Are you giving up?\" she inquired, trying to put scorn in her tone. Then\nshe seated herself.\n\n\"Where is the sense in both of us--\"\n\n\"You had better save your strength,\" she interrupted.\n\nHe tried to sit up.\n\n\"Lie down!\" she ordered.\n\nHe sank obediently, and began to smile.\n\nWhen she saw that, she smiled too, and unexpectedly took his hand.\n\"Listen, friend,\" said she. \"Nobody shall get you, and nobody shall get\nme. Now take some more brandy.\"\n\n\"It must be noon,\" said the cow-puncher, when she had drawn her hand\naway from him. \"I remember it was dark when--when--when I can remember.\nI reckon they were scared to follow me in so close to settlers. Else\nthey would have been here.\"\n\n\"You must rest,\" she observed.\n\nShe broke the soft ends of some evergreen, and putting them beneath his\nhead, went to the horses, loosened the cinches, took off the bridles,\nled them to drink, and picketed them to feed. Further still, to leave\nnothing undone which she could herself manage, she took the horses'\nsaddles off to refold the blankets when the time should come, and\nmeanwhile brought them for him. But he put them away from him. He was\nsitting up against a rock, stronger evidently, and asking for cold\nwater. His head was fire-hot, and the paleness beneath his swarthy skin\nhad changed to a deepening flush.\n\n\"Only five miles!\" she said to him, bathing his head.\n\n\"Yes. I must hold it steady,\" he answered, waving his hand at the cliff.\n\nShe told him to try and keep it steady until they got home.\n\n\"Yes,\" he repeated. \"Only five miles. But it's fightin' to turn around.\"\nHalf aware that he was becoming light-headed, he looked from the rock to\nher and from her to the rock with dilating eyes.\n\n\"We can hold it together,\" she said. \"You must get on your horse.\" She\ntook his handkerchief from round his neck, knotting it with her own, and\nto make more bandage she ran to the roll of clothes behind his saddle\nand tore in halves a clean shirt. A handkerchief fell from it, which\nshe seized also, and opening, saw her own initials by the hem. Then she\nremembered: she saw again their first meeting, the swollen river, the\noverset stage, the unknown horseman who carried her to the bank on his\nsaddle and went away unthanked--her whole first adventure on that\nfirst day of her coming to this new country--and now she knew how her\nlong-forgotten handkerchief had gone that day. She refolded it gently\nand put it back in his bundle, for there was enough bandage without it.\nShe said not a word to him, and he placed a wrong meaning upon the look\nwhich she gave him as she returned to bind his shoulder.\n\n\"It don't hurt so much,\" he assured her (though extreme pain was\nclearing his head for the moment, and he had been able to hold the cliff\nfrom turning). \"Yu' must not squander your pity.\"\n\n\"Do not squander your strength,\" said she.\n\n\"Oh, I could put up a pretty good fight now!\" But he tottered in showing\nher how strong he was, and she told him that, after all, he was a child\nstill.\n\n\"Yes,\" he slowly said, looking after her as she went to bring his horse,\n\"the same child that wanted to touch the moon, I guess.\" And during the\nslow climb down into the saddle from a rock to which she helped him he\nsaid, \"You have got to be the man all through this mess.\"\n\nShe saw his teeth clinched and his drooping muscles compelled by will;\nand as he rode and she walked to lend him support, leading her horse\nby a backward-stretched left hand, she counted off the distance to him\ncontinually--the increasing gain, the lessening road, the landmarks\nnearing and dropping behind; here was the tree with the wasp-nest gone;\nnow the burned cabin was passed; now the cottonwoods at the ford were in\nsight. He was silent, and held to the saddle-horn, leaning more and more\nagainst his two hands clasped over it; and just after they had made the\ncrossing he fell, without a sound slipping to the grass, and his descent\nbroken by her. But it started the blood a little, and she dared not\nleave him to seek help. She gave him the last of the flask and all the\nwater he craved.\n\nRevived, he managed to smile. \"Yu' see, I ain't worth keeping.\"\n\n\"It's only a mile,\" said she. So she found a log, a fallen trunk, and he\ncrawled to that, and from there crawled to his saddle, and she marched\non with him, talking, bidding him note the steps accomplished. For the\nnext half-mile they went thus, the silent man clinched on the horse, and\nby his side the girl walking and cheering him forward, when suddenly he\nbegan to speak:-- \"I will say good-by to you now, ma'am.\"\n\nShe did not understand, at first, the significance of this.\n\n\"He is getting away,\" pursued the Virginian. \"I must ask you to excuse\nme, ma'am.\"\n\nIt was a long while since her lord had addressed her as \"ma'am.\" As she\nlooked at him in growing apprehension, he turned Monte and would have\nridden away, but she caught the bridle.\n\n\"You must take me home,\" said she, with ready inspiration. \"I am afraid\nof the Indians.\"\n\n\"Why, you--why, they've all gone. There he goes. Ma'am--that hawss--\"\n\n\"No,\" said she, holding firmly his rein and quickening her step. \"A\ngentleman does not invite a lady to go out riding and leave her.\"\n\nHis eyes lost their purpose. \"I'll cert'nly take you home. That sorrel\nhas gone in there by the wallow, and Judge Henry will understand.\" With\nhis eyes watching imaginary objects, he rode and rambled and it was now\nthe girl who was silent, except to keep his mind from its half-fixed\nidea of the sorrel. As he grew more fluent she hastened still more,\nlistening to head off that notion of return, skilfully inventing\nquestions to engage him, so that when she brought him to her gate\nshe held him in a manner subjected, answering faithfully the shrewd\nunrealities which she devised, whatever makeshifts she could summon to\nher mind; and next she had got him inside her dwelling and set him down\ndocile, but now completely wandering; and then--no help was at hand,\neven here. She had made sure of aid from next door, and there she\nhastened, to find the Taylor's cabin locked and silent; and this meant\nthat parents and children were gone to drive; nor might she be luckier\nat her next nearest neighbors', should she travel the intervening mile\nto fetch them. With a mind jostled once more into uncertainty, she\nreturned to her room, and saw a change in him already. Illness had\nstridden upon him; his face was not as she had left it, and the whole\nbody, the splendid supple horseman, showed sickness in every line\nand limb, its spurs and pistol and bold leather chaps a mockery of\ntrappings. She looked at him, and decision came back to her, clear and\nsteady. She supported him over to her bed and laid him on it. His head\nsank flat, and his loose, nerveless arms stayed as she left them. Then\namong her packing-boxes and beneath the little miniature, blue and\nflaxen and gold upon its lonely wall, she undressed him. He was cold,\nand she covered him to the face, and arranged the pillow, and got from\nits box her scarlet and black Navajo blanket and spread it over him.\nThere was no more that she could do, and she sat down by him to wait.\nAmong the many and many things that came into her mind was a word he\nsaid to her lightly a long while ago. \"Cow-punchers do not live long\nenough to get old,\" he had told her. And now she looked at the head upon\nthe pillow, grave and strong, but still the head of splendid, unworn\nyouth.\n\nAt the distant jingle of the wagon in the lane she was out, and had met\nher returning neighbors midway. They heard her with amazement, and came\nin haste to the bedside; then Taylor departed to spread news of the\nIndians and bring the doctor, twenty-five miles away. The two women\nfriends stood alone again, as they had stood in the morning when anger\nhad been between them.\n\n\"Kiss me, deary,\" said Mrs. Taylor. \"Now I will look after him--and\nyou'll need some looking after yourself.\"\n\nBut on returning from her cabin with what store she possessed of lint\nand stimulants, she encountered a rebel, independent as ever. Molly\nwould hear no talk about saving her strength, would not be in any room\nbut this one until the doctor should arrive; then perhaps it would be\ntime to think about resting. So together the dame and the girl rinsed\nthe man's wound and wrapped him in clean things, and did all the little\nthat they knew--which was, in truth, the very thing needed. Then they\nsat watching him toss and mutter. It was no longer upon Indians or\nthe sorrel horse that his talk seemed to run, or anything recent,\napparently, always excepting his work. This flowingly merged with\nwhatever scene he was inventing or living again, and he wandered\nunendingly in that incompatible world we dream in. Through the medley of\nevents and names, often thickly spoken, but rising at times to grotesque\ncoherence, the listeners now and then could piece out the reference from\ntheir own knowledge. \"Monte,\" for example, continually addressed, and\nMolly heard her own name, but invariably as \"Miss Wood\"; nothing less\nrespectful came out, and frequently he answered some one as \"ma'am.\"\nAt these fragments of revelation Mrs. Taylor abstained from speech, but\neyed Molly Wood with caustic reproach. As the night wore on, short lulls\nof silence intervened, and the watchers were deceived into hope that the\nfever was abating. And when the Virginian sat quietly up in bed, essayed\nto move his bandage, and looked steadily at Mrs. Taylor, she rose\nquickly and went to him with a question as to how he was doing.\n\n\"Rise on your laigs, you polecat,\" said he, \"and tell them you're a\nliar.\"\n\nThe good dame gasped, then bade him lie down, and he obeyed her with\nthat strange double understanding of the delirious; for even while\nsubmitting, he muttered \"liar,\" \"polecat,\" and then \"Trampas.\"\n\nAt that name light flashed on Mrs. Taylor, and she turned to Molly; and\nthere was the girl struggling with a fit of mirth at his speech; but the\nlaughter was fast becoming a painful seizure. Mrs. Taylor walked Molly\nup and down, speaking mmediately to arrest her attention.\n\n\"You might as well know it,\" she said. \"He would blame me for speaking\nof it, but where's the harm all this while after? And you would never\nhear it from his mouth. Molly, child, they say Trampas would kill him if\nhe dared, and that's on account of you.\"\n\n\"I never saw Trampas,\" said Molly, fixing her eyes upon the speaker.\n\n\"No, deary. But before a lot of men--Taylor has told me about\nit--Trampas spoke disrespectfully of you, and before them all he made\nTrampas say he was a liar. That is what he did when you were almost\na stranger among us, and he had not started seeing so much of you. I\nexpect Trampas is the only enemy he ever had in this country. But he\nwould never let you know about that.\"\n\n\"No,\" whispered Molly; \"I did not know.\"\n\n\"Steve!\" the sick man now cried out, in poignant appeal. \"Steve!\" To the\nwomen it was a name unknown,--unknown as was also this deep inward tide\nof feeling which he could no longer conceal, being himself no longer.\n\"No, Steve,\" he said next, and muttering followed. \"It ain't so!\" he\nshouted; and then cunningly in a lowered voice, \"Steve, I have lied for\nyou.\"\n\nIn time Mrs. Taylor spoke some advice.\n\n\"You had better go to bed, child. You look about ready for the doctor\nyourself.\"\n\n\"Then I will wait for him,\" said Molly.\n\nSo the two nurses continued to sit until darkness at the windows\nweakened into gray, and the lamp was no more needed. Their patient was\nrambling again. Yet, into whatever scenes he went, there in some guise\ndid the throb of his pain evidently follow him, and he lay hitching his\ngreat shoulder as if to rid it of the cumbrance. They waited for the\ndoctor, not daring much more than to turn pillows and give what other\nease they could; and then, instead of the doctor, came a messenger,\nabout noon, to say he was gone on a visit some thirty miles beyond,\nwhere Taylor had followed to bring him here as soon as might be. At this\nMolly consented to rest and to watch, turn about; and once she was over\nin her friend's house lying down, they tried to keep her there. But the\nrevolutionist could not be put down, and when, as a last pretext, Mrs.\nTaylor urged the proprieties and conventions, the pale girl from Vermont\nlaughed sweetly in her face and returned to sit by the sick man. With\nthe approach of the second night his fever seemed to rise and master\nhim more completely than they had yet seen it, and presently it so raged\nthat the women called in stronger arms to hold him down. There were\ntimes when he broke out in the language of the round-up, and Mrs. Taylor\nrenewed her protests. \"Why,\" said Molly, \"don't you suppose I knew they\ncould swear?\" So the dame, in deepening astonishment and affection, gave\nup these shifts at decorum. Nor did the delirium run into the intimate,\ncoarse matters that she dreaded. The cow-puncher had lived like his\nkind, but his natural daily thoughts were clean, and came from the\nuntamed but unstained mind of a man. And toward morning, as Mrs. Taylor\nsat taking her turn, suddenly he asked had he been sick long, and looked\nat her with a quieted eye. The wandering seemed to drop from him at a\nstroke, leaving him altogether himself. He lay very feeble, and inquired\nonce or twice of his state and how he came here; nor was anything left\nin his memory of even coming to the spring where he had been found.\n\nWhen the doctor arrived, he pronounced that it would be long--or very\nshort. He praised their clean water treatment; the wound was fortunately\nwell up on the shoulder, and gave so far no bad signs; there were not\nany bad signs; and the blood and strength of the patient had been as\nfew men's were; each hour was now an hour nearer certainty, and\nmeanwhile--meanwhile the doctor would remain as long as he could. He had\nmany inquiries to satisfy. Dusty fellows would ride up, listen to him,\nand reply, as they rode away, \"Don't yu' let him die, Doc.\" And Judge\nHenry sent over from Sunk Creek to answer for any attendance or medicine\nthat might help his foreman. The country was moved with concern and\ninterest; and in Molly's ears its words of good feeling seemed to unite\nand sum up a burden, \"Don't yu' let him die, Doc.\" The Indians who had\ndone this were now in military custody. They had come unpermitted from\na southern reservation, hunting, next thieving, and as the slumbering\nspirit roused in one or two of the young and ambitious, they had\nventured this in the secret mountains, and perhaps had killed a trapper\nfound there. Editors immediately reared a tall war out of it; but from\nfive Indians in a guard-house waiting punishment not even an editor\ncan supply spar for more than two editions, and if the recent alarm\nwas still a matter of talk anywhere, it was not here in the sick-room.\nWhichever way the case should turn, it was through Molly alone (the\ndoctor told her) that the wounded man had got this chance--this good\nchance, he related.\n\nAnd he told her she had not done a woman's part, but a man's part, and\nnow had no more to do; no more till the patient got well, and could\nthank her in his own way, said the doctor, smiling, and supposing things\nthat were not so--misled perhaps by Mrs. Taylor.\n\n\"I'm afraid I'll be gone by the time he is well,\" said Molly, coldly;\nand the discreet physician said ah, and that she would find Bennington\nquite a change from Bear Creek.\n\nBut Mrs. Taylor spoke otherwise, and at that the girl said: \"I shall\nstay as long as I am needed. I will nurse him. I want to nurse him. I\nwill do everything for him that I can!\" she exclaimed, with force.\n\n\"And that won't be anything, deary,\" said Mrs. Taylor, harshly. \"A year\nof nursing don't equal a day of sweetheart.\"\n\nThe girl took a walk,--she was of no more service in the room at\npresent,--but she turned without going far, and Mrs. Taylor spied her\ncome to lean over the pasture fence and watch the two horses--that one\nthe Virginian had \"gentled\" for her, and his own Monte. During this\nsuspense came a new call for the doctor, neighbors profiting by his\nvisit to Bear Creek; and in his going away to them, even under promise\nof quick return, Mrs. Taylor suspected a favorable sign. He kept his\nword as punctually as had been possible, arriving after some six hours\nwith a confident face, and spending now upon the patient a care not\nneeded, save to reassure the bystanders. He spoke his opinion that all\nwas even better than he could have hoped it would be, so soon. Here was\nnow the beginning of the fifth day; the wound's look was wholesome, no\nfurther delirium had come, and the fever had abated a degree while he\nwas absent. He believed the serious danger-line lay behind, and (short\nof the unforeseen) the man's deep untainted strength would reassert\nits control. He had much blood to make, and must be cared for during\nweeks--three, four, five--there was no saying how long yet. These next\nfew days it must be utter quiet for him; he must not talk nor hear\nanything likely to disturb him; and then the time for cheerfulness and\ngradual company would come--sooner than later, the doctor hoped. So\nhe departed, and sent next day some bottles, with further cautions\nregarding the wound and dirt, and to say he should be calling the day\nafter to-morrow.\n\nUpon that occasion he found two patients. Molly Wood lay in bed at Mrs.\nTaylor's, filled with apology and indignation. With little to do, and\ndeprived of the strong stimulant of anxiety and action, her strength\nhad quite suddenly left her, so that she had spoken only in a sort of\nwhisper. But upon waking from a long sleep, after Mrs. Taylor had taken\nher firmly, almost severely, in hand, her natural voice had returned,\nand now the chief treatment the doctor gave her was a sort of scolding,\nwhich it pleased Mrs. Taylor to hear. The doctor even dropped a phrase\nconcerning the arrogance of strong nerves in slender bodies, and of\nundertaking several people's work when several people were at hand to do\nit for themselves, and this pleased Mrs. Taylor remarkably. As for the\nwounded man, he was behaving himself properly. Perhaps in another week\nhe could be moved to a more cheerful room. Just now, with cleanliness\nand pure air, any barn would do.\n\n\"We are real lucky to have such a sensible doctor in the country,\" Mrs.\nTaylor observed, after the physician had gone.\n\n\"No doubt,\" said Molly. \"He said my room was a barn.\"\n\n\"That's what you've made it, deary. But sick men don't notice much.\"\n\nNevertheless, one may believe, without going widely astray, that\nillness, so far from veiling, more often quickens the perceptions--at\nany rate those of the naturally keen. On a later day--and the interval\nwas brief--while Molly was on her second drive to take the air with Mrs.\nTaylor, that lady informed her that the sick man had noticed. \"And I\ncould not tell him things liable to disturb him,\" said she, \"and so\nI--well, I expect I just didn't exactly tell him the facts. I said yes,\nyou were packing up for a little visit to your folks. They had not seen\nyou for quite a while, I said. And he looked at those boxes kind of\nsilent like.\"\n\n\"There's no need to move him,\" said Molly. '\"It is simpler to move\nthem--the boxes. I could take out some of my things, you know, just\nwhile he has to be kept there. I mean--you see, if the doctor says the\nroom should be cheerful--\"\n\n\"Yes, deary.\"\n\n\"I will ask the doctor next time,\" said Molly, \"if he believes I\nam--competent to spread a rug upon a floor.\" Molly's references to\nthe doctor were usually acid these days. And this he totally failed to\nobserve, telling her when he came, why, to be sure! the very thing!\nAnd if she could play cards or read aloud, or afford any other light\ndistractions, provided they did not lead the patient to talk and tire\nhimself, that she would be most useful. Accordingly she took over the\ncribbage board, and came with unexpected hesitation face to face again\nwith the swarthy man she had saved and tended. He was not so swarthy\nnow, but neat, with chin clean, and hair and mustache trimmed and\nsmooth, and he sat propped among pillows watching for her.\n\n\"You are better,\" she said, speaking first, and with uncertain voice.\n\n\"Yes. They have given me awdehs not to talk,\" said the Southerner,\nsmiling.\n\n\"Oh, yes. Please do not talk--not to-day.\"\n\n\"No. Only this\"--he looked at her, and saw her seem to shrink--\"thank\nyou for what you have done,\" he said simply.\n\nShe took tenderly the hand he stretched to her; and upon these terms\nthey set to work at cribbage. She won, and won again, and the third time\nlaid down her cards and reproached him with playing in order to lose.\n\n\"No,\" he said, and his eye wandered to the boxes. \"But my thoughts get\naway from me. I'll be strong enough to hold them on the cyards next\ntime, I reckon.\"\n\nMany tones in his voice she had heard, but never the tone of sadness\nuntil to-day.\n\nThen they played a little more, and she put away the board for this\nfirst time.\n\n\"You are going now?\" he asked.\n\n\"When I have made this room look a little less forlorn. They haven't\nwanted to meddle with my things, I suppose.\" And Molly stooped once\nagain among the chattels destined for Vermont. Out they came; again the\nbearskin was spread on the floor, various possessions and ornaments went\nback into their ancient niches, the shelves grew comfortable with books,\nand, last, some flowers were stood on the table.\n\n\"More like old times,\" said the Virginian, but sadly.\n\n\"It's too bad,\" said Molly, \"you had to be brought into such a looking\nplace.\"\n\n\"And your folks waiting for you,\" said he.\n\n\"Oh, I'll pay my visit later,\" said Molly, putting the rug a trifle\nstraighter.\n\n\"May I ask one thing?\" pleaded the Virginian, and at the gentleness of\nhis voice her face grew rosy, and she fixed her eyes on him with a sort\nof dread.\n\n\"Anything that I can answer,\" said she.\n\n\"Oh, yes. Did I tell yu' to quit me, and did yu' load up my gun and\nstay? Was that a real business? I have been mixed up in my haid.\"\n\n\"That was real,\" said Molly. \"What else was there to do?\"\n\n\"Just nothing--for such as you!\" he exclaimed. \"My haid has been mighty\ncrazy; and that little grandmother of yours yondeh, she--but I can't\njust quite catch a-hold of these things\"--he passed a hand over\nhis forehead--\"so many--or else one right along--well, it's all\nfoolishness!\" he concluded, with something almost savage in his tone.\nAnd after she had gone from the cabin he lay very still, looking at the\nminiature on the wall.\n\nHe was in another sort of mood the next time, cribbage not interesting\nhim in the least. \"Your folks will be wondering about you,\" said he.\n\n\"I don't think they will mind which month I go to them,\" said Molly.\n\"Especially when they know the reason.\"\n\n\"Don't let me keep you, ma'am,\" said he. Molly stared at him; but he\npursued, with the same edge lurking in his slow words: \"Though I'll\nnever forget. How could I forget any of all you have done--and been? If\nthere had been none of this, why, I had enough to remember! But please\ndon't stay, ma'am. We'll say I had a claim when yu' found me pretty well\ndead, but I'm gettin' well, yu' see--right smart, too!\"\n\n\"I can't understand, indeed I can't,\" said Molly, \"why you're talking\nso!\"\n\nHe seemed to have certain moods when he would address her as \"ma'am,\"\nand this she did not like, but could not prevent.\n\n\"Oh, a sick man is funny. And yu' know I'm grateful to you.\"\n\n\"Please say no more about that, or I shall go this afternoon. I don't\nwant to go. I am not ready. I think I had better read something now.\"\n\n\"Why, yes. That's cert'nly a good notion. Why, this is the best show\nyou'll ever get to give me education. Won't yu' please try that EMMA\nbook now, ma'am? Listening to you will be different.\" This was said with\nsoftness and humility.\n\nUncertain--as his gravity often left her--precisely what he meant by\nwhat he said, Molly proceeded with EMMA, slackly at first, but soon with\nthe enthusiasm that Miss Austen invariably gave her. She held the volume\nand read away at it, commenting briefly, and then, finishing a chapter\nof the sprightly classic, found her pupil slumbering peacefully. There\nwas no uncertainty about that.\n\n\"You couldn't be doing a healthier thing for him, deary,\" said Mrs.\nTaylor. \"If it gets to make him wakeful, try something harder.\" This was\nthe lady's scarcely sympathetic view.\n\nBut it turned out to be not obscurity in which Miss Austen sinned.\n\nWhen Molly next appeared at the Virginian's threshold, he said\nplaintively, \"I reckon I am a dunce.\" And he sued for pardon. \"When I\nwaked up,\" he said, \"I was ashamed of myself for a plumb half-hour.\" Nor\ncould she doubt this day that he meant what he said. His mood was again\nserene and gentle, and without referring to his singular words that had\ndistressed her, he made her feel his contrition, even in his silence.\n\n\"I am right glad you have come,\" he said. And as he saw her going to the\nbookshelf, he continued, with diffidence: \"As regyards that EMMA book,\nyu' see--yu' see, the doin's and sayin's of folks like them are above\nme. But I think\" (he spoke most diffidently), \"if yu' could read me\nsomething that was ABOUT something, I--I'd be liable to keep awake.\" And\nhe smiled with a certain shyness.\n\n\"Something ABOUT something?\" queried Molly, at a loss.\n\n\"Why, yes. Shakespeare. HENRY THE FOURTH. The British king is fighting,\nand there is his son the prince. He cert'nly must have been a jim-dandy\nboy if that is all true. Only he would go around town with a mighty\ntriflin' gang. They sported and they held up citizens. And his father\nhated his travelling with trash like them. It was right natural--the boy\nand the old man! But the boy showed himself a man too. He killed a big\nfighter on the other side who was another jim-dandy--and he was sorry\nfor having it to do.\" The Virginian warmed to his recital. \"I understand\nmost all of that. There was a fat man kept everybody laughing. He was\nawful natural too; except yu' don't commonly meet 'em so fat. But the\nprince--that play is bed-rock, ma'am! Have you got something like that?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think so,\" she replied. \"I believe I see what you would\nappreciate.\"\n\nShe took her Browning, her idol, her imagined affinity. For the pale\ndecadence of New England had somewhat watered her good old Revolutionary\nblood too, and she was inclined to think under glass and to live\nunderdone--when there were no Indians to shoot! She would have joyed to\nventure \"Paracelsus\" on him, and some lengthy rhymed discourses; and she\nfondly turned leaves and leaves of her pet doggerel analytics. \"Pippa\nPasses\" and others she had to skip, from discreet motives--pages which\nhe would have doubtless stayed awake at; but she chose a poem at length.\nThis was better than Emma, he pronounced. And short. The horse was a\ngood horse. He thought a man whose horse must not play out on him would\nwatch the ground he was galloping over for holes, and not be likely to\nsee what color the rims of his animal's eye-sockets were. You could not\nsee them if you sat as you ought to for such a hard ride. Of the next\npiece that she read him he thought still better. \"And it is short,\" said\nhe. \"But the last part drops.\"\n\nMolly instantly exacted particulars.\n\n\"The soldier should not have told the general he was killed,\" stated the\ncow-puncher.\n\n\"What should he have told him, I'd like to know?\" said Molly.\n\n\"Why, just nothing. If the soldier could ride out of the battle all shot\nup, and tell his general about their takin' the town--that was being\ngritty, yu' see. But that truck at the finish--will yu' please say it\nagain?\"\n\nSo Molly read:--\n\n    \"'You're wounded! 'Nay,' the soldier's pride\n     Touched to the quick, he said,\n     'I'm killed, sire!' And, his chief beside,\n     Smiling the boy fell dead.\"\n\n\"'Nay, I'm killed, sire,'\" drawled the Virginian, amiably; for (symptom\nof convalescence) his freakish irony was revived in him. \"Now a man\nwho was man enough to act like he did, yu' see, would fall dead without\nmentioning it.\"\n\nNone of Molly's sweet girl friends had ever thus challenged Mr.\nBrowning. They had been wont to cluster over him with a joyous awe that\ndeepened proportionally with their misunderstanding. Molly paused to\nconsider this novelty of view about the soldier. \"He was a Frenchman,\nyou know,\" she said, under inspiration.\n\n\"A Frenchman,\" murmured the grave cow-puncher. \"I never knowed a\nFrenchman, but I reckon they might perform that class of foolishness.\"\n\n\"But why was it foolish?\" she cried.\n\n\"His soldier's pride--don't you see?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nMolly now burst into a luxury of discussion. She leaned toward her\ncow-puncher with bright eyes searching his; with elbow on knee and hand\npropping chin, her lap became a slant, and from it Browning the poet\nslid and toppled, and lay unrescued. For the slow cow-puncher unfolded\nhis notions of masculine courage and modesty (though he did not deal in\nsuch high-sounding names), and Molly forgot everything to listen to him,\nas he forgot himself and his inveterate shyness and grew talkative to\nher. \"I would never have supposed that!\" she would exclaim as she heard\nhim; or, presently again, \"I never had such an idea!\" And her mind\nopened with delight to these new things which came from the man's mind\nso simple and direct. To Browning they did come back, but the Virginian,\nthough interested, conceived a dislike for him. \"He is a smarty,\" said\nhe, once or twice.\n\n\"Now here is something,\" said Molly. \"I have never known what to think.\"\n\n\"Oh, Heavens!\" murmured the sick man, smiling. \"Is it short?\"\n\n\"Very short. Now please attend.\" And she read him twelve lines about\na lover who rowed to a beach in the dusk, crossed a field, tapped at a\npane, and was admitted.\n\n\"That is the best yet,\" said the Virginian. \"There's only one thing yu'\ncan think about that.\"\n\n\"But wait,\" said the girl, swiftly. \"Here is how they parted:--\n\n     \"Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,\n     And the sun looked over the mountain's rim--\n     And straight was a path of gold for him,\n     And the need of a world of men for me.\"\n\n\"That is very, very true,\" murmured the Virginian, dropping his eyes\nfrom the girl's intent ones.\n\n\"Had they quarrelled?\" she inquired.\n\n\"Oh, no!\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"I reckon he loved her very much.\"\n\n\"Then you're sure they hadn't quarrelled?\"\n\n\"Dead sure, ma'am. He would come back afteh he had played some more of\nthe game.\"\n\n\"The game?\"\n\n\"Life, ma'am. Whatever he was a-doin' in the world of men. That's a\nbed-rock piece, ma'am!\"\n\n\"Well, I don't see why you think it's so much better than some of the\nothers.\"\n\n\"I could sca'cely explain,\" answered the man. \"But that writer does know\nsomething.\"\n\n\"I am glad they hadn't quarrelled,\" said Molly, thoughtfully. And she\nbegan to like having her opinions refuted.\n\nHis bandages, becoming a little irksome, had to be shifted, and this\nturned their discourse from literature to Wyoming; and Molly inquired,\nhad he ever been shot before? Only once, he told her. \"I have been\nlucky in having few fusses,\" said he. \"I hate them. If a man has to be\nkilled--\"\n\n\"You never--\" broke in Molly. She had started back a little. \"Well,\" she\nadded hastily, \"don't tell me if--\"\n\n\"I shouldn't wonder if I got one of those Indians,\" he said quietly.\n\"But I wasn't waitin' to see! But I came mighty near doing for a white\nman that day. He had been hurtin' a hawss.\"\n\n\"Hurting?\" said Molly.\n\n\"Injurin.' I will not tell yu' about that. It would hurt yu' to hear\nsuch things. But hawsses--don't they depend on us? Ain't they somethin'\nlike children? I did not lay up the man very bad. He was able to travel\n'most right away. Why, you'd have wanted to kill him yourself!\"\n\nSo the Virginian talked, nor knew what he was doing to the girl. Nor\nwas she aware of what she was receiving from him as he unwittingly spoke\nhimself out to her in these Browning meetings they had each day. But\nMrs. Taylor grew pleased. The kindly dame would sometimes cross the\nroad to see if she were needed, and steal away again after a peep at the\nwindow. There, inside, among the restored home treasures, sat the two:\nthe rosy alert girl, sweet as she talked or read to him; and he, the\ngrave, half-weak giant among his wraps, watching her.\n\nOf her delayed home visit he never again spoke, either to her or to Mrs.\nTaylor; and Molly veered aside from any trend of talk she foresaw was\nleading toward that subject. But in those hours when no visitors\ncame, and he was by himself in the quiet, he would lie often sombrely\ncontemplating the girl's room, her little dainty knickknacks, her home\nphotographs, all the delicate manifestations of what she came from and\nwhat she was. Strength was flowing back into him each day, and Judge\nHenry's latest messenger had brought him clothes and mail from Sunk\nCreek and many inquiries of kindness, and returned taking the news of\nthe cow-puncher's improvement, and how soon he would be permitted the\nfresh air. Hence Molly found him waiting in a flannel shirt of highly\nbecoming shade, and with a silk handkerchief knotted round his throat;\nand he told her it was good to feel respectable again.\n\nShe had come to read to him for the allotted time; and she threw around\nhis shoulders the scarlet and black Navajo blanket, striped with its\nsplendid zigzags of barbarity. Thus he half sat, half leaned, languid\nbut at ease. In his lap lay one of the letters brought over by the\nmessenger: and though she was midway in a book that engaged his full\nattention--DAVID COPPERFIELD--his silence and absent look this morning\nstopped her, and she accused him of not attending.\n\n\"No,\" he admitted; \"I am thinking of something else.\"\n\nShe looked at him with that apprehension which he knew.\n\n\"It had to come,\" said he. \"And to-day I see my thoughts straighter than\nI've been up to managing since--since my haid got clear. And now I\nmust say these thoughts--if I can, if I can!\" He stopped. His eyes were\nintent upon her; one hand was gripping the arm of his chair.\n\n\"You promised--\" trembled Molly.\n\n\"I promised you should love me,\" he sternly interrupted. \"Promised that\nto myself. I have broken that word.\"\n\nShe shut DAVID COPPERFIELD mechanically, and grew white.\n\n\"Your letter has come to me hyeh,\" he continued, gentle again.\n\n\"My--\" She had forgotten it.\n\n\"The letter you wrote to tell me good-by. You wrote it a little while\nago--not a month yet, but it's away and away long gone for me.\"\n\n\"I have never let you know--\" began Molly.\n\n\"The doctor,\" he interrupted once more, but very gently now, \"he gave\nawdehs I must be kept quiet. I reckon yu' thought tellin' me might--\"\n\n\"Forgive me!\" cried the girl. \"Indeed I ought to have told you sooner!\nIndeed I had no excuse!\"\n\n\"Why, should yu' tell me if yu' preferred not? You had written. And you\nspeak\" (he lifted the letter) \"of never being able to repay kindness;\nbut you have turned the tables. I can never repay you by anything! by\nanything! So I had figured I would just jog back to Sunk Creek and let\nyou get away, if you did not want to say that kind of good-by. For I saw\nthe boxes. Mrs. Taylor is too nice a woman to know the trick of lyin',\nand she could not deceive me. I have knowed yu' were going away for good\never since I saw those boxes. But now hyeh comes your letter, and it\nseems no way but I must speak. I have thought a deal, lyin' in this\nroom. And--to-day--I can say what I have thought. I could not make you\nhappy.\" He stopped, but she did not answer. His voice had grown softer\nthan whispering, but yet was not a whisper. From its quiet syllables she\nturned away, blinded with sudden tears.\n\n\"Once, I thought love must surely be enough,\" he continued. \"And\nI thought if I could make you love me, you could learn me to be\nless--less--more your kind. And I think I could give you a pretty good\nsort of love. But that don't help the little mean pesky things of day by\nday that make roughness or smoothness for folks tied together so awful\nclose. Mrs. Taylor hyeh--she don't know anything better than Taylor\ndoes. She don't want anything he can't give her. Her friends will do for\nhim and his for her. And when I dreamed of you in my home--\" he closed\nhis eyes and drew a long breath. At last he looked at her again. \"This\nis no country for a lady. Will yu' forget and forgive the bothering I\nhave done?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried Molly. \"Oh!\" And she put her hands to her eyes. She had\nrisen and stood with her face covered.\n\n\"I surely had to tell you this all out, didn't I?\" said the cow-puncher,\nfaintly, in his chair.\n\n\"Oh!\" said Molly again.\n\n\"I have put it clear how it is,\" he pursued. \"I ought to have seen from\nthe start I was not the sort to keep you happy.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Molly--\"but I--you ought--please try to keep me happy!\" And\nsinking by his chair, she hid her face on his knees.\n\nSpeechless, he bent down and folded her round, putting his hands on the\nhair that had been always his delight. Presently he whispered:-- \"You\nhave beat me; how can I fight this?\"\n\nShe answered nothing. The Navajo's scarlet and black folds fell over\nboth. Not with words, not even with meeting eyes, did the two plight\ntheir troth in this first new hour. So they remained long, the fair head\nnesting in the great arms, and the black head laid against it, while\nover the silent room presided the little Grandmother Stark in her frame,\nrosy, blue, and flaxen, not quite familiar, not quite smiling.\n\n\n\n\nXXVIII. NO DREAM TO WAKE FROM\n\n\nFor a long while after she had left him, he lay still, stretched in\nhis chair. His eyes were fixed steadily upon the open window and the\nsunshine outside. There he watched the movement of the leaves upon the\ngreen cottonwoods. What had she said to him when she went? She had said,\n\"Now I know how unhappy I have been.\" These sweet words he repeated to\nhimself over and over, fearing in some way that he might lose them. They\nalmost slipped from him at times; but with a jump of his mind he caught\nthem again and held them,--and then--\"I'm not all strong yet,\" he\nmurmured. \"I must have been very sick.\" And, weak from his bullet\nwound and fever, he closed his eyes without knowing it. There were the\ncottonwoods again, waving, waving; and he felt the cool, pleasant air\nfrom the window. He saw the light draught stir the ashes in the great\nstone fireplace. \"I have been asleep,\" he said. \"But she was cert'nly\nhere herself. Oh, yes. Surely. She always has to go away every day\nbecause the doctor says--why, she was readin'!\" he broke off, aloud.\n\"DAVID COPPERFIELD.\" There it was on the floor. \"Aha! nailed you\nanyway!\" he said. \"But how scared I am of myself!--You're a fool. Of\ncourse it's so. No fever business could make yu' feel like this.\"\n\nHis eye dwelt awhile on the fireplace, next on the deer horns, and\nnext it travelled toward the shelf where her books were; but it stopped\nbefore reaching them.\n\n\"Better say off the names before I look,\" said he. \"I've had a heap o'\nmisreading visions. And--and supposin'--if this was just my sickness\nfooling me some more--I'd want to die. I would die! Now we'll see. If\nCOPPERFIELD is on the floor\" (he looked stealthily to be sure that it\nwas), \"then she was readin' to me when everything happened, and then\nthere should be a hole in the book row, top, left. Top, left,\" he\nrepeated, and warily brought his glance to the place. \"Proved!\" he\ncried. \"It's all so!\"\n\nHe now noticed the miniature of Grandmother Stark. \"You are awful like\nher,\" he whispered. \"You're cert'nly awful like her. May I kiss you too,\nma'am?\"\n\nThen, tottering, he rose from his sick-chair. The Navajo blanket fell\nfrom his shoulders, and gradually, experimentally, he stood upright.\n\nHelping himself with his hand slowly along the wall of the room, and\nround to the opposite wall with many a pause, he reached the picture,\nand very gently touched the forehead of the ancestral dame with his\nlips. \"I promise to make your little girl happy,\" he whispered.\n\nHe almost fell in stooping to the portrait, but caught himself and stood\ncarefully quiet, trembling, and speaking to himself. \"Where is your\nstrength?\" he demanded. \"I reckon it is joy that has unsteadied your\nlaigs.\"\n\nThe door opened. It was she, come back with his dinner.\n\n\"My Heavens!\" she said; and setting the tray down, she rushed to him.\nShe helped him back to his chair, and covered him again. He had suffered\nno hurt, but she clung to him; and presently he moved and let himself\nkiss her with fuller passion.\n\n\"I will be good,\" he whispered.\n\n\"You must,\" she said. \"You looked so pale!\"\n\n\"You are speakin' low like me,\" he answered. \"But we have no dream we\ncan wake from.\"\n\nHad she surrendered on this day to her cow-puncher, her wild man? Was she\nforever wholly his? Had the Virginian's fire so melted her heart that no\nrift in it remained? So she would have thought if any thought had come\nto her. But in his arms to-day, thought was lost in something more\ndivine.\n\n\n\n\nXXIX. WORD TO BENNINGTON\n\n\nThey kept their secret for a while, or at least they had that special\njoy of believing that no one in all the world but themselves knew this\nthat had happened to them. But I think that there was one person who\nknew how to keep a secret even better than these two lovers. Mrs. Taylor\nmade no remarks to any one whatever. Nobody on Bear Creek, however, was\nso extraordinarily cheerful and serene. That peculiar severity which she\nhad manifested in the days when Molly was packing her possessions,\nhad now altogether changed. In these days she was endlessly kind and\nindulgent to her \"deary.\" Although, as a housekeeper, Mrs. Taylor\nbelieved in punctuality at meals, and visited her offspring with\ndiscipline when they were late without good and sufficient excuse, Molly\nwas now exempt from the faintest hint of reprimand.\n\n\"And it's not because you're not her mother,\" said George Taylor,\nbitterly. \"She used to get it, too. And we're the only ones that get it.\nThere she comes, just as we're about ready to quit! Aren't you going to\nsay NOTHING to her?\"\n\n\"George,\" said his mother, \"when you've saved a man's life it'll be time\nfor you to talk.\"\n\nSo Molly would come in to her meals with much irregularity; and her\nremarks about the imperfections of her clock met with no rejoinder. And\nyet one can scarcely be so severe as had been Mrs. Taylor, and become\nwholly as mild as milk. There was one recurrent event that could\ninvariably awaken hostile symptoms in the dame. Whenever she saw a\nletter arrive with the Bennington postmark upon it, she shook her fist\nat that letter. \"What's family pride?\" she would say to herself. \"Taylor\ncould be a Son of the Revolution if he'd a mind to. I wonder if she has\ntold her folks yet.\"\n\nAnd when letters directed to Bennington would go out, Mrs. Taylor would\ninspect every one as if its envelope ought to grow transparent beneath\nher eyes, and yield up to her its great secret, if it had one. But in\ntruth these letters had no great secret to yield up, until one day--yes;\none day Mrs. Taylor would have burst, were bursting a thing that people\noften did. Three letters were the cause of this emotion on Mrs. Taylor's\npart; one addressed to Bennington, one to Dunbarton, and the third--here\nwas the great excitement--to Bennington, but not in the little\nschoolmarm's delicate writing. A man's hand had traced those plain,\nsteady vowels and consonants.\n\n\"It's come!\" exclaimed Mrs. Taylor, at this sight. \"He has written to\nher mother himself.\"\n\nThat is what the Virginian had done, and here is how it had come about.\n\nThe sick man's convalescence was achieved. The weeks had brought back to\nhim, not his whole strength yet--that could come only by many miles\nof open air on the back of Monte; but he was strong enough now to GET\nstrength. When a patient reaches this stage, he is out of the woods.\n\nHe had gone for a little walk with his nurse. They had taken (under the\ndoctor's recommendation) several such little walks, beginning with a\nfive-minute one, and at last to-day accomplishing three miles.\n\n\"No, it has not been too far,\" said he. \"I am afraid I could walk twice\nas far.\"\n\n\"Afraid?\"\n\n\"Yes. Because it means I can go to work again. This thing we have had\ntogether is over.\"\n\nFor reply, she leaned against him.\n\n\"Look at you!\" he said. \"Only a little while ago you had to help me\nstand on my laigs. And now--\" For a while there was silence between\nthem. \"I have never had a right down sickness before,\" he presently went\non. \"Not to remember, that is. If any person had told me I could ENJOY\nsuch a thing--\" He said no more, for she reached up, and no more speech\nwas possible.\n\n\"How long has it been?\" he next asked her.\n\nShe told him.\n\n\"Well, if it could be forever--no. Not forever with no more than this.\nI reckon I'd be sick again! But if it could be forever with just you and\nme, and no one else to bother with. But any longer would not be doing\nright by your mother. She would have a right to think ill of me.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said the girl. \"Let us keep it.\"\n\n\"Not after I am gone. Your mother must be told.\"\n\n\"It seems so--can't we--oh, why need anybody know?\"\n\n\"Your mother ain't 'anybody.' She is your mother. I feel mighty\nresponsible to her for what I have done.\"\n\n\"But I did it!\"\n\n\"Do you think so? Your mother will not think so. I am going to write to\nher to-day.\"\n\n\"You! Write to my mother! Oh, then everything will be so different! They\nwill all--\" Molly stopped before the rising visions of Bennington. Upon\nthe fairy-tale that she had been living with her cow-boy lover broke the\nvoices of the world. She could hear them from afar. She could see the\neyes of Bennington watching this man at her side. She could imagine the\nears of Bennington listening for slips in his English. There loomed upon\nher the round of visits which they would have to make. The ringing of\nthe door-bells, the waiting in drawing-rooms for the mistress to descend\nand utter her prepared congratulations, while her secret eye devoured\nthe Virginian's appearance, and his manner of standing and sitting. He\nwould be wearing gloves, instead of fringed gauntlets of buckskin. In a\nsmooth black coat and waistcoat, how could they perceive the man he was?\nDuring those short formal interviews, what would they ever find out of\nthe things that she knew about him? The things for which she was proud\nof him? He would speak shortly and simply; they would say, \"Oh, yes!\"\nand \"How different you must find this from Wyoming!\"--and then, after\nthe door was shut behind his departing back they would say--He would\nbe totally underrated, not in the least understood. Why should he be\nsubjected to this? He should never be!\n\nNow in all these half-formed, hurried, distressing thoughts which\nstreamed through the girl's mind, she altogether forgot one truth. True\nit was that the voice of the world would speak as she imagined. True it\nwas that in the eyes of her family and acquaintance this lover of her\nchoice would be examined even more like a SPECIMEN than are other lovers\nupon these occasions: and all accepted lovers have to face this ordeal\nof being treated like specimens by the other family. But dear me!\nmost of us manage to stand it, don't we? It isn't, perhaps, the\nmost delicious experience that we can recall in connection with our\nengagement. But it didn't prove fatal. We got through it somehow. We\ndined with Aunt Jane, and wined with Uncle Joseph, and perhaps had two\nfingers given to us by old Cousin Horatio, whose enormous fortune was of\nthe greatest importance to everybody. And perhaps fragments of the other\nfamily's estimate of us subsequently reached our own ears. But if a\nchosen lover cannot stand being treated as a specimen by the other\nfamily, he's a very weak vessel, and not worth any good girl's love.\nThat's all I can say for him.\n\nNow the Virginian was scarcely what even his enemy would term a weak\nvessel; and Molly's jealousy of the impression which he might make upon\nBennington was vastly superfluous. She should have known that he would\nindeed care to make a good impression; but that such anxiety on his part\nwould be wholly for her sake, that in the eyes of her friends she might\nstand justified in taking him for her wedded husband. So far as he was\nconcerned apart from her, Aunt Jane and Uncle Joseph might say anything\nthey pleased, or think anything they pleased. His character was open for\ninvestigation. Judge Henry would vouch for him.\n\nThis is what he would have said to his sweetheart had she but revealed\nto him her perturbations. But she did not reveal them; and they were not\nof the order that he with his nature was likely to divine. I do not\nknow what good would have come from her speaking out to him, unless that\nperfect understanding between lovers which indeed is a good thing. But\nI do not believe that he could have reassured her; and I am certain that\nshe could not have prevented his writing to her mother.\n\n\"Well, then,\" she sighed at last, \"if you think so, I will tell her.\"\n\nThat sigh of hers, be it well understood, was not only because of those\nfar-off voices which the world would in consequence of her news be\nlifting presently. It came also from bidding farewell to the fairy-tale\nwhich she must leave now; that land in which she and he had been living\nclose together alone, unhindered, unmindful of all things.\n\n\"Yes, you will tell her,\" said her lover. \"And I must tell her too.\"\n\n\"Both of us?\" questioned the girl.\n\nWhat would he say to her mother? How would her mother like such a letter\nas he would write to her? Suppose he should misspell a word? Would not\nsentences from him at this time--written sentences--be a further bar to\nhis welcome acceptance at Bennington?\n\n\"Why don't you send messages by me?\" she asked him.\n\nHe shook his head. \"She is not going to like it, anyway,\" he answered.\n\"I must speak to her direct. It would be like shirking.\"\n\nMolly saw how true his instinct was here; and a little flame shot upward\nfrom the glow of her love and pride in him. Oh, if they could all only\nknow that he was like this when you understood him! She did not dare say\nout to him what her fear was about this letter of his to her mother. She\ndid not dare because--well, because she lacked a little faith. That is\nit, I am afraid. And for that sin she was her own punishment. For in\nthis day, and in many days to come, the pure joy of her love was vexed\nand clouded, all through a little lack of faith; while for him, perfect\nin his faith, his joy was like crystal.\n\n\"Tell me what you're going to write,\" she said.\n\nHe smiled at her. \"No.\"\n\n\"Aren't you going to let me see it when it's done?\"\n\n\"No.\" Then a freakish look came into his eyes. \"I'll let yu' see\nanything I write to other women.\" And he gave her one of his long\nkisses. \"Let's get through with it together,\" he suggested, when they\nwere once more in his sick-room, that room which she had given to him.\n\"You'll sit one side o' the table, and I'll sit the other, and we'll go\nahaid; and pretty soon it will be done.\"\n\n\"O dear!\" she said. \"Yes, I suppose that is the best way.\"\n\nAnd so, accordingly, they took their places. The inkstand stood between\nthem. Beside each of them she distributed paper enough, almost, for a\npresidential message. And pens and pencils were in plenty. Was this not\nthe headquarters of the Bear Creek schoolmarm?\n\n\"Why, aren't you going to do it in pencil first?\" she exclaimed, looking\nup from her vacant sheet. His pen was moving slowly, but steadily.\n\n\"No, I don't reckon I need to,\" he answered, with his nose close to the\npaper. \"Oh, damnation, there's a blot!\" He tore his spoiled beginning in\nsmall bits, and threw them into the fireplace. \"You've got it too full,\"\nhe commented; and taking the inkstand, he tipped a little from it out\nof the window. She sat lost among her false starts. Had she heard him\nswear, she would not have minded. She rather liked it when he swore. He\npossessed that quality in his profanity of not offending by it. It is\nquite wonderful how much worse the same word will sound in one man's\nlips than in another's. But she did not hear him. Her mind was among a\nlitter of broken sentences. Each thought which she began ran out into\nthe empty air, or came against some stone wall. So there she sat, her\neyes now upon that inexorable blank sheet that lay before her, waiting,\nand now turned with vacant hopelessness upon the sundry objects in the\nroom. And while she thus sat accomplishing nothing, opposite to her the\nblack head bent down, and the steady pen moved from phrase to phrase.\n\nShe became aware of his gazing at her, flushed and solemn. That strange\ncolor of the sea-water, which she could never name, was lustrous in his\neyes. He was folding his letter.\n\n\"You have finished?\" she said.\n\n\"Yes.\" His voice was very quiet. \"I feel like an honester man.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I can do something to-night at Mrs. Taylor's,\" she said,\nlooking at her paper.\n\nOn it were a few words crossed out. This was all she had to show. At\nthis set task in letter-writing, the cow-puncher had greatly excelled\nthe schoolmarm!\n\nBut that night, while he lay quite fast asleep in his bed, she was\nkeeping vigil in her room at Mrs. Taylor's.\n\nAccordingly, the next day, those three letters departed for the mail,\nand Mrs. Taylor consequently made her exclamation, \"It's come!\"\n\nOn the day before the Virginian returned to take up his work at Judge\nHenry's ranch, he and Molly announced their news. What Molly said to\nMrs. Taylor and what Mrs. Taylor said to her, is of no interest to us,\nthough it was of much to them.\n\nBut Mr. McLean happened to make a call quite early in the morning to\ninquire for his friend's health.\n\n\"Lin,\" began the Virginian, \"there is no harm in your knowing an hour or\nso before the rest, I am--\"\n\n\"Lord!\" said Mr. McLean, indulgently. \"Everybody has knowed that since\nthe day she found yu' at the spring.\"\n\n\"It was not so, then,\" said the Virginian, crossly.\n\n\"Lord! Everybody has knowed it right along.\"\n\n\"Hmp!\" said the Virginian. \"I didn't know this country was that rank\nwith gossips.\"\n\nMr. McLean laughed mirthfully at the lover. \"Well,\" he said, \"Mrs.\nMcLean will be glad. She told me to give yu' her congratulations quite\na while ago. I was to have 'em ready just as soon as ever yu' asked for\n'em yourself.\" Lin had been made a happy man some twelve months previous\nto this. And now, by way of an exchange of news, he added: \"We're\nexpectin' a little McLean down on Box Elder. That's what you'll be\nexpectin' some of these days, I hope.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" murmured the Virginian, \"I hope so too.\"\n\n\"And I don't guess,\" said Lin, \"that you and I will do much shufflin' of\nother folks' children any more.\"\n\nWhereupon he and the Virginian shook hands silently, and understood each\nother very well.\n\nOn the day that the Virginian parted with Molly, beside the weight of\nfarewell which lay heavy on his heart, his thoughts were also grave with\nnews. The cattle thieves had grown more audacious. Horses and cattle\nboth were being missed, and each man began almost to doubt his neighbor.\n\n\"Steps will have to be taken soon by somebody, I reckon,\" said the\nlover.\n\n\"By you?\" she asked quickly.\n\n\"Most likely I'll get mixed up with it.\"\n\n\"What will you have to do?\"\n\n\"Can't say. I'll tell yu' when I come back.\"\n\nSo did he part from her, leaving her more kisses than words to remember.\n\nAnd what was doing at Bennington, meanwhile, and at Dunbarton? Those\nthree letters which by their mere outside had so moved Mrs. Taylor,\nproduced by their contents much painful disturbance.\n\nIt will be remembered that Molly wrote to her mother, and to her\ngreat-aunt. That announcement to her mother was undertaken first. Its\ncomposition occupied three hours and a half, and it filled eleven pages,\nnot counting a postscript upon the twelfth. The letter to the great-aunt\ntook only ten minutes. I cannot pretend to explain why this one was\nso greatly superior to the other; but such is the remarkable fact. Its\nbeginning, to be sure, did give the old lady a start; she had dismissed\nthe cow-boy from her probabilities.\n\n\"Tut, tut, tut!\" she exclaimed out loud in her bedroom. \"She has thrown\nherself away on that fellow!\"\n\nBut some sentences at the end made her pause and sit still for a long\nwhile. The severity upon her face changed to tenderness, gradually. \"Ah,\nme,\" she sighed. \"If marriage were as simple as love!\" Then she went\nslowly downstairs, and out into her garden, where she walked long\nbetween the box borders. \"But if she has found a great love,\" said the\nold lady at length. And she returned to her bedroom, and opened an old\ndesk, and read some old letters.\n\nThere came to her the next morning a communication from Bennington. This\nhad been penned frantically by poor Mrs. Wood. As soon as she had been\nable to gather her senses after the shock of her daughter's eleven pages\nand the postscript, the mother had poured out eight pages herself to the\neldest member of the family. There had been, indeed, much excuse for the\npoor lady. To begin with, Molly had constructed her whole opening\npage with the express and merciful intention of preparing her mother.\nConsequently, it made no sense whatever. Its effect was the usual effect\nof remarks designed to break a thing gently. It merely made Mrs. Wood's\nhead swim, and filled her with a sickening dread. \"Oh, mercy, Sarah,\"\nshe had cried, \"come here. What does this mean?\" And then, fortified by\nher elder daughter, she had turned over that first page and found what\nit meant on the top of the second. \"A savage with knives and pistols!\"\nshe wailed.\n\n\"Well, mother, I always told you so,\" said her daughter Sarah.\n\n\"What is a foreman?\" exclaimed the mother. \"And who is Judge Henry?\"\n\n\"She has taken a sort of upper servant,\" said Sarah. \"If it is allowed\nto go as far as a wedding, I doubt if I can bring myself to be present.\"\n(This threat she proceeded to make to Molly, with results that shall be\nset forth in their proper place.)\n\n\"The man appears to have written to me himself,\" said Mrs. Wood.\n\n\"He knows no better,\" said Sarah.\n\n\"Bosh!\" said Sarah's husband later. \"It was a very manly thing to do.\"\nThus did consternation rage in the house at Bennington. Molly might\nhave spared herself the many assurances that she gave concerning\nthe universal esteem in which her cow-puncher was held, and the fair\nprospects which were his. So, in the first throes of her despair, Mrs.\nWood wrote those eight not maturely considered pages to the great-aunt.\n\n\"Tut, tut, tut!\" said the great-aunt as she read them. Her face was much\nmore severe to-day. \"You'd suppose,\" she said, \"that the girl had been\nkidnapped! Why, she has kept him waiting three years!\" And then she\nread more, but soon put the letter down with laughter. For Mrs. Wood\nhad repeated in writing that early outburst of hers about a savage with\nknives and pistols. \"Law!\" said the great-aunt. \"Law, what a fool Lizzie\nis!\"\n\nSo she sat down and wrote to Mrs. Wood a wholesome reply about putting\na little more trust in her own flesh and blood, and reminding her among\nother things that General Stark had himself been wont to carry knives\nand pistols owing to the necessities of his career, but that he had\noccasionally taken them off, as did probably this young man in Wyoming.\n\"You had better send me the letter he has written you,\" she concluded.\n\"I shall know much better what to think after I have seen that.\"\n\nIt is not probable that Mrs. Wood got much comfort from this\ncommunication; and her daughter Sarah was actually enraged by it.\n\"She grows more perverse as she nears her dotage,\" said Sarah. But the\nVirginian's letter was sent to Dunbarton, where the old lady sat herself\ndown to read it with much attention.\n\nHere is what the Virginian had said to the unknown mother of his\nsweetheart.\n\nMRS. JOHN STARK WOOD Bennington, Vermont.\n\nMadam: If your daughter Miss Wood has ever told you about her saving\na man's life here when some Indians had shot him that is the man who\nwrites to you now. I don't think she can have told you right about\nthat affair for she is the only one in this country who thinks it was\na little thing. So I must tell you it, the main points. Such an action\nwould have been thought highly of in a Western girl, but with Miss\nWood's raising nobody had a right to expect it.\n\n\"Indeed!\" snorted the great-aunt. \"Well, he would be right, if I had not\nhad a good deal more to do with her 'raising' than ever Lizzie had.\" And\nshe went on with the letter.\n\nI was starting in to die when she found me. I did not know anything\nthen, and she pulled me back from where I was half in the next world.\nShe did not know but what Indians would get her too but I could not make\nher leave me. I am a heavy man one hundred and seventy-three stripped\nwhen in full health. She lifted me herself from the ground me helping\nscarce any for there was not much help in me that day. She washed my\nwound and brought me to with her own whiskey. Before she could get me\nhome I was out of my head but she kept me on my horse somehow and talked\nwisely to me so I minded her and did not go clean crazy till she had got\nme safe to bed. The doctor says I would have died all the same if she\nhad not nursed me the way she did. It made me love her more which I did\nnot know I could. But there is no end, for this writing it down makes me\nlove her more as I write it.\n\nAnd now Mrs. Wood I am sorry this will be bad news for you to hear. I\nknow you would never choose such a man as I am for her for I have got\nno education and must write humble against my birth. I wish I could make\nthe news easier but truth is the best.\n\nI am of old stock in Virginia. English and one Scotch Irish grandmother\nmy father's father brought from Kentucky. We have always stayed at the\nsame place farmers and hunters not bettering our lot and very plain. We\nhave fought when we got the chance, under Old Hickory and in Mexico and\nmy father and two brothers were killed in the Valley sixty-four. Always\nwith us one son has been apt to run away and I was the one this time. I\nhad too much older brothering to suit me. But now I am doing well being\nin full sight of prosperity and not too old and very strong my health\nhaving stood the sundries it has been put through. She shall teach\nschool no more when she is mine. I wish I could make this news easier\nfor you Mrs. Wood. I do not like promises I have heard so many. I will\ntell any man of your family anything he likes to ask one, and Judge\nHenry would tell you about my reputation. I have seen plenty rough\nthings but can say I have never killed for pleasure or profit and am not\none of that kind, always preferring peace. I have had to live in places\nwhere they had courts and lawyers so called but an honest man was all\nthe law you could find in five hundred miles. I have not told her about\nthose things not because I am ashamed of them but there are so many\nthings too dark for a girl like her to hear about.\n\nI had better tell you the way I know I love Miss Wood. I am not a boy\nnow, and women are no new thing to me. A man like me who has travelled\nmeets many of them as he goes and passes on but I stopped when I came\nto Miss Wood. That is three years but I have not gone on. What right has\nsuch as he? you will say. So did I say it after she had saved my life.\nIt was hard to get to that point and keep there with her around me all\nday. But I said to myself you have bothered her for three years with\nyour love and if you let your love bother her you don't love her like\nyou should and you must quit for her sake who has saved your life. I did\nnot know what I was going to do with my life after that but I supposed\nI could go somewhere and work hard and so Mrs. Wood I told her I would\ngive her up. But she said no. It is going to be hard for her to get used\nto a man like me--\n\nBut at this point in the Virginian's letter, the old great-aunt could\nread no more. She rose, and went over to that desk where lay those faded\nletters of her own. She laid her head down upon the package, and as her\ntears flowed quietly upon it, \"O dear,\" she whispered, \"O dear! And this\nis what I lost!\"\n\nTo her girl upon Bear Creek she wrote the next day. And this word from\nDunbarton was like balm among the harsh stings Molly was receiving. The\nvoices of the world reached her in gathering numbers, and not one of\nthem save that great-aunt's was sweet. Her days were full of hurts; and\nthere was no one by to kiss the hurts away. Nor did she even hear from\nher lover any more now. She only knew he had gone into lonely regions\nupon his errand.\n\nThat errand took him far:-- Across the Basin, among the secret places\nof Owl Creek, past the Washakie Needles, over the Divide to Gros Ventre,\nand so through a final barrier of peaks into the borders of East Idaho.\nThere, by reason of his bidding me, I met him, and came to share in a\npart of his errand.\n\nIt was with no guide that I travelled to him. He had named a little\nstation on the railroad, and from thence he had charted my route by\nmeans of landmarks. Did I believe in omens, the black storm that I set\nout in upon my horse would seem like one to-day. But I had been living\nin cities and smoke; and Idaho, even with rain, was delightful to me.\n\n\n\n\nXXX. A STABLE ON THE FLAT\n\n\nWhen the first landmark, the lone clump of cottonwoods, came at length\nin sight, dark and blurred in the gentle rain, standing out perhaps\na mile beyond the distant buildings, my whole weary body hailed the\napproach of repose. Saving the noon hour, I had been in the saddle since\nsix, and now six was come round again. The ranch, my resting-place for\nthis night, was a ruin--cabin, stable, and corral. Yet after the twelve\nhours of pushing on and on through silence, still to have silence, still\nto eat and go to sleep in it, perfectly fitted the mood of both my flesh\nand spirit. At noon, when for a while I had thrown off my long oilskin\ncoat, merely the sight of the newspaper half crowded into my pocket had\nbeen a displeasing reminder of the railway, and cities, and affairs. But\nfor its possible help to build fires, it would have come no farther with\nme. The great levels around me lay cooled and freed of dust by the\nwet weather, and full of sweet airs. Far in front the foot-hills rose\nthrough the rain, indefinite and mystic. I wanted no speech with any\none, nor to be near human beings at all. I was steeped in a revery as of\nthe primal earth; even thoughts themselves had almost ceased motion. To\nlie down with wild animals, with elk and deer, would have made my waking\ndream complete; and since such dream could not be, the cattle around the\ndeserted buildings, mere dots as yet across separating space, were my\nproper companions for this evening.\n\nTo-morrow night I should probably be camping with the Virginian in the\nfoot-hills. At his letter's bidding I had come eastward across Idaho,\nabandoning my hunting in the Saw Tooth Range to make this journey with\nhim back through the Tetons. It was a trail known to him, and not to\nmany other honest men. Horse Thief Pass was the name his letter gave it.\nBusiness (he was always brief) would call him over there at this time.\nReturning, he must attend to certain matters in the Wind River country.\nThere I could leave by stage for the railroad, or go on with him the\nwhole way back to Sunk Creek. He designated for our meeting the forks\nof a certain little stream in the foot-hills which to-day's ride had\nbrought in sight. There would be no chance for him to receive an answer\nfrom me in the intervening time. If by a certain day--which was four\ndays off still--I had not reached the forks, he would understand I had\nother plans. To me it was like living back in ages gone, this way of\nmeeting my friend, this choice of a stream so far and lonely that its\nvery course upon the maps was wrongly traced. And to leave behind all\nnoise and mechanisms, and set out at ease, slowly, with one packhorse,\ninto the wilderness, made me feel that the ancient earth was indeed my\nmother and that I had found her again after being lost among houses,\ncustoms, and restraints. I should arrive three days early at the\nforks--three days of margin seeming to me a wise precaution against\ndelays unforeseen. If the Virginian were not there, good; I could fish\nand be happy. If he were there but not ready to start, good; I could\nstill fish and be happy. And remembering my Eastern helplessness in\nthe year when we had met first, I enjoyed thinking how I had come to be\ntrusted. In those days I had not been allowed to go from the ranch for\nso much as an afternoon's ride unless tied to him by a string, so to\nspeak; now I was crossing unmapped spaces with no guidance. The man who\ncould do this was scarce any longer a \"tenderfoot.\"\n\nMy vision, as I rode, took in serenely the dim foot-hills,--to-morrow's\ngoal,--and nearer in the vast wet plain the clump of cottonwoods, and\nstill nearer my lodging for to-night with the dotted cattle round it.\nAnd now my horse neighed. I felt his gait freshen for the journey's\nend, and leaning to pat his neck I noticed his ears no longer slack and\ninattentive, but pointing forward to where food and rest awaited both of\nus. Twice he neighed, impatiently and long; and as he quickened his gait\nstill more, the packhorse did the same, and I realized that there was\nabout me still a spice of the tenderfoot: those dots were not cattle;\nthey were horses.\n\nMy horse had put me in the wrong. He had known his kind from afar,\nand was hastening to them. The plainsman's eye was not yet mine; and I\nsmiled a little as I rode. When was I going to know, as by instinct, the\ndifferent look of horses and cattle across some two or three miles of\nplain?\n\nThese miles we finished soon. The buildings changed in their aspect as\nthey grew to my approach, showing their desolation more clearly, and in\nsome way bringing apprehension into my mood. And around them the horses,\ntoo, all standing with ears erect, watching me as I came--there was\nsomething about them; or was it the silence? For the silence which I had\nliked until now seemed suddenly to be made too great by the presence of\nthe deserted buildings. And then the door of the stable opened, and\nmen came out and stood, also watching me arrive. By the time I was\ndismounting more were there. It was senseless to feel as unpleasant as\nI did, and I strove to give to them a greeting that should sound easy.\nI told them that I hoped there was room for one more here to-night. Some\nof them had answered my greeting, but none of them answered this; and\nas I began to be sure that I recognized several of their strangely\nimperturbable faces, the Virginian came from the stable; and at that\nwelcome sight my relief spoke out instantly.\n\n\"I am here, you see!\"\n\n\"Yes, I do see.\" I looked hard at him, for in his voice was the same\nstrangeness that I felt in everything around me. But he was looking at\nhis companions. \"This gentleman is all right,\" he told them.\n\n\"That may be,\" said one whom I now knew that I had seen before at Sunk\nCreek; \"but he was not due to-night.\"\n\n\"Nor to-morrow,\" said another.\n\n\"Nor yet the day after,\" a third added.\n\nThe Virginian fell into his drawl. \"None of you was ever early for\nanything, I presume.\"\n\nOne retorted, laughing, \"Oh, we're not suspicioning you of complicity.\"\n\nAnd another, \"Not even when we remember how thick you and Steve used to\nbe.\"\n\nWhatever jokes they meant by this he did not receive as jokes. I saw\nsomething like a wince pass over his face, and a flush follow it. But he\nnow spoke to me. \"We expected to be through before this,\" he began. \"I'm\nright sorry you have come to-night. I know you'd have preferred to keep\naway.\"\n\n\"We want him to explain himself,\" put in one of the others. \"If he\nsatisfies us, he's free to go away.\"\n\n\"Free to go away!\" I now exclaimed. But at the indulgence in their\nfrontier smile I cooled down. \"Gentlemen,\" I said, \"I don't know why my\nmovements interest you so much. It's quite a compliment! May I get under\nshelter while I explain?\"\n\nNo request could have been more natural, for the rain had now begun to\nfall in straight floods. Yet there was a pause before one of them said,\n\"He might as well.\"\n\nThe Virginian chose to say nothing more; but he walked beside me into\nthe stable. Two men sat there together, and a third guarded them. At\nthat sight I knew suddenly what I had stumbled upon; and on the impulse\nI murmured to the Virginian, \"You're hanging them to-morrow.\"\n\nHe kept his silence.\n\n\"You may have three guesses,\" said a man behind me.\n\nBut I did not need them. And in the recoil of my insight the clump\nof cottonwoods came into my mind, black and grim. No other trees high\nenough grew within ten miles. This, then, was the business that the\nVirginian's letter had so curtly mentioned. My eyes went into all\ncorners of the stable, but no other prisoners were here. I half expected\nto see Trampas, and I half feared to see Shorty; for poor stupid\nShorty's honesty had not been proof against frontier temptations, and he\nhad fallen away from the company of his old friends. Often of late I\nhad heard talk at Sunk Creek of breaking up a certain gang of horse and\ncattle thieves that stole in one Territory and sold in the next, and\nknew where to hide in the mountains between. And now it had come to the\npoint; forces had been gathered, a long expedition made, and here they\nwere, successful under the Virginian's lead, but a little later than\ntheir calculations. And here was I, a little too early, and a witness in\nconsequence. My presence seemed a simple thing to account for; but when\nI had thus accounted for it, one of them said with good nature:-- \"So\nyou find us here, and we find you here. Which is the most surprised, I\nwonder?\"\n\n\"There's no telling,\" said I, keeping as amiable as I could; \"nor any\ntelling which objects the most.\"\n\n\"Oh, there's no objection here. You're welcome to stay. But not welcome\nto go, I expect. He ain't welcome to go, is he?\"\n\nBy the answers that their faces gave him it was plain that I was not.\n\"Not till we are through,\" said one.\n\n\"He needn't to see anything,\"' another added.\n\n\"Better sleep late to-morrow morning,\" a third suggested to me.\n\nI did not wish to stay here. I could have made some sort of camp apart\nfrom them before dark; but in the face of their needless caution I was\nhelpless. I made no attempt to inquire what kind of spy they imagined I\ncould be, what sort of rescue I could bring in this lonely country; my\ntoo early appearance seemed to be all that they looked at. And again\nmy eyes sought the prisoners. Certainly there were only two. One was\nchewing tobacco, and talking now and then to his guard as if nothing\nwere the matter. The other sat dull in silence, not moving his eyes;\nbut his face worked, and I noticed how he continually moistened his dry\nlips. As I looked at these doomed prisoners, whose fate I was invited to\nsleep through to-morrow morning, the one who was chewing quietly nodded\nto me.\n\n\"You don't remember me?\" he said.\n\nIt was Steve! Steve of Medicine Bow! The pleasant Steve of my first\nevening in the West. Some change of beard had delayed my instant\nrecognition of his face. Here he sat sentenced to die. A shock, chill\nand painful, deprived me of speech.\n\nHe had no such weak feelings. \"Have yu' been to Medicine Bow lately?\" he\ninquired. \"That's getting to be quite a while ago.\"\n\nI assented. I should have liked to say something natural and kind,\nbut words stuck against my will, and I stood awkward and ill at ease,\nnoticing idly that the silent one wore a gray flannel shirt like mine.\nSteve looked me over, and saw in my pocket the newspaper which I had\nbrought from the railroad and on which I had pencilled a few expenses.\nHe asked me, Would I mind letting him have it for a while? And I gave\nit to him eagerly, begging him to keep it as long as he wanted. I was\novereager in my embarrassment. \"You need not return it at all,\" I said;\n\"those notes are nothing. Do keep it.\"\n\nHe gave me a short glance and a smile. \"Thank you,\" he said; \"I'll not\nneed it beyond to-morrow morning.\" And he began to search through it.\n\"Jake's election is considered sure,\" he said to his companion, who\nmade no response. \"Well, Fremont County owes it to Jake.\" And I left him\ninterested in the local news.\n\nDead men I have seen not a few times, even some lying pale and terrible\nafter violent ends, and the edge of this wears off; but I hope I shall\nnever again have to be in the company with men waiting to be killed.\nBy this time to-morrow the gray flannel shirt would be buttoned round\na corpse. Until what moment would Steve chew? Against such fancies as\nthese I managed presently to barricade my mind, but I made a plea to be\nallowed to pass the night elsewhere, and I suggested the adjacent cabin.\nBy their faces I saw that my words merely helped their distrust of me.\nThe cabin leaked too much, they said; I would sleep drier here. One man\ngave it to me more directly: \"If you figured on camping in this stable,\nwhat has changed your mind?\" How could I tell them that I shrunk from\nany contact with what they were doing, although I knew that only so\ncould justice be dealt in this country? Their wholesome frontier nerves\nknew nothing of such refinements.\n\nBut the Virginian understood part of it. \"I am right sorry for your\nannoyance,\" he said. And now I noticed he was under a constraint very\ndifferent from the ease of the others.\n\nAfter the twelve hours' ride my bones were hungry for rest. I spread my\nblankets on some straw in a stall by myself and rolled up in them; yet\nI lay growing broader awake, every inch of weariness stricken from my\nexcited senses. For a while they sat over their councils, whispering\ncautiously, so that I was made curious to hear them by not being able;\nwas it the names of Trampas and Shorty that were once or twice spoken--I\ncould not be sure. I heard the whisperers cease and separate. I heard\ntheir boots as they cast them off upon the ground. And I heard the\nbreathing of slumber begin and grow in the interior silence. To one\nafter one sleep came, but not to me. Outside, the dull fall of the rain\nbeat evenly, and in some angle dripped the spouting pulses of a leak.\nSometimes a cold air blew in, bearing with it the keen wet odor of the\nsage-brush. On hundreds of other nights this perfume had been my last\nwaking remembrance; it had seemed to help drowsiness; and now I lay\nstaring, thinking of this. Twice through the hours the thieves shifted\ntheir positions with clumsy sounds, exchanging muted words with their\nguard. So, often, had I heard other companions move and mutter in the\ndarkness and lie down again. It was the very naturalness and usualness\nof every fact of the night,--the stable straw, the rain outside, my\nfamiliar blankets, the cool visits of the wind,--and with all this the\nthought of Steve chewing and the man in the gray flannel shirt, that\nmade the hours unearthly and strung me tight with suspense. And at last\nI heard some one get up and begin to dress. In a little while I saw\nlight suddenly through my closed eyelids, and then darkness shut again\nabruptly upon them. They had swung in a lantern and found me by mistake.\nI was the only one they did not wish to rouse. Moving and quiet talking\nset up around me, and they began to go out of the stable. At the gleams\nof new daylight which they let in my thoughts went to the clump of\ncottonwoods, and I lay still with hands and feet growing steadily\ncold. Now it was going to happen. I wondered how they would do it; one\ninstance had been described to me by a witness, but that was done from a\nbridge, and there had been but a single victim. This morning, would one\nhave to wait and see the other go through with it first?\n\nThe smell of smoke reached me, and next the rattle of tin dishes.\nBreakfast was something I had forgotten, and one of them was cooking it\nnow in the dry shelter of the stable. He was alone, because the talking\nand the steps were outside the stable, and I could hear the sounds of\nhorses being driven into the corral and saddled. Then I perceived that\nthe coffee was ready, and almost immediately the cook called them. One\ncame in, shutting the door behind him as he reentered, which the rest as\nthey followed imitated; for at each opening of the door I saw the light\nof day leap into the stable and heard the louder sounds of the rain.\nThen the sound and the light would again be shut out, until some one at\nlength spoke out bluntly, bidding the door be left open on account of\nthe smoke. What were they hiding from? he asked. The runaways that had\nescaped? A laugh followed this sally, and the door was left open. Thus\nI learned that there had been more thieves than the two that were\ncaptured. It gave a little more ground for their suspicion about me and\nmy anxiety to pass the night elsewhere. It cost nothing to detain me,\nand they were taking no chances, however remote.\n\nThe fresh air and the light now filled the stable, and I lay listening\nwhile their breakfast brought more talk from them. They were more at\nease now than was I, who had nothing to do but carry out my role of\nslumber in the stall; they spoke in a friendly, ordinary way, as if this\nwere like every other morning of the week to them. They addressed the\nprisoners with a sort of fraternal kindness, not bringing them pointedly\ninto the conversation, nor yet pointedly leaving them out. I made out\nthat they must all be sitting round the breakfast together, those who\nhad to die and those who had to kill them. The Virginian I never heard\nspeak. But I heard the voice of Steve; he discussed with his captors the\nsundry points of his capture.\n\n\"Do you remember a haystack?\" he asked. \"Away up the south fork of Gros\nVentre?\"\n\n\"That was Thursday afternoon,\" said one of the captors. \"There was a\nshower.\"\n\n\"Yes. It rained. We had you fooled that time. I was laying on the ledge\nabove to report your movements.\"\n\nSeveral of them laughed. \"We thought you were over on Spread Creek\nthen.\"\n\n\"I figured you thought so by the trail you left after the stack.\nSaturday we watched you turn your back on us up Spread Creek. We were\nsnug among the trees the other side of Snake River. That was another\ntime we had you fooled.\"\n\nThey laughed again at their own expense. I have heard men pick to pieces\na hand of whist with more antagonism.\n\nSteve continued: \"Would we head for Idaho? Would we swing back over the\nDivide? You didn't know which! And when we generalled you on to that\nband of horses you thought was the band you were hunting--ah, we were a\nstrong combination!\" He broke off with the first touch of bitterness I\nhad felt in his words.\n\n\"Nothing is any stronger than its weakest point.\" It was the Virginian\nwho said this, and it was the first word he had spoken.\n\n\"Naturally,\" said Steve. His tone in addressing the Virginian was so\ndifferent, so curt, that I supposed he took the weakest point to\nmean himself. But the others now showed me that I was wrong in this\nexplanation.\n\n\"That's so,\" one said. \"Its weakest point is where a rope or a gang of\nmen is going to break when the strain comes. And you was linked with a\npoor partner, Steve.\"\n\n\"You're right I was,\" said the prisoner, back in his easy, casual voice.\n\n\"You ought to have got yourself separated from him, Steve.\"\n\nThere was a pause. \"Yes,\" said the prisoner, moodily. \"I'm sitting here\nbecause one of us blundered.\" He cursed the blunderer. \"Lighting his\nfool fire queered the whole deal,\" he added. As he again heavily cursed\nthe blunderer, the others murmured to each other various I told you\nso's.\n\n\"You'd never have built that fire, Steve,\" said one.\n\n\"I said that when we spied the smoke,\" said another. \"I said, 'That's\nnone of Steve's work, lighting fires and revealing to us their\nwhereabouts.'\"\n\nIt struck me that they were plying Steve with compliments.\n\n\"Pretty hard to have the fool get away and you get caught,\" a third\nsuggested. At this they seemed to wait. I felt something curious in all\nthis last talk.\n\n\"Oh, did he get away?\" said the prisoner, then.\n\nAgain they waited; and a new voice spoke huskily:-- \"I built that fire,\nboys.\" It was the prisoner in the gray flannel shirt.\n\n\"Too late, Ed,\" they told him kindly. \"You ain't a good liar.\"\n\n\"What makes you laugh, Steve?\" said some one.\n\n\"Oh, the things I notice.\"\n\n\"Meaning Ed was pretty slow in backing up your play? The joke is really\non you, Steve. You'd ought never to have cursed the fire-builder if\nyou wanted us to believe he was present. But we'd not have done much to\nShorty, even if we had caught him. All he wants is to be scared good and\nhard, and he'll go back into virtuousness, which is his nature when not\ntravelling with Trampas.\"\n\nSteve's voice sounded hard now. \"You have caught Ed and me. That should\nsatisfy you for one gather.\"\n\n\"Well, we think different, Steve. Trampas escaping leaves this thing\nunfinished.\"\n\n\"So Trampas escaped too, did he?\" said the prisoner.\n\n\"Yes, Steve, Trampas escaped--this time; and Shorty with him--this time.\nWe know it most as well as if we'd seen them go. And we're glad Shorty\nis loose, for he'll build another fire or do some other foolishness next\ntime, and that's the time we'll get Trampas.\"\n\nTheir talk drifted to other points, and I lay thinking of the skirmish\nthat had played beneath the surface of their banter. Yes, the joke, as\nthey put it, was on Steve. He had lost one point in the game to them.\nThey were playing for names. He, being a chivalrous thief, was playing\nto hide names. They could only, among several likely confederates, guess\nTrampas and Shorty. So it had been a slip for him to curse the man\nwho built the fire. At least, they so held it. For, they with subtlety\nreasoned, one curses the absent. And I agreed with them that Ed did not\nknow how to lie well; he should have at once claimed the disgrace\nof having spoiled the expedition. If Shorty was the blunderer, then\ncertainly Trampas was the other man; for the two were as inseparable as\ndon and master. Trampas had enticed Shorty away from good, and trained\nhim in evil. It now struck me that after his single remark the Virginian\nhad been silent throughout their shrewd discussion.\n\nIt was the other prisoner that I heard them next address. \"You don't eat\nany breakfast, Ed.\"\n\n\"Brace up, Ed. Look at Steve, how hardy he eats!\"\n\nBut Ed, it seemed, wanted no breakfast. And the tin dishes rattled as\nthey were gathered and taken to be packed.\n\n\"Drink this coffee, anyway,\" another urged; \"you'll feel warmer.\"\n\nThese words almost made it seem like my own execution. My whole body\nturned cold in company with the prisoner's, and as if with a clank the\nsituation tightened throughout my senses.\n\n\"I reckon if every one's ready we'll start.\" It was the Virginian's\nvoice once more, and different from the rest. I heard them rise at his\nbidding, and I put the blanket over my head. I felt their tread as they\nwalked out, passing my stall. The straw that was half under me and half\nout in the stable was stirred as by something heavy dragged or half\nlifted along over it. \"Look out, you're hurting Ed's arm,\" one said to\nanother, as the steps with tangled sounds passed slowly out. I heard\nanother among those who followed say, \"Poor Ed couldn't swallow his\ncoffee.\" Outside they began getting on their horses; and next their\nhoofs grew distant, until all was silence round the stable except the\ndull, even falling of the rain.\n\n\n\n\nXXXI. THE COTTONWOODS\n\n\nI do not know how long I stayed there alone. It was the Virginian who\ncame back, and as he stood at the foot of my blankets his eye, after\nmeeting mine full for a moment, turned aside. I had never seen him\nlook as he did now, not even in Pitchstone Canyon when we came upon the\nbodies of Hank and his wife. Until this moment we had found no chance of\nspeaking together, except in the presence of others.\n\n\"Seems to be raining still,\" I began after a little.\n\n\"Yes. It's a wet spell.\"\n\nHe stared out of the door, smoothing his mustache.\n\nIt was again I that spoke. \"What time is it?\"\n\nHe brooded over his watch. \"Twelve minutes to seven.\"\n\nI rose and stood drawing on my clothes.\n\n\"The fire's out,\" said he; and he assembled some new sticks over the\nashes. Presently he looked round with a cup.\n\n\"Never mind that for me,\" I said.\n\n\"We've a long ride,\" he suggested.\n\n\"I know. I've crackers in my pocket.\"\n\nMy boots being pulled on, I walked to the door and watched the clouds.\n\"They seem as if they might lift,\" I said. And I took out my watch.\n\n\"What time is it?\" he asked.\n\n\"A quarter of--it's run down.\"\n\nWhile I wound it he seemed to be consulting his own.\n\n\"Well?\" I inquired.\n\n\"Ten minutes past seven.\"\n\nAs I was setting my watch he slowly said:\n\n\"Steve wound his all regular. I had to night-guard him till two.\" His\nspeech was like that of one in a trance: so, at least, it sounds in my\nmemory to-day.\n\nAgain I looked at the weather and the rainy immensity of the plain. The\nfoot-hills eastward where we were going were a soft yellow. Over the\ngray-green sage-brush moved shapeless places of light--not yet the\nuncovered sunlight, but spots where the storm was wearing thin; and\nwandering streams of warmth passed by slowly in the surrounding air.\nAs I watched the clouds and the earth, my eyes chanced to fall on the\ndistant clump of cottonwoods. Vapors from the enfeebled storm floated\nround them, and they were indeed far away; but I came inside and began\nrolling up my blankets.\n\n\"You will not change your mind?\" said the Virginian by the fire. \"It is\nthirty-five miles.\"\n\nI shook my head, feeling a certain shame that he should see how unnerved\nI was.\n\nHe swallowed a hot cupful, and after it sat thinking; and presently he\npassed his hand across his brow, shutting his eyes. Again he poured\nout a cup, and emptying this, rose abruptly to his feet as if shaking\nhimself free from something.\n\n\"Let's pack and quit here,\" he said.\n\nOur horses were in the corral and our belongings in the shelter of what\nhad been once the cabin at this forlorn place. He collected them in\nsilence while I saddled my own animal, and in silence we packed the two\npackhorses, and threw the diamond hitch, and hauled tight the slack,\ndamp ropes. Soon we had mounted, and as we turned into the trail I gave\na look back at my last night's lodging.\n\nThe Virginian noticed me. \"Good-by forever!\" he interpreted.\n\n\"By God, I hope so!\"\n\n\"Same here,\" he confessed. And these were our first natural words this\nmorning.\n\n\"This will go well,\" said I, holding my flask out to him; and both of us\ntook some, and felt easier for it and the natural words.\n\nFor an hour we had been shirking real talk, holding fast to the weather,\nor anything, and all the while that silent thing we were keeping\noff spoke plainly in the air around us and in every syllable that we\nuttered. But now we were going to get away from it; leave it behind in\nthe stable, and set ourselves free from it by talking it out. Already\nrelief had begun to stir in my spirits.\n\n\"You never did this before,\" I said.\n\n\"No. I never had it to do.\" He was riding beside me, looking down at his\nsaddle-horn.\n\n\"I do not think I should ever be able,\" I pursued.\n\nDefiance sounded in his answer. \"I would do it again this morning.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't mean that. It's all right here. There's no other way.\"\n\n\"I would do it all over again the same this morning. Just the same.\"\n\n\"Why, so should I--if I could do it at all.\" I still thought he was\njustifying their justice to me.\n\nHe made no answer as he rode along, looking all the while at his saddle.\nBut again he passed his hand over his forehead with that frown and\nshutting of the eyes.\n\n\"I should like to be sure I should behave myself if I were condemned,\" I\nsaid next. For it now came to me--which should I resemble? Could I read\nthe newspaper, and be interested in county elections, and discuss coming\ndeath as if I had lost a game of cards? Or would they have to drag me\nout? That poor wretch in the gray flannel shirt--\"It was bad in the\nstable,\" I said aloud. For an after-shiver of it went through me.\n\nA third time his hand brushed his forehead, and I ventured some\nsympathy.\n\n\"I'm afraid your head aches.\"\n\n\"I don't want to keep seeing Steve,\" he muttered.\n\n\"Steve!\" I was astounded. \"Why he--why all I saw of him was splendid.\nSince it had to be. It was--\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; Ed. You're thinking about him. I'd forgot him. So you didn't\nenjoy Ed?\"\n\nAt this I looked at him blankly. \"It isn't possible that--\"\n\nAgain he cut me short with a laugh almost savage. \"You needn't to worry\nabout Steve. He stayed game.\"\n\nWhat then had been the matter that he should keep seeing Steve--that his\nvision should so obliterate from him what I still shivered at, and so\nshake him now? For he seemed to be growing more stirred as I grew less.\nI asked him no further questions, however, and we went on for several\nminutes, he brooding always in the same fashion, until he resumed with\nthe hard indifference that had before surprised me:-- \"So Ed gave you\nfeelings! Dumb ague and so forth.\"\n\n\"No doubt we're not made the same way,\" I retorted.\n\nHe took no notice of this. \"And you'd have been more comfortable if he'd\nacted same as Steve did. It cert'nly was bad seeing Ed take it that way,\nI reckon. And you didn't see him when the time came for business.\nWell, here's what it is: a man may be such a confirmed miscreant that\nkilling's the only cure for him; but still he's your own species, and\nyou don't want to have him fall around and grab your laigs and show you\nhis fear naked. It makes you feel ashamed. So Ed gave you feelings, and\nSteve made everything right easy for you!\" There was irony in his voice\nas he surveyed me, but it fell away at once into sadness. \"Both was\nmiscreants. But if Steve had played the coward, too, it would have been\na whole heap easier for me.\" He paused before adding, \"And Steve was not\na miscreant once.\"\n\nHis voice had trembled, and I felt the deep emotion that seemed to gain\nupon him now that action was over and he had nothing to do but think.\nAnd his view was simple enough: you must die brave. Failure is a sort\nof treason to the brotherhood, and forfeits pity. It was Steve's perfect\nbearing that had caught his heart so that he forgot even his scorn of\nthe other man.\n\nBut this was by no means all that was to come. He harked back to that\nnotion of a prisoner helping to make it easy for his executioner.\n\"Easy plumb to the end,\" he pursued, his mind reviewing the acts of the\nmorning. \"Why, he tried to give me your newspaper. I didn't--\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" I said hastily. \"I had finished with it.\"\n\n\"Well, he took dying as naturally as he took living. Like a man should.\nLike I hope to.\" Again he looked at the pictures in his mind. \"No\nplay-acting nor last words. He just told good-by to the boys as we led\nhis horse under the limb--you needn't to look so dainty,\" he broke off.\n\"You ain't going to get any more shocking particulars.\"\n\n\"I know I'm white-livered,\" I said with a species of laugh. \"I never\ncrowd and stare when somebody is hurt in the street. I get away.\"\n\nHe thought this over. \"You don't mean all of that. You'd not have spoke\njust that way about crowding and staring if you thought well of them\nthat stare. Staring ain't courage; it's trashy curiosity. Now you did\nnot have this thing--\"\n\nHe had stretched out his hand to point, but it fell, and his utterance\nstopped, and he jerked his horse to a stand. My nerves sprang like a\nwire at his suddenness, and I looked where he was looking. There were\nthe cottonwoods, close in front of us. As we had travelled and talked\nwe had forgotten them. Now they were looming within a hundred yards; and\nour trail lay straight through them.\n\n\"Let's go around them,\" said the Virginian.\n\nWhen we had come back from our circuit into the trail he continued:\n\"You did not have that thing to do. But a man goes through with his\nresponsibilities--and I reckon you could.\"\n\n\"I hope so,\" I answered. \"How about Ed?\"\n\n\"He was not a man, though we thought he was till this. Steve and I\nstarted punching cattle together at the Bordeaux outfit, north of\nCheyenne. We did everything together in those days--work and play. Six\nyears ago. Steve had many good points onced.\"\n\nWe must have gone two miles before he spoke again. \"You prob'ly didn't\nnotice Steve? I mean the way he acted to me?\" It was a question, but he\ndid not wait for my answer. \"Steve never said a word to me all through.\nHe shunned it. And you saw how neighborly he talked to the other boys.\"\n\n\"Where have they all gone?\" I asked.\n\nHe smiled at me. \"It cert'nly is lonesome now, for a fact.\"\n\n\"I didn't know you felt it,\" said I.\n\n\"Feel it!--they've went to the railroad. Three of them are witnesses\nin a case at Evanston, and the Judge wants our outfit at Medicine Bow.\nSteve shunned me. Did he think I was going back on him?\"\n\n\"What if he did? You were not. And so nobody's going to Wind River but\nyou?\"\n\n\"No. Did you notice Steve would not give us any information about\nShorty? That was right. I would have acted that way, too.\" Thus, each\ntime, he brought me back to the subject.\n\nThe sun was now shining warm during two or three minutes together, and\ngulfs of blue opened in the great white clouds. These moved and met\namong each other, and parted, like hands spread out, slowly weaving\na spell of sleep over the day after the wakeful night storm. The\nhuge contours of the earth lay basking and drying, and not one living\ncreature, bird or beast, was in sight. Quiet was returning to my revived\nspirits, but there was none for the Virginian. And as he reasoned\nmatters out aloud, his mood grew more overcast.\n\n\"You have a friend, and his ways are your ways. You travel together,\nyou spree together confidentially, and you suit each other down to the\nground. Then one day you find him putting his iron on another man's\ncalf. You tell him fair and square those ways have never been your ways\nand ain't going to be your ways. Well, that does not change him any, for\nit seems he's disturbed over getting rich quick and being a big man\nin the Territory. And the years go on, until you are foreman of Judge\nHenry's ranch and he--is dangling back in the cottonwoods. What can he\nclaim? Who made the choice? He cannot say, 'Here is my old friend that I\nwould have stood by.' Can he say that?\"\n\n\"But he didn't say it,\" I protested.\n\n\"No. He shunned me.\"\n\n\"Listen,\" I said. \"Suppose while you were on guard he had whispered,\n'Get me off'--would you have done it?\"\n\n\"No, sir!\" said the Virginian, hotly.\n\n\"Then what do you want?\" I asked. \"What did you want?\"\n\nHe could not answer me--but I had not answered him, I saw; so I pushed\nit farther. \"Did you want indorsement from the man you were hanging?\nThat's asking a little too much.\"\n\nBut he had now another confusion. \"Steve stood by Shorty,\" he said\nmusingly. \"It was Shorty's mistake cost him his life, but all the same\nhe didn't want us to catch--\"\n\n\"You are mixing things,\" I interrupted. \"I never heard you mix things\nbefore. And it was not Shorty's mistake.\"\n\nHe showed momentary interest. \"Whose then?\"\n\n\"The mistake of whoever took a fool into their enterprise.\"\n\n\"That's correct. Well, Trampas took Shorty in, and Steve would not tell\non him either.\"\n\nI still tried it, saying, \"They were all in the same boat.\" But logic\nwas useless; he had lost his bearings in a fog of sentiment. He knew,\nknew passionately, that he had done right; but the silence of his old\nfriend to him through those last hours left a sting that no reasoning\ncould assuage. \"He told good-by to the rest of the boys; but not to me.\"\nAnd nothing that I could point out in common sense turned him from\nthe thread of his own argument. He worked round the circle again to\nself-justification. \"Was it him I was deserting? Was not the deserting\ndone by him the day I spoke my mind about stealing calves? I have kept\nmy ways the same. He is the one that took to new ones. The man I used to\ntravel with is not the man back there. Same name, to be sure. And same\nbody. But different in--and yet he had the memory! You can't never\nchange your memory!\"\n\nHe gave a sob. It was the first I had ever heard from him, and before\nI knew what I was doing I had reined my horse up to his and put my arm\naround his shoulders. I had no sooner touched him than he was utterly\novercome. \"I knew Steve awful well,\" he said.\n\nThus we had actually come to change places; for early in the morning he\nhad been firm while I was unnerved, while now it was I who attempted to\nsteady and comfort him.\n\nI had the sense to keep silent, and presently he shook my hand, not\nlooking at me as he did so. He was always very shy of demonstration.\nAnd he took to patting the neck of his pony. \"You Monte hawss,\" said he,\n\"you think you are wise, but there's a lot of things you don't savvy.\"\nThen he made a new beginning of talk between us.\n\n\"It is kind of pitiful about Shorty.\"\n\n\"Very pitiful,\" I said.\n\n\"Do you know about him?\" the Virginian asked.\n\n\"I know there's no real harm in him, and some real good, and that he has\nnot got the brains necessary to be a horse thief.\"\n\n\"That's so. That's very true. Trampas has led him in deeper than his\nstature can stand. Now back East you can be middling and get along. But\nif you go to try a thing on in this Western country, you've got to do it\nWELL. You've got to deal cyards WELL; you've got to steal WELL; and if\nyou claim to be quick with your gun, you must be quick, for you're a\npublic temptation, and some man will not resist trying to prove he is\nthe quicker. You must break all the Commandments WELL in this Western\ncountry, and Shorty should have stayed in Brooklyn, for he will be a\nnovice his livelong days. You don't know about him? He has told me his\ncircumstances. He don't remember his father, and it was like he could\nhave claimed three or four. And I expect his mother was not much\ninterested in him before or after he was born. He ran around, and when\nhe was eighteen he got to be help to a grocery man. But a girl he ran\nwith kept taking all his pay and teasing him for more, and so one day\nthe grocery man caught Shorty robbing his till, and fired him. There\nwasn't no one to tell good-by to, for the girl had to go to the country\nto see her aunt, she said. So Shorty hung around the store and kissed\nthe grocery cat good-by. He'd been used to feeding the cat, and she'd\nsit in his lap and purr, he told me. He sends money back to that girl\nnow. This hyeh country is no country for Shorty, for he will be a\nconspicuous novice all his days.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he'll prefer honesty after his narrow shave,\" I said.\n\nBut the Virginian shook his head. \"Trampas has got hold of him.\"\n\nThe day was now all blue above, and all warm and dry beneath. We had\nbegun to wind in and rise among the first slopes of the foot-hills, and\nwe had talked ourselves into silence. At the first running water we made\na long nooning, and I slept on the bare ground. My body was lodged so\nfast and deep in slumber that when the Virginian shook me awake I could\nnot come back to life at once; it was the clump of cottonwoods, small\nand far out in the plain below us, that recalled me.\n\n\"It'll not be watching us much longer,\" said the Virginian. He made it\na sort of joke; but I knew that both of us were glad when presently we\nrode into a steeper country, and among its folds and carvings lost all\nsight of the plain. He had not slept, I found. His explanation was that\nthe packs needed better balancing, and after that he had gone up and\ndown the stream on the chance of trout. But his haunted eyes gave me the\nreal reason--they spoke of Steve, no matter what he spoke of; it was to\nbe no short thing with him.\n\n\n\n\nXXXII. SUPERSTITION TRAIL\n\n\nWe did not make thirty-five miles that day, nor yet twenty-five, for\nhe had let me sleep. We made an early camp and tried some unsuccessful\nfishing, over which he was cheerful, promising trout to-morrow when we\nshould be higher among the mountains. He never again touched or came\nnear the subject that was on his mind, but while I sat writing my diary,\nhe went off to his horse Monte, and I could hear that he occasionally\ntalked to that friend.\n\nNext day we swung southward from what is known to many as the Conant\ntrail, and headed for that short cut through the Tetons which is known\nto but a few. Bitch Creek was the name of the stream we now followed,\nand here there was such good fishing that we idled; and the horses and\nI at least enjoyed ourselves. For they found fresh pastures and shade in\nthe now plentiful woods; and the mountain odors and the mountain heights\nwere enough for me when the fish refused to rise. This road of ours now\nbecame the road which the pursuit had taken before the capture. Going\nalong, I noticed the footprints of many hoofs, rain-blurred but recent,\nand these were the tracks of the people I had met in the stable.\n\n\"You can notice Monte's,\" said the Virginian. \"He is the only one that\nhas his hind feet shod. There's several trails from this point down to\nwhere we have come from.\"\n\nWe mounted now over a long slant of rock, smooth and of wide extent.\nAbove us it went up easily into a little side canyon, but ahead, where\nour way was, it grew so steep that we got off and led our horses.\nThis brought us to the next higher level of the mountain, a space of\nsagebrush more open, where the rain-washed tracks appeared again in the\nsofter ground.\n\n\"Some one has been here since the rain,\" I called to the Virginian, who\nwas still on the rock, walking up behind the packhorses.\n\n\"Since the rain!\" he exclaimed. \"That's not two days yet.\" He came and\nexamined the footprints. \"A man and a hawss,\" he said, frowning. \"Going\nthe same way we are. How did he come to pass us, and us not see him?\"\n\n\"One of the other trails,\" I reminded him.\n\n\"Yes, but there's not many that knows them. They are pretty rough\ntrails.\"\n\n\"Worse than this one we're taking?\"\n\n\"Not much; only how does he come to know any of them? And why don't he\ntake the Conant trail that's open and easy and not much longer? One man\nand a hawss. I don't see who he is or what he wants here.\"\n\n\"Probably a prospector,\" I suggested.\n\n\"Only one outfit of prospectors has ever been here, and they claimed\nthere was no mineral-bearing rock in these parts.\"\n\nWe got back into our saddles with the mystery unsolved. To the Virginian\nit was a greater one, apparently, than to me; why should one have to\naccount for every stray traveller in the mountains?\n\n\"That's queer, too,\" said the Virginian. He was now riding in front of\nme, and he stopped, looking down at the trail. \"Don't you notice?\"\n\nIt did not strike me.\n\n\"Why, he keeps walking beside his hawss; he don't get on him.\"\n\nNow we, of course, had mounted at the beginning of the better trail\nafter the steep rock, and that was quite half a mile back. Still, I had\na natural explanation. \"He's leading a packhorse. He's a poor trapper,\nand walks.\"\n\n\"Packhorses ain't usually shod before and behind,\" said the Virginian;\nand sliding to the ground he touched the footprints. \"They are not four\nhours old,\" said he. \"This bank's in shadow by one o'clock, and the sun\nhas not cooked them dusty.\"\n\nWe continued on our way; and although it seemed no very particular\nthing to me that a man should choose to walk and lead his horse for a\nwhile,--I often did so to limber my muscles,--nevertheless I began to\ncatch the Virginian's uncertain feeling about this traveller whose steps\nhad appeared on our path in mid-journey, as if he had alighted from the\nmid-air, and to remind myself that he had come over the great face of\nrock from another trail and thus joined us, and that indigent trappers\nare to be found owning but a single horse and leading him with their\nbelongings through the deepest solitudes of the mountains--none of this\nquite brought back to me the comfort which had been mine since we left\nthe cottonwoods out of sight down in the plain. Hence I called out\nsharply, \"What's the matter now?\" when the Virginian suddenly stopped\nhis horse again.\n\nHe looked down at the trail, and then he very slowly turned round in his\nsaddle and stared back steadily at me. \"There's two of them,\" he said.\n\n\"Two what?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"You must know whether it's two horses or two men,\" I said, almost\nangrily.\n\nBut to this he made no answer, sitting quite still on his horse and\ncontemplating the ground. The silence was fastening on me like a spell,\nand I spurred my horse impatiently forward to see for myself. The\nfootprints of two men were there in the trail.\n\n\"What do you say to that?\" said the Virginian. \"Kind of ridiculous,\nain't it?\"\n\n\"Very quaint,\" I answered, groping for the explanation. There was no\nrock here to walk over and step from into the softer trail. These second\nsteps came more out of the air than the first. And my brain played me\nthe evil trick of showing me a dead man in a gray flannel shirt.\n\n\"It's two, you see, travelling with one hawss, and they take turns\nriding him.\"\n\n\"Why, of course!\" I exclaimed; and we went along for a few paces.\n\n\"There you are,\" said the Virginian, as the trail proved him right.\n\"Number one has got on. My God, what's that?\"\n\nAt a crashing in the woods very close to us we both flung round and\ncaught sight of a vanishing elk.\n\nIt left us confronted, smiling a little, and sounding each other with\nour eyes. \"Well, we didn't need him for meat,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"A spike-horn, wasn't it?\" said I.\n\n\"Yes, just a spike-horn.\"\n\nFor a while now as we rode we kept up a cheerful conversation about elk.\nWe wondered if we should meet many more close to the trail like this;\nbut it was not long before our words died away. We had come into a\nveritable gulf of mountain peaks, sharp at their bare summits like\nteeth, holding fields of snow lower down, and glittering still in full\nday up there, while down among our pines and parks the afternoon was\ngrowing sombre. All the while the fresh hoofprints of the horse and the\nfresh footprints of the man preceded us. In the trees, and in the opens,\nacross the levels, and up the steeps, they were there. And so they were\nnot four hours old! Were they so much? Might we not, round some turn,\ncome upon the makers of them? I began to watch for this. And again my\nbrain played me an evil trick, against which I found myself actually\nreasoning thus: if they took turns riding, then walking must tire them\nas it did me or any man. And besides, there was a horse. With such\nthoughts I combated the fancy that those footprints were being made\nimmediately in front of us all the while, and that they were the only\nsign of any presence which our eyes could see. But my fancy overcame my\nthoughts. It was shame only which held me from asking this question of\nthe Virginian: Had one horse served in both cases of Justice down at\nthe cottonwoods? I wondered about this. One horse--or had the strangling\nnooses dragged two saddles empty at the same signal? Most likely; and\ntherefore these people up here--Was I going back to the nursery? I\nbrought myself up short. And I told myself to be steady; there lurked in\nthis brain-process which was going on beneath my reason a threat worse\nthan the childish apprehensions it created. I reminded myself that I was\na man grown, twenty-five years old, and that I must not merely seem like\none, but feel like one. \"You're not afraid of the dark, I suppose?\" This\nI uttered aloud, unwittingly.\n\n\"What's that?\"\n\nI started; but it was only the Virginian behind me. \"Oh, nothing. The\nair is getting colder up here.\"\n\nI had presently a great relief. We came to a place where again this\ntrail mounted so abruptly that we once more got off to lead our\nhorses. So likewise had our predecessors done; and as I watched the two\ndifferent sets of footprints, I observed something and hastened to speak\nof it.\n\n\"One man is much heavier than the other.\"\n\n\"I was hoping I'd not have to tell you that,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"You're always ahead of me! Well, still my education is progressing.\"\n\n\"Why, yes. You'll equal an Injun if you keep on.\"\n\nIt was good to be facetious; and I smiled to myself as I trudged upward.\nWe came off the steep place, leaving the canyon beneath us, and took to\nhorseback. And as we proceeded over the final gentle slant up to the\nrim of the great basin that was set among the peaks, the Virginian was\njocular once more.\n\n\"Pounds has got on,\" said he, \"and Ounces is walking.\"\n\nI glanced over my shoulder at him, and he nodded as he fixed the\nweather-beaten crimson handkerchief round his neck. Then he threw\na stone at a pack animal that was delaying on the trail. \"Damn your\nbuckskin hide,\" he drawled. \"You can view the scenery from the top.\"\n\nHe was so natural, sitting loose in the saddle, and cursing in his\ngentle voice, that I laughed to think what visions I had been harboring.\nThe two dead men riding one horse through the mountains vanished, and I\ncame back to every day.\n\n\"Do you think we'll catch up with those people?\" I asked.\n\n\"Not likely. They're travelling about the same gait we are.\"\n\n\"Ounces ought to be the best walker.\"\n\n\"Up hill, yes. But Pounds will go down a-foggin'.\"\n\nWe gained the rim of the basin. It lay below us, a great cup of\ncountry,--rocks, woods, opens, and streams. The tall peaks rose like\nspires around it, magnificent and bare in the last of the sun; and we\nsurveyed this upper world, letting our animals get breath. Our bleak,\ncrumbled rim ran like a rampart between the towering tops, a half circle\nof five miles or six, very wide in some parts, and in some shrinking to\na scanty foothold, as here. Here our trail crossed over it between two\neroded and fantastic shapes of stone, like mushrooms, or misshapen heads\non pikes. Banks of snow spread up here against the black rocks, but\nhalf an hour would see us descended to the green and the woods. I looked\ndown, both of us looked down, but our forerunners were not there.\n\n\"They'll be camping somewhere in this basin, though,\" said the\nVirginian, staring at the dark pines. \"They have not come this trail by\naccident.\"\n\nA cold little wind blew down between our stone shapes, and upward again,\neddying. And round a corner upward with it came fluttering a leaf of\nnewspaper, and caught against an edge close to me.\n\n\"What's the latest?\" inquired the Virginian from his horse. For I had\ndismounted, and had picked up the leaf.\n\n\"Seems to be interesting,\" I next heard him say. \"Can't you tell a man\nwhat's making your eyes bug out so?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" my voice replied to him, and it sounded like some stranger\nspeaking lightly near by; \"oh, yes! Decidedly interesting.\" My voice\nmimicked his pronunciation. \"It's quite the latest, I imagine. You had\nbetter read it yourself.\" And I handed it to him with a smile, watching\nhis countenance, while my brain felt as if clouds were rushing through\nit.\n\nI saw his eyes quietly run the headings over. \"Well?\" he inquired,\nafter scanning it on both sides. \"I don't seem to catch the excitement.\nFremont County is going to hold elections. I see they claim Jake--\"\n\n\"It's mine,\" I cut him off. \"My own paper. Those are my pencil marks.\"\n\nI do not think that a microscope could have discerned a change in\nhis face. \"Oh,\" he commented, holding the paper, and fixing it with a\ncritical eye. \"You mean this is the one you lent Steve, and he wanted\nto give me to give back to you. And so them are your own marks.\" For a\nmoment more he held it judicially, as I have seen men hold a contract\nupon whose terms they were finally passing. \"Well, you have got it back\nnow, anyway.\" And he handed it to me.\n\n\"Only a piece of it!\" I exclaimed, always lightly. And as I took it from\nhim his hand chanced to touch mine. It was cold as ice.\n\n\"They ain't through readin' the rest,\" he explained easily. \"Don't you\nthrow it away! After they've taken such trouble.\"\n\n\"That's true,\" I answered. \"I wonder if it's Pounds or Ounces I'm\nindebted to.\"\n\nThus we made further merriment as we rode down into the great basin.\nBefore us, the horse and boot tracks showed plain in the soft slough\nwhere melted snow ran half the day.\n\n\"If it's a paper chase,\" said the Virginian, \"they'll drop no more along\nhere.\"\n\n\"Unless it gets dark,\" said I.\n\n\"We'll camp before that. Maybe we'll see their fire.\"\n\nWe did not see their fire. We descended in the chill silence, while the\nmushroom rocks grew far and the sombre woods approached. By a stream we\ngot off where two banks sheltered us; for a bleak wind cut down over the\ncrags now and then, making the pines send out a great note through the\nbasin, like breakers in a heavy sea. But we made cosey in the tent.\nWe pitched the tent this night, and I was glad to have it shut out the\nmountain peaks. They showed above the banks where we camped; and in the\nstarlight their black shapes rose stark against the sky. They, with the\npines and the wind, were a bedroom too unearthly this night. And as soon\nas our supper dishes were washed we went inside to our lantern and our\ngame of cribbage.\n\n\"This is snug,\" said the Virginian, as we played. \"That wind don't get\ndown here.\"\n\n\"Smoking is snug, too,\" said I. And we marked our points for an hour,\nwith no words save about the cards.\n\n\"I'll be pretty near glad when we get out of these mountains,\" said the\nVirginian. \"They're most too big.\"\n\nThe pines had altogether ceased; but their silence was as tremendous as\ntheir roar had been.\n\n\"I don't know, though,\" he resumed. \"There's times when the plains can\nbe awful big, too.\"\n\nPresently we finished a hand, and he said, \"Let me see that paper.\"\n\nHe sat reading it apparently through, while I arranged my blankets to\nmake a warm bed. Then, since the paper continued to absorb him, I got\nmyself ready, and slid between my blankets for the night. \"You'll need\nanother candle soon in that lantern,\" said I.\n\nHe put the paper down. \"I would do it all over again,\" he began. \"The\nwhole thing just the same. He knowed the customs of the country, and he\nplayed the game. No call to blame me for the customs of the country. You\nleave other folks' cattle alone, or you take the consequences, and it\nwas all known to Steve from the start. Would he have me take the Judge's\nwages and give him the wink? He must have changed a heap from the Steve\nI knew if he expected that. I don't believe he expected that. He knew\nwell enough the only thing that would have let him off would have been\na regular jury. For the thieves have got hold of the juries in Johnson\nCounty. I would do it all over, just the same.\"\n\nThe expiring flame leaped in the lantern, and fell blue. He broke off\nin his words as if to arrange the light, but did not, sitting silent\ninstead, just visible, and seeming to watch the death struggle of the\nflame. I could find nothing to say to him, and I believed he was now\nwinning his way back to serenity by himself. He kept his outward man\nso nearly natural that I forgot about that cold touch of his hand, and\nnever guessed how far out from reason the tide of emotion was even now\nwhirling him. \"I remember at Cheyenne onced,\" he resumed. And he told\nme of a Thanksgiving visit to town that he had made with Steve. \"We\nwas just colts then,\" he said. He dwelt on their coltish doings, their\nadventures sought and wrought in the perfect fellowship of youth. \"For\nSteve and me most always hunted in couples back in them gamesome years,\"\nhe explained. And he fell into the elemental talk of sex, such talk\nas would be an elk's or tiger's; and spoken so by him, simply and\nnaturally, as we speak of the seasons, or of death, or of any actuality,\nit was without offense. It would be offense should I repeat it. Then,\nabruptly ending these memories of himself and Steve, he went out of the\ntent, and I heard him dragging a log to the fire. When it had blazed up,\nthere on the tent wall was his shadow and that of the log where he sat\nwith his half-broken heart. And all the while I supposed he was master\nof himself, and self-justified against Steve's omission to bid him\ngood-by.\n\nI must have fallen asleep before he returned, for I remember nothing\nexcept waking and finding him in his blankets beside me. The fire\nshadow was gone, and gray, cold light was dimly on the tent. He slept\nrestlessly, and his forehead was ploughed by lines of pain. While I\nlooked at him he began to mutter, and suddenly started up with violence.\n\"No!\" he cried out; \"no! Just the same!\" and thus wakened himself,\nstaring. \"What's the matter?\" he demanded. He was slow in getting back\nto where we were; and full consciousness found him sitting up with his\neyes fixed on mine. They were more haunted than they had been at all,\nand his next speech came straight from his dream. \"Maybe you'd better\nquit me. This ain't your trouble.\"\n\nI laughed. \"Why, what is the trouble?\"\n\nHis eyes still intently fixed on mine. \"Do you think if we changed our\ntrail we could lose them from us?\"\n\nI was framing a jocose reply about Ounces being a good walker, when the\nsound of hoofs rushing in the distance stopped me, and he ran out of the\ntent with his rifle. When I followed with mine he was up the bank, and\nall his powers alert. But nothing came out of the dimness save our three\nstampeded horses. They crashed over fallen timber and across the open to\nwhere their picketed comrade grazed at the end of his rope. By him they\ncame to a stand, and told him, I suppose, what they had seen; for all\nfour now faced in the same direction, looking away into the mysterious\ndawn. We likewise stood peering, and my rifle barrel felt cold in my\nhand. The dawn was all we saw, the inscrutable dawn, coming and coming\nthrough the black pines and the gray open of the basin. There above\nlifted the peaks, no sun yet on them, and behind us our stream made a\nlittle tinkling.\n\n\"A bear, I suppose,\" said I, at length.\n\nHis strange look fixed me again, and then his eyes went to the horses.\n\"They smell things we can't smell,\" said he, very slowly. \"Will you\nprove to me they don't see things we can't see?\"\n\nA chill shot through me, and I could not help a frightened glance where\nwe had been watching. But one of the horses began to graze and I had\na wholesome thought. \"He's tired of whatever he sees, then,\" said I,\npointing.\n\nA smile came for a moment in the Virginian's face. \"Must be a poor\nshow,\" he observed. All the horses were grazing now, and he added, \"It\nain't hurt their appetites any.\"\n\nWe made our own breakfast then. And what uncanny dread I may have been\ntouched with up to this time henceforth left me in the face of a real\nalarm. The shock of Steve was working upon the Virginian. He was aware\nof it himself; he was fighting it with all his might; and he was being\novercome. He was indeed like a gallant swimmer against whom both wind\nand tide have conspired. And in this now foreboding solitude there was\nonly myself to throw him ropes. His strokes for safety were as bold as\nwas the undertow that ceaselessly annulled them.\n\n\"I reckon I made a fuss in the tent?\" said he, feeling his way with me.\n\nI threw him a rope. \"Yes. Nightmare--indigestion--too much newspaper\nbefore retiring.\"\n\nHe caught the rope. \"That's correct! I had a hell of a foolish dream for\na growed-up man. You'd not think it of me.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I should. I've had them after prolonged lobster and\nchampagne.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" he murmured, \"prolonged! Prolonged is what does it.\" He glanced\nbehind him. \"Steve came back--\"\n\n\"In your lobster dream,\" I put in.\n\nBut he missed this rope. \"Yes,\" he answered, with his eyes searching me.\n\"And he handed me the paper--\"\n\n\"By the way, where is that?\" I asked.\n\n\"I built the fire with it. But when I took it from him it was a\nsix-shooter I had hold of, and pointing at my breast. And then Steve\nspoke. 'Do you think you're fit to live?' Steve said; and I got hot at\nhim, and I reckon I must have told him what I thought of him. You heard\nme, I expect?\"\n\n\"Glad I didn't. Your language sometimes is--\"\n\nHe laughed out. \"Oh, I account for all this that's happening just like\nyou do. If we gave our explanations, they'd be pretty near twins.\"\n\n\"The horses saw a bear, then?\"\n\n\"Maybe a bear. Maybe \"--but here the tide caught him again--\"What's your\nidea about dreams?\"\n\nMy ropes were all out. \"Liver--nerves,\" was the best I could do.\n\nBut now he swam strongly by himself.\n\n\"You may think I'm discreditable,\" he said, \"but I know I am. It ought\nto take more than--well, men have lost their friendships before. Feuds\nand wars have cloven a right smart of bonds in twain. And if my haid\nis going to get shook by a little old piece of newspaper--I'm ashamed I\nburned that. I'm ashamed to have been that weak.\"\n\n\"Any man gets unstrung,\" I told him. My ropes had become straws; and I\nstrove to frame some policy for the next hours.\n\nWe now finished breakfast and set forth to catch the horses. As we drove\nthem in I found that the Virginian was telling me a ghost story. \"At\nhalf-past three in the morning she saw her runaway daughter standing\nwith a babe in her arms; but when she moved it was all gone. Later they\nfound it was the very same hour the young mother died in Nogales. And\nshe sent for the child and raised it herself. I knowed them both back\nhome. Do you believe that?\"\n\nI said nothing.\n\n\"No more do I believe it,\" he asserted. \"And see here! Nogales time\nis three hours different from Richmond. I didn't know about that point\nthen.\"\n\nOnce out of these mountains, I knew he could right himself; but even\nI, who had no Steve to dream about, felt this silence of the peaks was\npreying on me.\n\n\"Her daughter and her might have been thinkin' mighty hard about each\nother just then,\" he pursued. \"But Steve is dead. Finished. You cert'nly\ndon't believe there's anything more?\"\n\n\"I wish I could,\" I told him.\n\n\"No, I'm satisfied. Heaven didn't never interest me much. But if there\nwas a world of dreams after you went--\" He stopped himself and turned\nhis searching eyes away from mine. \"There's a heap o' darkness wherever\nyou try to step,\" he said, \"and I thought I'd left off wasting thoughts\non the subject. You see\"--he dexterously roped a horse, and once more\nhis splendid sanity was turned to gold by his imagination--\"I expect\nin many growed-up men you'd call sensible there's a little boy\nsleepin'--the little kid they onced was--that still keeps his fear\nof the dark. You mentioned the dark yourself yesterday. Well, this\nexperience has woke up that kid in me, and blamed if I can coax the\nlittle cuss to go to sleep again! I keep a-telling him daylight will\nsure come, but he keeps a-crying and holding on to me.\"\n\nSomewhere far in the basin there was a faint sound, and we stood still.\n\n\"Hush!\" he said.\n\nBut it was like our watching the dawn; nothing more followed.\n\n\"They have shot that bear,\" I remarked.\n\nHe did not answer, and we put the saddles on without talk. We made no\nhaste, but we were not over half an hour, I suppose, in getting off with\nthe packs. It was not a new thing to hear a shot where wild game was in\nplenty; yet as we rode that shot sounded already in my mind different\nfrom others. Perhaps I should not believe this to-day but for what I\nlook back to. To make camp last night we had turned off the trail, and\nnow followed the stream down for a while, taking next a cut through the\nwood. In this way we came upon the tracks of our horses where they had\nbeen galloping back to the camp after their fright. They had kicked up\nthe damp and matted pine needles very plainly all along.\n\n\"Nothing has been here but themselves, though,\" said I.\n\n\"And they ain't showing signs of remembering any scare,\" said the\nVirginian.\n\nIn a little while we emerged upon an open.\n\n\"Here's where they was grazing,\" said the Virginian; and the signs were\nclear enough. \"Here's where they must have got their scare,\" he pursued.\n\"You stay with them while I circle a little.\" So I stayed; and certainly\nour animals were very calm at visiting this scene. When you bring a\nhorse back to where he has recently encountered a wild animal his ears\nand his nostrils are apt to be wide awake.\n\nThe Virginian had stopped and was beckoning to me.\n\n\"Here's your bear,\" said he, as I arrived. \"Two-legged, you see. And he\nhad a hawss of his own.\" There was a stake driven down where an animal\nhad been picketed for the night.\n\n\"Looks like Ounces,\" I said, considering the footprints.\n\n\"It's Ounces. And Ounces wanted another hawss very bad, so him and\nPounds could travel like gentlemen should.\"\n\n\"But Pounds doesn't seem to have been with him.\"\n\n\"Oh, Pounds, he was making coffee, somewheres in yonder, when this\nhappened. Neither of them guessed there'd be other hawsses wandering\nhere in the night, or they both would have come.\" He turned back to our\npack animals.\n\n\"Then you'll not hunt for this camp to make sure?\"\n\n\"I prefer making sure first. We might be expected at that camp.\"\n\nHe took out his rifle from beneath his leg and set it across his saddle\nat half-cock. I did the same; and thus cautiously we resumed our journey\nin a slightly different direction. \"This ain't all we're going to find\nout,\" said the Virginian. \"Ounces had a good idea; but I reckon he made\na bad mistake later.\"\n\nWe had found out a good deal without any more, I thought. Ounces had\ngone to bring in their single horse, and coming upon three more in the\npasture had undertaken to catch one and failed, merely driving them\nwhere he feared to follow.\n\n\"Shorty never could rope a horse alone,\" I remarked.\n\nThe Virginian grinned. \"Shorty? Well, Shorty sounds as well as Ounces.\nBut that ain't the mistake I'm thinking he made.\"\n\nI knew that he would not tell me, but that was just like him. For the\nlast twenty minutes, having something to do, he had become himself\nagain, had come to earth from that unsafe country of the brain where\nbeckoned a spectral Steve. Nothing was left but in his eyes that\nquestion which pain had set there; and I wondered if his friend of old,\nwho seemed so brave and amiable, would have dealt him that hurt at the\nsolemn end had he known what a poisoned wound it would be.\n\nWe came out on a ridge from which we could look down. \"You always want\nto ride on high places when there's folks around whose intentions ain't\nbeen declared,\" said the Virginian. And we went along our ridge for some\ndistance. Then, suddenly he turned down and guided us almost at once to\nthe trail. \"That's it,\" he said. \"See.\"\n\nThe track of a horse was very fresh on the trail. But it was a galloping\nhorse now, and no bootprints were keeping up with it any more. No boots\ncould have kept up with it. The rider was making time to-day. Yesterday\nthat horse had been ridden up into the mountains at leisure. Who was on\nhim? There was never to be any certain answer to that. But who was not\non him? We turned back in our journey, back into the heart of that basin\nwith the tall peaks all rising like teeth in the cloudless sun, and the\nsnow-fields shining white.\n\n\"He was afraid of us,\" said the Virginian. \"He did not know how many of\nus had come up here. Three hawsses might mean a dozen more around.\"\n\nWe followed the backward trail in among the pines, and came after a time\nupon their camp. And then I understood the mistake that Shorty had made.\nHe had returned after his failure, and had told that other man of the\npresence of new horses. He should have kept this a secret; for haste had\nto be made at once, and two cannot get away quickly upon one horse. But\nit was poor Shorty's last blunder. He lay there by their extinct fire,\nwith his wistful, lost-dog face upward, and his thick yellow hair\nunparted as it had always been. The murder had been done from behind. We\nclosed the eyes.\n\n\"There was no natural harm in him,\" said the Virginian. \"But you must do\na thing well in this country.\"\n\nThere was not a trace, not a clew, of the other man; and we found a\nplace where we could soon cover Shorty with earth. As we lifted him we\nsaw the newspaper that he had been reading. He had brought it from the\nclump of cottonwoods where he and the other man had made a later visit\nthan ours to be sure of the fate of their friends--or possibly in hopes\nof another horse. Evidently, when the party were surprised, they had\nbeen able to escape with only one. All of the newspaper was there save\nthe leaf I had picked up--all and more, for this had pencil writing on\nit that was not mine, nor did I at first take it in. I thought it might\nbe a clew, and I read it aloud. \"Good-by, Jeff,\" it said. \"I could not\nhave spoke to you without playing the baby.\"\n\n\"Who's Jeff?\" I asked. But it came over me when I looked at the\nVirginian. He was standing beside me quite motionless; and then he put\nout his hand and took the paper, and stood still, looking at the words.\n\"Steve used to call me Jeff,\" he said, \"because I was Southern. I reckon\nnobody else ever did.\"\n\nHe slowly folded the message from the dead, brought by the dead, and\nrolled it in the coat behind his saddle. For a half-minute he stood\nleaning his forehead down against the saddle. After this he came back\nand contemplated Shorty's face awhile. \"I wish I could thank him,\" he\nsaid. \"I wish I could.\"\n\nWe carried Shorty over and covered him with earth, and on that laid a\nfew pine branches; then we took up our journey, and by the end of the\nforenoon we had gone some distance upon our trail through the Teton\nMountains. But in front of us the hoofprints ever held their stride\nof haste, drawing farther from us through the hours, until by the next\nafternoon somewhere we noticed they were no longer to be seen; and after\nthat they never came upon the trail again.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIII. THE SPINSTER LOSES SOME SLEEP\n\n\nSomewhere at the eastern base of the Tetons did those hoofprints\ndisappear into a mountain sanctuary where many crooked paths have led.\nHe that took another man's possessions, or he that took another man's\nlife, could always run here if the law or popular justice were too hot\nat his heels. Steep ranges and forests walled him in from the world on\nall four sides, almost without a break; and every entrance lay through\nintricate solitudes. Snake River came into the place through canyons\nand mournful pines and marshes, to the north, and went out at the south\nbetween formidable chasms. Every tributary to this stream rose among\nhigh peaks and ridges, and descended into the valley by well-nigh\nimpenetrable courses: Pacific Creek from Two Ocean Pass, Buffalo Fork\nfrom no pass at all, Black Rock from the To-wo-ge-tee Pass--all these,\nand many more, were the waters of loneliness, among whose thousand\nhiding-places it was easy to be lost. Down in the bottom was a spread of\nlevel land, broad and beautiful, with the blue and silver Tetons rising\nfrom its chain of lakes to the west, and other heights presiding over\nits other sides. And up and down and in and out of this hollow square of\nmountains, where waters plentifully flowed, and game and natural pasture\nabounded, there skulked a nomadic and distrustful population. This in\ndue time built cabins, took wives, begot children, and came to speak of\nitself as \"The honest settlers of Jackson's Hole.\" It is a commodious\ntitle, and doubtless to-day more accurate than it was once.\n\nInto this place the hoofprints disappeared. Not many cabins were yet\nbuilt there; but the unknown rider of the horse knew well that he would\nfind shelter and welcome among the felons of his stripe. Law and order\nmight guess his name correctly, but there was no next step, for lack of\nevidence; and he would wait, whoever he was, until the rage of popular\njustice, which had been pursuing him and his brother thieves, should\nsubside. Then, feeling his way gradually with prudence, he would let\nhimself be seen again.\n\nAnd now, as mysteriously as he had melted away, rumor passed over the\ncountry. No tongue seemed to be heard telling the first news; the news\nwas there, one day, a matter of whispered knowledge. On Sunk Creek and\non Bear Creek, and elsewhere far and wide, before men talked men seemed\nsecretly to know that Steve, and Ed, and Shorty, would never again be\nseen. Riders met each other in the road and drew rein to discuss the\nevent, and its bearing upon the cattle interests. In town saloons men\ntook each other aside, and muttered over it in corners.\n\nThus it reached the ears of Molly Wood, beginning in a veiled and\nharmless shape.\n\nA neighbor joined her when she was out riding by herself.\n\n\"Good morning,\" said he. \"Don't you find it lonesome?\" And when she\nanswered lightly, he continued, meaning well: \"You'll be having company\nagain soon now. He has finished his job. Wish he'd finished it MORE!\nWell, good day.\"\n\nMolly thought these words over. She could not tell why they gave her\na strange feeling. To her Vermont mind no suspicion of the truth would\ncome naturally. But suspicion began to come when she returned from her\nride. For, entering the cabin of the Taylors', she came upon several\npeople who all dropped their talk short, and were not skilful at\nresuming it. She sat there awhile, uneasily aware that all of them\nknew something which she did not know, and was not intended to know. A\nthought pierced her--had anything happened to her lover? No; that was\nnot it. The man she had met on horseback spoke of her having company\nsoon again. How soon? she wondered. He had been unable to say when\nhe should return, and now she suddenly felt that a great silence had\nenveloped him lately: not the mere silence of absence, of receiving\nno messages or letters, but another sort of silence which now, at this\nmoment, was weighing strangely upon her.\n\nAnd then the next day it came out at the schoolhouse. During that\ninterval known as recess, she became aware through the open window that\nthey were playing a new game outside. Lusty screeches of delight reached\nher ears.\n\n\"Jump!\" a voice ordered. \"Jump!\"\n\n\"I don't want to,\" returned another voice, uneasily.\n\n\"You said you would,\" said several. \"Didn't he say he would? Ah, he said\nhe would. Jump now, quick!\"\n\n\"But I don't want to,\" quavered the voice in a tone so dismal that Molly\nwent out to see.\n\nThey had got Bob Carmody on the top of the gate by a tree, with a rope\nround his neck, the other end of which four little boys were joyously\nholding. The rest looked on eagerly, three little girls clasping their\nhands, and springing up and down with excitement.\n\n\"Why, children!\" exclaimed Molly.\n\n\"He's said his prayers and everything,\" they all screamed out. \"He's a\nrustler, and we're lynchin' him. Jump, Bob!\"\n\n\"I don't want--\"\n\n\"Ah, coward, won't take his medicine!\"\n\n\"Let him go, boys,\" said Molly. \"You might really hurt him.\" And so she\nbroke up this game, but not without general protest from Wyoming's young\nvoice.\n\n\"He said he would,\" Henry Dow assured her.\n\nAnd George Taylor further explained: \"He said he'd be Steve. But Steve\ndidn't scare.\" Then George proceeded to tell the schoolmarm, eagerly,\nall about Steve and Ed, while the schoolmarm looked at him with a rigid\nface.\n\n\"You promised your mother you'd not tell,\" said Henry Dow, after all\nhad been told. \"You've gone and done it,\" and Henry wagged his head in a\nsuperior manner.\n\nThus did the New England girl learn what her cow-boy lover had done. She\nspoke of it to nobody; she kept her misery to herself. He was not there\nto defend his act. Perhaps in a way that was better. But these were\nhours of darkness indeed to Molly Wood.\n\nOn that visit to Dunbarton, when at the first sight of her lover's\nphotograph in frontier dress her aunt had exclaimed, \"I suppose there\nare days when he does not kill people,\" she had cried in all good faith\nand mirth, \"He never killed anybody!\" Later, when he was lying in her\ncabin weak from his bullet wound, but each day stronger beneath her\nnursing, at a certain word of his there had gone through her a shudder\nof doubt. Perhaps in his many wanderings he had done such a thing in\nself-defence, or in the cause of popular justice. But she had pushed the\nidea away from her hastily, back into the days before she had ever seen\nhim. If this had ever happened, let her not know of it. Then, as a cruel\nreward for his candor and his laying himself bare to her mother, the\nletters from Bennington had used that very letter of his as a weapon\nagainst him. Her sister Sarah had quoted from it. \"He says with apparent\npride,\" wrote Sarah, \"that he has never killed for pleasure or profit.'\nThose are his exact words, and you may guess their dreadful effect upon\nmother. I congratulate you, my dear, on having chosen a protector so\nscrupulous.\"\n\nThus her elder sister had seen fit to write; and letters from less near\nrelatives made hints at the same subject. So she was compelled to accept\nthis piece of knowledge thrust upon her. Yet still, still, those events\nhad been before she knew him. They were remote, without detail or\ncontext. He had been little more than a boy. No doubt it was to save his\nown life. And so she bore the hurt of her discovery all the more easily\nbecause her sister's tone roused her to defend her cow-boy.\n\nBut now!\n\nIn her cabin, alone, after midnight, she arose from her sleepless bed,\nand lighting the candle, stood before his photograph.\n\n\"It is a good face,\" her great-aunt had said, after some study of it.\nAnd these words were in her mind now. There his likeness stood at full\nlength, confronting her: the spurs on the boots, the fringed leathern\nchaparreros, the coiled rope in hand, the pistol at hip, the rough\nflannel shirt, and the scarf knotted at the throat--and then the grave\neyes, looking at her. It thrilled her to meet them, even so. She could\nread life into them. She seemed to feel passion come from them, and then\nsomething like reproach. She stood for a long while looking at him, and\nthen, beating her hands together suddenly, she blew out her light and\nwent back into bed, but not to sleep.\n\n\"You're looking pale, deary,\" said Mrs. Taylor to her, a few days later.\n\n\"Am I?\"\n\n\"And you don't eat anything.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I do.\" And Molly retired to her cabin.\n\n\"George,\" said Mrs. Taylor, \"you come here.\"\n\nIt may seem severe--I think that it was severe. That evening when\nMr. Taylor came home to his family, George received a thrashing for\ndisobedience.\n\n\"And I suppose,\" said Mrs. Taylor to her husband, \"that she came out\njust in time to stop 'em breaking Bob Carmody's neck for him.\"\n\nUpon the day following Mrs. Taylor essayed the impossible. She took\nherself over to Molly Wood's cabin. The girl gave her a listless\ngreeting, and the dame sat slowly down, and surveyed the comfortable\nroom.\n\n\"A very nice home, deary,\" said she, \"if it was a home. But you'll fix\nsomething like this in your real home, I have no doubt.\"\n\nMolly made no answer.\n\n\"What we're going to do without you I can't see,\" said Mrs. Taylor.\n\"But I'd not have it different for worlds. He'll be coming back soon, I\nexpect.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Taylor,\" said Molly, all at once, \"please don't say anything now.\nI can't stand it.\" And she broke into wretched tears.\n\n\"Why, deary, he--\"\n\n\"No; not a word. Please, please--I'll go out if you do.\"\n\nThe older woman went to the younger one, and then put her arms round\nher. But when the tears were over, they had not done any good; it was\nnot the storm that clears the sky--all storms do not clear the sky. And\nMrs. Taylor looked at the pale girl and saw that she could do nothing to\nhelp her toward peace of mind.\n\n\"Of course,\" she said to her husband, after returning from her\nprofitless errand, \"you might know she'd feel dreadful.\n\n\"What about?\" said Taylor.\n\n\"Why, you know just as well as I do. And I'll say for myself, I hope\nyou'll never have to help hang folks.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Taylor, mildly, \"if I had to, I'd have to, I guess.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't want it to come. But that poor girl is eating her heart\nright out over it.\"\n\n\"What does she say?\"\n\n\"It's what she don't say. She'll not talk, and she'll not let me talk,\nand she sits and sits.\"\n\n\"I'll go talk some to her,\" said the man.\n\n\"Well, Taylor, I thought you had more sense. You'd not get a word in.\nShe'll be sick soon if her worry ain't stopped someway, though.\"\n\n\"What does she want this country to do?\" inquired Taylor. \"Does she\nexpect it to be like Vermont when it--\"\n\n\"We can't help what she expects,\" his wife interrupted. \"But I wish we\ncould help HER.\"\n\nThey could not, however; and help came from another source. Judge Henry\nrode by the next day. To him good Mrs. Taylor at once confided her\nanxiety. The Judge looked grave.\n\n\"Must I meddle?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, Judge, you must,\" said Mrs. Taylor.\n\n\"But why can't I send him over here when he gets back? Then they'll just\nsettle it between themselves.\"\n\nMrs. Taylor shook her head. \"That would unsettle it worse than it is,\"\nshe assured him. \"They mustn't meet just now.\"\n\nThe Judge sighed. \"Well,\" he said, \"very well. I'll sacrifice my\ncharacter, since you insist.\"\n\nJudge Henry sat thinking, waiting until school should be out. He did not\nat all relish what lay before him. He would like to have got out of it.\nHe had been a federal judge; he had been an upright judge; he had met\nthe responsibilities of his difficult office not only with learning,\nwhich is desirable, but also with courage and common sense besides, and\nthese are essential. He had been a stanch servant of the law. And now\nhe was invited to defend that which, at first sight, nay, even at second\nand third sight, must always seem a defiance of the law more injurious\nthan crime itself. Every good man in this world has convictions about\nright and wrong. They are his soul's riches, his spiritual gold. When\nhis conduct is at variance with these, he knows that it is a departure,\na falling; and this is a simple and clear matter. If falling were all\nthat ever happened to a good man, all his days would be a simple matter\nof striving and repentance. But it is not all. There come to him certain\njunctures, crises, when life, like a highwayman, springs upon him,\ndemanding that he stand and deliver his convictions in the name of some\nrighteous cause, bidding him do evil that good may come. I cannot say\nthat I believe in doing evil that good may come. I do not. I think that\nany man who honestly justifies such course deceives himself. But this I\ncan say: to call any act evil, instantly begs the question. Many an act\nthat man does is right or wrong according to the time and place\nwhich form, so to speak, its context; strip it of its surrounding\ncircumstances, and you tear away its meaning. Gentlemen reformers,\nbeware of this common practice of yours! beware of calling an act evil\non Tuesday because that same act was evil on Monday!\n\nDo you fail to follow my meaning? Then here is an illustration. On\nMonday I walk over my neighbor's field; there is no wrong in such\nwalking. By Tuesday he has put up a sign that trespassers will\nbe prosecuted according to law. I walk again on Tuesday, and am a\nlaw-breaker. Do you begin to see my point? or are you inclined to object\nto the illustration because the walking on Tuesday was not WRONG, but\nmerely ILLEGAL? Then here is another illustration which you will find\nit a trifle more embarrassing to answer. Consider carefully, let me beg\nyou, the case of a young man and a young woman who walk out of a door\non Tuesday, pronounced man and wife by a third party inside the door.\nIt matters not that on Monday they were, in their own hearts, sacredly\nvowed to each other. If they had omitted stepping inside that door,\nif they had dispensed with that third party, and gone away on Monday\nsacredly vowed to each other in their own hearts, you would\nhave scarcely found their conduct moral. Consider these things\ncarefully,--the sign-post and the third party,--and the difference they\nmake. And now, for a finish, we will return to the sign-post.\n\nSuppose that I went over my neighbor's field on Tuesday, after the\nsign-post was put up, because I saw a murder about to be committed in\nthe field, and therefore ran in and stopped it. Was I doing evil that\ngood might come? Do you not think that to stay out and let the murder be\ndone would have been the evil act in this case? To disobey the sign-post\nwas RIGHT; and I trust that you now perceive the same act may wear as\nmany different hues of right or wrong as the rainbow, according to the\natmosphere in which it is done. It is not safe to say of any man, \"He\ndid evil that good might come.\" Was the thing that he did, in the first\nplace, evil? That is the question.\n\nForgive my asking you to use your mind. It is a thing which no novelist\nshould expect of his reader, and we will go back at once to Judge Henry\nand his meditations about lynching.\n\nHe was well aware that if he was to touch at all upon this subject with\nthe New England girl, he could not put her off with mere platitudes and\nhumdrum formulas; not, at least, if he expected to do any good. She was\nfar too intelligent, and he was really anxious to do good. For her sake\nhe wanted the course of the girl's true love to run more smoothly, and\nstill more did he desire this for the sake of his Virginian.\n\n\"I sent him myself on that business,\" the Judge reflected uncomfortably.\n\"I am partly responsible for the lynching. It has brought him one great\nunhappiness already through the death of Steve. If it gets running\nin this girl's mind, she may--dear me!\" the Judge broke off, \"what a\nnuisance!\" And he sighed. For as all men know, he also knew that many\nthings should be done in this world in silence, and that talking about\nthem is a mistake.\n\nBut when school was out, and the girl gone to her cabin, his mind had\nset the subject in order thoroughly, and he knocked at her door, ready,\nas he had put it, to sacrifice his character in the cause of true love.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, coming straight to the point, \"some dark things have\nhappened.\" And when she made no answer to this, he continued: \"But you\nmust not misunderstand us. We're too fond of you for that.\"\n\n\"Judge Henry,\" said Molly Wood, also coming straight to the point, \"have\nyou come to tell me that you think well of lynching?\"\n\nHe met her. \"Of burning Southern negroes in public, no. Of hanging\nWyoming cattle thieves in private, yes. You perceive there's a\ndifference, don't you?\"\n\n\"Not in principle,\" said the girl, dry and short.\n\n\"Oh--dear--me!\" slowly exclaimed the Judge. \"I am sorry that you cannot\nsee that, because I think that I can. And I think that you have just\nas much sense as I have.\" The Judge made himself very grave and very\ngood-humored at the same time. The poor girl was strung to a high pitch,\nand spoke harshly in spite of herself.\n\n\"What is the difference in principle?\" she demanded.\n\n\"Well,\" said the Judge, easy and thoughtful, \"what do you mean by\nprinciple?\"\n\n\"I didn't think you'd quibble,\" flashed Molly. \"I'm not a lawyer\nmyself.\"\n\nA man less wise than Judge Henry would have smiled at this, and then war\nwould have exploded hopelessly between them, and harm been added to what\nwas going wrong already. But the Judge knew that he must give to every\nword that the girl said now his perfect consideration.\n\n\"I don't mean to quibble,\" he assured her. \"I know the trick of escaping\nfrom one question by asking another. But I don't want to escape from\nanything you hold me to answer. If you can show me that I am wrong, I\nwant you to do so. But,\" and here the Judge smiled, \"I want you to play\nfair, too.\"\n\n\"And how am I not?\"\n\n\"I want you to be just as willing to be put right by me as I am to be\nput right by you. And so when you use such a word as principle, you\nmust help me to answer by saying what principle you mean. For in all\nsincerity I see no likeness in principle whatever between burning\nSouthern negroes in public and hanging Wyoming horse-thieves in private.\nI consider the burning a proof that the South is semi-barbarous, and the\nhanging a proof that Wyoming is determined to become civilized. We\ndo not torture our criminals when we lynch them. We do not invite\nspectators to enjoy their death agony. We put no such hideous disgrace\nupon the United States. We execute our criminals by the swiftest means,\nand in the quietest way. Do you think the principle is the same?\"\n\nMolly had listened to him with attention. \"The way is different,\" she\nadmitted.\n\n\"Only the way?\"\n\n\"So it seems to me. Both defy law and order.\"\n\n\"Ah, but do they both? Now we're getting near the principle.\"\n\n\"Why, yes. Ordinary citizens take the law in their own hands.\"\n\n\"The principle at last!\" exclaimed the Judge.\n\n\"Now tell me some more things. Out of whose hands do they take the law?\"\n\n\"The court's.\"\n\n\"What made the courts?\"\n\n\"I don't understand.\"\n\n\"How did there come to be any courts?\"\n\n\"The Constitution.\"\n\n\"How did there come to be any Constitution? Who made it?\"\n\n\"The delegates, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Who made the delegates?\"\n\n\"I suppose they were elected, or appointed, or something.\"\n\n\"And who elected them?\"\n\n\"Of course the people elected them.\"\n\n\"Call them the ordinary citizens,\" said the Judge. \"I like your term.\nThey are where the law comes from, you see. For they chose the delegates\nwho made the Constitution that provided for the courts. There's your\nmachinery. These are the hands into which ordinary citizens have put the\nlaw. So you see, at best, when they lynch they only take back what they\nonce gave. Now we'll take your two cases that you say are the same in\nprinciple. I think that they are not. For in the South they take a negro\nfrom jail where he was waiting to be duly hung. The South has never\nclaimed that the law would let him go. But in Wyoming the law has been\nletting our cattle-thieves go for two years. We are in a very bad way,\nand we are trying to make that way a little better until civilization\ncan reach us. At present we lie beyond its pale. The courts, or rather\nthe juries, into whose hands we have put the law, are not dealing the\nlaw. They are withered hands, or rather they are imitation hands\nmade for show, with no life in them, no grip. They cannot hold a\ncattle-thief. And so when your ordinary citizen sees this, and sees that\nhe has placed justice in a dead hand, he must take justice back into his\nown hands where it was once at the beginning of all things. Call this\nprimitive, if you will. But so far from being a DEFIANCE of the law, it\nis an ASSERTION of it--the fundamental assertion of self governing men,\nupon whom our whole social fabric is based. There is your principle,\nMiss Wood, as I see it. Now can you help me to see anything different?\"\n\nShe could not.\n\n\"But perhaps you are of the same opinion still?\" the Judge inquired.\n\n\"It is all terrible to me,\" she said.\n\n\"Yes; and so is capital punishment terrible. And so is war. And perhaps\nsome day we shall do without them. But they are none of them so terrible\nas unchecked theft and murder would be.\"\n\nAfter the Judge had departed on his way to Sunk Creek, no one spoke to\nMolly upon this subject. But her face did not grow cheerful at once. It\nwas plain from her fits of silence that her thoughts were not at rest.\nAnd sometimes at night she would stand in front of her lover's likeness,\ngazing upon it with both love and shrinking.\n\n\n\n\nXXXIV. TO FIT HER FINGER\n\n\nIt was two rings that the Virginian wrote for when next I heard from\nhim.\n\nAfter my dark sight of what the Cattle Land could be, I soon had\njourneyed home by way of Washakie and Rawlins. Steve and Shorty did not\nleave my memory, nor will they ever, I suppose.\n\nThe Virginian had touched the whole thing the day I left him. He had\nnoticed me looking a sort of farewell at the plains and mountains.\n\n\"You will come back to it,\" he said. \"If there was a headstone for every\nman that once pleasured in his freedom here, yu'd see one most every\ntime yu' turned your head. It's a heap sadder than a graveyard--but yu'\nlove it all the same.\"\n\nSadness had passed from him--from his uppermost mood, at least, when\nhe wrote about the rings. Deep in him was sadness of course, as well as\njoy. For he had known Steve, and he had covered Shorty with earth. He\nhad looked upon life with a marksman's eyes, very close; and no one,\nif he have a heart, can pass through this and not carry sadness in his\nspirit with him forever. But he seldom shows it openly; it bides within\nhim, enriching his cheerfulness and rendering him of better service to\nhis fellow-men.\n\nIt was a commission of cheerfulness that he now gave, being distant\nfrom where rings are to be bought. He could not go so far as the East\nto procure what he had planned. Rings were to be had in Cheyenne, and a\nstill greater choice in Denver; and so far as either of these towns his\naffairs would have permitted him to travel. But he was set upon having\nrings from the East. They must come from the best place in the country;\nnothing short of that was good enough \"to fit her finger,\" as he said.\nThe wedding ring was a simple matter. Let it be right, that was all:\nthe purest gold that could be used, with her initials and his together\ngraven round the inside, with the day of the month and the year.\n\nThe date was now set. It had come so far as this. July third was to be\nthe day. Then for sixty days and nights he was to be a bridegroom, free\nfrom his duties at Sunk Creek, free to take his bride wheresoever she\nmight choose to go. And she had chosen.\n\nThose voices of the world had more than angered her; for after the anger\na set purpose was left. Her sister should have the chance neither to\ncome nor to stay away. Had her mother even answered the Virginian's\nletter, there could have been some relenting. But the poor lady had been\ninadequate in this, as in all other searching moments of her life: she\nhad sent messages,--kind ones, to be sure,--but only messages. If this\nhad hurt the Virginian, no one knew it in the world, least of all the\ngirl in whose heart it had left a cold, frozen spot. Not a good spirit\nin which to be married, you will say. No; frozen spots are not good at\nany time. But Molly's own nature gave her due punishment. Through all\nthese days of her warm happiness a chill current ran, like those which\ninterrupt the swimmer's perfect joy. The girl was only half as happy\nas her lover; but she hid this deep from him,--hid it until that final,\nfierce hour of reckoning that her nature had with her,--nay, was bound\nto have with her, before the punishment was lifted, and the frozen spot\nmelted at length from her heart.\n\nSo, meanwhile, she made her decree against Bennington. Not Vermont,\nbut Wyoming, should be her wedding place. No world's voices should be\nwhispering, no world's eyes should be looking on, when she made her vow\nto him and received his vow. Those voices should be spoken and that ring\nput on in this wild Cattle Land, where first she had seen him ride into\nthe flooded river, and lift her ashore upon his horse. It was this open\nsky which should shine down on them, and this frontier soil upon which\ntheir feet should tread. The world should take its turn second.\n\nAfter a month with him by stream and canyon, a month far deeper into the\nmountain wilds than ever yet he had been free to take her, a month with\nsometimes a tent and sometimes the stars above them, and only their\nhorses besides themselves--after such a month as this, she would take\nhim to her mother and to Bennington; and the old aunt over at Dunbarton\nwould look at him, and be once more able to declare that the Starks had\nalways preferred a man who was a man.\n\nAnd so July third was to be engraved inside the wedding ring. Upon the\nother ring the Virginian had spent much delicious meditation, all in his\nsecret mind. He had even got the right measure of her finger without her\nsuspecting the reason. But this step was the final one in his plan.\n\nDuring the time that his thoughts had begun to be busy over the other\nring, by a chance he had learned from Mrs. Henry a number of old fancies\nregarding precious stones. Mrs. Henry often accompanied the Judge in\nventuresome mountain climbs, and sometimes the steepness of the rocks\nrequired her to use her hands for safety. One day when the Virginian\nwent with them to help mark out certain boundary corners, she removed\nher rings lest they should get scratched; and he, being just behind her,\ntook them during the climb.\n\n\"I see you're looking at my topaz,\" she had said, as he returned them.\n\"If I could have chosen, it would have been a ruby. But I was born in\nNovember.\"\n\nHe did not understand her in the least, but her words awakened exceeding\ninterest in him; and they had descended some five miles of mountain\nbefore he spoke again. Then he became ingenious, for he had half worked\nout what Mrs. Henry's meaning must be; but he must make quite sure.\nTherefore, according to his wild, shy nature, he became ingenious.\n\n\"Men wear rings,\" he began. \"Some of the men on the ranch do. I don't\nsee any harm in a man's wearin' a ring. But I never have.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the lady, not yet suspecting that he was undertaking to\ncircumvent her, \"probably those men have sweethearts.\"\n\n\"No, ma'am. Not sweethearts worth wearin' rings for--in two cases,\nanyway. They won 'em at cyards. And they like to see 'em shine. I never\nsaw a man wear a topaz.\"\n\nMrs. Henry did not have any further remark to make.\n\n\"I was born in January myself,\" pursued the Virginian, very\nthoughtfully.\n\nThen the lady gave him one look, and without further process of mind\nperceived exactly what he was driving at.\n\n\"That's very extravagant for rings,\" said she. \"January is diamonds.\"\n\n\"Diamonds,\" murmured the Virginian, more and more thoughtfully. \"Well,\nit don't matter, for I'd not wear a ring. And November is--what did yu'\nsay, ma'am?\"\n\n\"Topaz.\"\n\n\"Yes. Well, jewels are cert'nly pretty things. In the Spanish Missions\nyu'll see large ones now and again. And they're not glass, I think. And\nso they have got some jewel that kind of belongs to each month right\naround the twelve?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Henry, smiling. \"One for each month. But the opal is\nwhat you want.\"\n\nHe looked at her, and began to blush.\n\n\"October is the opal,\" she added, and she laughed outright, for Miss\nWood's birthday was on the fifteenth of that month.\n\nThe Virginian smiled guiltily at her through his crimson.\n\n\"I've no doubt you can beat around the bush very well with men,\" said\nMrs. Henry. \"But it's perfectly transparent with us--in matters of\nsentiment, at least.\"\n\n\"Well, I am sorry,\" he presently said. \"I don't want to give her an\nopal. I have no superstition, but I don't want to give her an opal. If\nher mother did, or anybody like that, why, all right. But not from me.\nD' yu' understand, ma'am?\"\n\nMrs. Henry did understand this subtle trait in the wild man, and she\nrejoiced to be able to give him immediate reassurance concerning opals.\n\n\"Don't worry about that,\" she said. \"The opal is said to bring ill luck,\nbut not when it is your own month stone. Then it is supposed to be not\nonly deprived of evil influence, but to possess peculiarly fortunate\npower. Let it be an opal ring.\"\n\nThen he asked her boldly various questions, and she showed him her\nrings, and gave him advice about the setting. There was no special\ncustom, she told him, ruling such rings as this he desired to bestow.\nThe gem might be the lady's favorite or the lover's favorite; and to\nchoose the lady's month stone was very well indeed.\n\nVery well indeed, the Virginian thought. But not quite well enough for\nhim. His mind now busied itself with this lore concerning jewels, and\nsoon his sentiment had suggested something which he forthwith carried\nout.\n\nWhen the ring was achieved, it was an opal, but set with four small\nembracing diamonds. Thus was her month stone joined with his, that their\nluck and their love might be inseparably clasped.\n\nHe found the size of her finger one day when winter had departed, and\nthe early grass was green. He made a ring of twisted grass for her,\nwhile she held her hand for him to bind it. He made another for himself.\nThen, after each had worn their grass ring for a while, he begged her\nto exchange. He did not send his token away from him, but most carefully\nmeasured it. Thus the ring fitted her well, and the lustrous flame\nwithin the opal thrilled his heart each time he saw it. For now June was\nnear its end; and that other plain gold ring, which, for safe keeping,\nhe cherished suspended round his neck day and night, seemed to burn with\nan inward glow that was deeper than the opal's.\n\nSo in due course arrived the second of July. Molly's punishment had got\nas far as this: she longed for her mother to be near her at this time;\nbut it was too late.\n\n\n\n\nXXXV. WITH MALICE AFORETHOUGHT\n\n\nTown lay twelve straight miles before the lover and his sweetheart, when\nthey came to the brow of the last long hill. All beneath them was like\na map: neither man nor beast distinguishable, but the veined and tinted\nimage of a country, knobs and flats set out in order clearly, shining\nextensive and motionless in the sun. It opened on the sight of the\nlovers as they reached the sudden edge of the tableland, where since\nmorning they had ridden with the head of neither horse ever in advance\nof the other.\n\nAt the view of their journey's end, the Virginian looked down at his\ngirl beside him, his eyes filled with a bridegroom's light, and, hanging\nsafe upon his breast, he could feel the gold ring that he would slowly\npress upon her finger to-morrow. He drew off the glove from her left\nhand, and stooping, kissed the jewel in that other ring which he had\ngiven her. The crimson fire in the opal seemed to mingle with that in\nhis heart, and his arm lifted her during a moment from the saddle as he\nheld her to him. But in her heart the love of him was troubled by that\ncold pang of loneliness which had crept upon her like a tide as the day\ndrew near. None of her own people were waiting in that distant town to\nsee her become his bride. Friendly faces she might pass on the way; but\nall of them new friends, made in this wild country: not a face of her\nchildhood would smile upon her; and deep within her, a voice cried for\nthe mother who was far away in Vermont. That she would see Mrs. Taylor's\nkind face at her wedding was no comfort now.\n\nThere lay the town in the splendor of Wyoming space. Around it spread\nthe watered fields, westward for a little way, eastward to a great\ndistance, making squares of green and yellow crops; and the town was but\na poor rag in the midst of this quilted harvest. After the fields to the\neast, the tawny plain began; and with one faint furrow of river lining\nits undulations, it stretched beyond sight. But west of the town rose\nthe Bow Leg Mountains, cool with their still unmelted snows and their\ndull blue gulfs of pine. From three canyons flowed three clear forks\nwhich began the river. Their confluence was above the town a good two\nmiles; it looked but a few paces from up here, while each side the river\nstraggled the margin cottonwoods, like thin borders along a garden walk.\nOver all this map hung silence like a harmony, tremendous yet serene.\n\n\"How beautiful! how I love it!\" whispered the girl. \"But, oh, how big it\nis!\" And she leaned against her lover for an instant. It was her spirit\nseeking shelter. To-day, this vast beauty, this primal calm, had in it\nfor her something almost of dread. The small, comfortable, green hills\nof home rose before her. She closed her eyes and saw Vermont: a village\nstreet, and the post-office, and ivy covering an old front door, and her\nmother picking some yellow roses from a bush.\n\nAt a sound, her eyes quickly opened; and here was her lover turned in\nhis saddle, watching another horseman approach. She saw the Virginian's\nhand in a certain position, and knew that his pistol was ready. But the\nother merely overtook and passed them, as they stood at the brow of the\nhill.\n\nThe man had given one nod to the Virginian, and the Virginian one to\nhim; and now he was already below them on the descending road. To Molly\nWood he was a stranger; but she had seen his eyes when he nodded to her\nlover, and she knew, even without the pistol, that this was not enmity\nat first sight. It was not indeed. Five years of gathered hate had\nlooked out of the man's eyes. And she asked her lover who this was.\n\n\"Oh,\" said he, easily, \"just a man I see now and then.\"\n\n\"Is his name Trampas?\" said Molly Wood.\n\nThe Virginian looked at her in surprise. \"Why, where have you seen him?\"\nhe asked.\n\n\"Never till now. But I knew.\"\n\n\"My gracious! Yu' never told me yu' had mind-reading powers.\" And he\nsmiled serenely at her.\n\n\"I knew it was Trampas as soon as I saw his eyes.\"\n\n\"My gracious!\" her lover repeated with indulgent irony. \"I must be\nmighty careful of my eyes when you're lookin' at 'em.\"\n\n\"I believe he did that murder,\" said the girl.\n\n\"Whose mind are yu' readin' now?\" he drawled affectionately.\n\nBut he could not joke her off the subject. She took his strong hand in\nhers, tremulously, so much of it as her little hand could hold. \"I know\nsomething about that--that--last autumn,\" she said, shrinking from words\nmore definite. \"And I know that you only did--\"\n\n\"What I had to,\" he finished, very sadly, but sternly, too.\n\n\"Yes,\" she asserted, keeping hold of his hand. \"I suppose\nthat--lynching--\" (she almost whispered the word) \"is the only way. But\nwhen they had to die just for stealing horses, it seems so wicked that\nthis murderer--\"\n\n\"Who can prove it?\" asked the Virginian.\n\n\"But don't you know it?\"\n\n\"I know a heap o' things inside my heart. But that's not proving. There\nwas only the body, and the hoofprints--and what folks guessed.\"\n\n\"He was never even arrested!\" the girl said.\n\n\"No. He helped elect the sheriff in that county.\"\n\nThen Molly ventured a step inside the border of her lover's reticence.\n\"I saw--\" she hesitated, \"just now, I saw what you did.\"\n\nHe returned to his caressing irony. \"You'll have me plumb scared if you\nkeep on seein' things.\"\n\n\"You had your pistol ready for him.\"\n\n\"Why, I believe I did. It was mighty unnecessary.\" And the Virginian\ntook out the pistol again, and shook his head over it, like one who has\nbeen caught in a blunder.\n\nShe looked at him, and knew that she must step outside his reticence\nagain. By love and her surrender to him their positions had been\nexchanged.\n\nHe was not now, as through his long courting he had been, her\nhalf-obeying, half-refractory worshipper. She was no longer his\nhalf-indulgent, half-scornful superior. Her better birth and schooling\nthat had once been weapons to keep him at his distance, or bring her off\nvictorious in their encounters, had given way before the onset of\nthe natural man himself. She knew her cow-boy lover, with all that he\nlacked, to be more than ever she could be, with all that she had. He was\nher worshipper still, but her master, too. Therefore now, against the\nbaffling smile he gave her, she felt powerless. And once again a pang of\nyearning for her mother to be near her to-day shot through the girl. She\nlooked from her untamed man to the untamed desert of Wyoming, and the\ntown where she was to take him as her wedded husband. But for his sake\nshe would not let him guess her loneliness.\n\nHe sat on his horse Monte, considering the pistol. Then he showed her a\nrattlesnake coiled by the roots of some sage-brush. \"Can I hit it?\" he\ninquired.\n\n\"You don't often miss them,\" said she, striving to be cheerful.\n\n\"Well, I'm told getting married unstrings some men.\" He aimed, and the\nsnake was shattered. \"Maybe it's too early yet for the unstringing to\nbegin!\" And with some deliberation he sent three more bullets into the\nsnake. \"I reckon that's enough,\" said he.\n\n\"Was not the first one?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, for the snake.\" And then, with one leg crooked cow-boy fashion\nacross in front of his saddle-horn, he cleaned his pistol, and replaced\nthe empty cartridges.\n\nOnce more she ventured near the line of his reticence. \"Has--has Trampas\nseen you much lately?\"\n\n\"Why, no; not for a right smart while. But I reckon he has not missed\nme.\"\n\nThe Virginian spoke this in his gentlest voice. But his rebuffed\nsweetheart turned her face away, and from her eyes she brushed a tear.\n\nHe reined his horse Monte beside her, and upon her cheek she felt his\nkiss. \"You are not the only mind-reader,\" said he, very tenderly. And\nat this she clung to him, and laid her head upon his breast. \"I had been\nthinking,\" he went on, \"that the way our marriage is to be was the most\nbeautiful way.\"\n\n\"It is the most beautiful,\" she murmured.\n\nHe slowly spoke out his thought, as if she had not said this. \"No folks\nto stare, no fuss, no jokes and ribbons and best bonnets, no public\neye nor talkin' of tongues when most yu' want to hear nothing and say\nnothing.\"\n\nShe answered by holding him closer.\n\n\"Just the bishop of Wyoming to join us, and not even him after we're\nonce joined. I did think that would be ahead of all ways to get married\nI have seen.\"\n\nHe paused again, and she made no rejoinder.\n\n\"But we have left out your mother.\"\n\nShe looked in his face with quick astonishment. It was as if his spirit\nhad heard the cry of her spirit.\n\n\"That is nowhere near right,\" he said. \"That is wrong.\"\n\n\"She could never have come here,\" said the girl.\n\n\"We should have gone there. I don't know how I can ask her to forgive\nme.\"\n\n\"But it was not you!\" cried Molly.\n\n\"Yes. Because I did not object. I did not tell you we must go to her.\nI missed the point, thinking so much about my own feelings. For you\nsee--and I've never said this to you until now--your mother did hurt me.\nWhen you said you would have me after my years of waiting, and I wrote\nher that letter telling her all about myself, and how my family was not\nlike yours, and--and--all the rest I told her, why you see it hurt me\nnever to get a word back from her except just messages through you. For\nI had talked to her about my hopes and my failings. I had said more\nthan ever I've said to you, because she was your mother. I wanted her to\nforgive me, if she could, and feel that maybe I could take good care of\nyou after all. For it was bad enough to have her daughter quit her home\nto teach school out hyeh on Bear Creek. Bad enough without havin' me to\ncome along and make it worse. I have missed the point in thinking of my\nown feelings.\"\n\n\"But it's not your doing!\" repeated Molly.\n\nWith his deep delicacy he had put the whole matter as a hardship to her\nmother alone. He had saved her any pain of confession or denial. \"Yes,\nit is my doing,\" he now said. \"Shall we give it up?\"\n\n\"Give what--?\" She did not understand.\n\n\"Why, the order we've got it fixed in. Plans are--well, they're no\nmore than plans. I hate the notion of changing, but I hate hurting your\nmother more. Or, anyway, I OUGHT to hate it more. So we can shift, if\nyu' say so. It's not too late.\"\n\n\"Shift?\" she faltered.\n\n\"I mean, we can go to your home now. We can start by the stage to-night.\nYour mother can see us married. We can come back and finish in the\nmountains instead of beginning in them. It'll be just merely shifting,\nyu' see.\"\n\nHe could scarcely bring himself to say this at all; yet he said it\nalmost as if he were urging it. It implied a renunciation that he could\nhardly bear to think of. To put off his wedding day, the bliss upon\nwhose threshold he stood after his three years of faithful battle\nfor it, and that wedding journey he had arranged: for there were the\nmountains in sight, the woods and canyons where he had planned to go\nwith her after the bishop had joined them; the solitudes where only the\nwild animals would be, besides themselves. His horses, his tent, his\nrifle, his rod, all were waiting ready in the town for their start\nto-morrow. He had provided many dainty things to make her comfortable.\nWell, he could wait a little more, having waited three years. It would\nnot be what his heart most desired: there would be the \"public eye and\nthe talking of tongues\"--but he could wait. The hour would come when he\ncould be alone with his bride at last. And so he spoke as if he urged\nit.\n\n\"Never!\" she cried. \"Never, never!\"\n\nShe pushed it from her. She would not brook such sacrifice on his part.\nWere they not going to her mother in four weeks? If her family had\nwarmly accepted him--but they had not; and in any case, it had gone too\nfar, it was too late. She told her lover that she would not hear him,\nthat if he said any more she would gallop into town separately from him.\nAnd for his sake she would hide deep from him this loneliness of hers,\nand the hurt that he had given her in refusing to share with her his\ntrouble with Trampas, when others must know of it.\n\nAccordingly, they descended the hill slowly together, lingering to spin\nout these last miles long. Many rides had taught their horses to go\nside by side, and so they went now: the girl sweet and thoughtful in her\nsedate gray habit; and the man in his leathern chaps and cartridge belt\nand flannel shirt, looking gravely into the distance with the level gaze\nof the frontier.\n\nHaving read his sweetheart's mind very plainly, the lover now broke his\ndearest custom. It was his code never to speak ill of any man to any\nwoman. Men's quarrels were not for women's ears. In his scheme, good\nwomen were to know only a fragment of men's lives. He had lived many\noutlaw years, and his wide knowledge of evil made innocence doubly\nprecious to him. But to-day he must depart from his code, having read\nher mind well. He would speak evil of one man to one woman, because his\nreticence had hurt her--and was she not far from her mother, and very\nlonely, do what he could? She should know the story of his quarrel in\nlanguage as light and casual as he could veil it with.\n\nHe made an oblique start. He did not say to her: \"I'll tell you about\nthis. You saw me get ready for Trampas because I have been ready for him\nany time these five years.\" He began far off from the point with that\nrooted caution of his--that caution which is shared by the primal savage\nand the perfected diplomat.\n\n\"There's cert'nly a right smart o' difference between men and women,\" he\nobserved.\n\n\"You're quite sure?\" she retorted.\n\n\"Ain't it fortunate?--that there's both, I mean.\"\n\n\"I don't know about fortunate. Machinery could probably do all the heavy\nwork for us without your help.\"\n\n\"And who'd invent the machinery?\"\n\nShe laughed. \"We shouldn't need the huge, noisy things you do. Our world\nwould be a gentle one.\"\n\n\"Oh, my gracious!\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\"\n\n\"Oh, my gracious! Get along, Monte! A gentle world all full of ladies!\"\n\n\"Do you call men gentle?\" inquired Molly.\n\n\"Now it's a funny thing about that. Have yu' ever noticed a joke about\nfathers-in-law? There's just as many fathers--as mothers-in-law; but\nwhich side are your jokes?\"\n\nMolly was not vanquished. \"That's because the men write the comic\npapers,\" said she.\n\n\"Hear that, Monte? The men write 'em. Well, if the ladies wrote a comic\npaper, I expect that might be gentle.\"\n\nShe gave up this battle in mirth; and he resumed:-- \"But don't you\nreally reckon it's uncommon to meet a father-in-law flouncin' around\nthe house? As for gentle--Once I had to sleep in a room next a ladies'\ntemperance meetin'. Oh, heavens! Well, I couldn't change my room, and\nthe hotel man, he apologized to me next mawnin'. Said it didn't surprise\nhim the husbands drank some.\"\n\nHere the Virginian broke down over his own fantastic inventions, and\ngave a joyous chuckle in company with his sweetheart. \"Yes, there's\na big heap o' difference between men and women,\" he said. \"Take that\nfello' and myself, now.\"\n\n\"Trampas?\" said Molly, quickly serious. She looked along the road ahead,\nand discerned the figure of Trampas still visible on its way to town.\n\nThe Virginian did not wish her to be serious--more than could be helped.\n\"Why, yes,\" he replied, with a waving gesture at Trampas. \"Take him and\nme. He don't think much o' me! How could he? And I expect he'll never.\nBut yu' saw just now how it was between us. We were not a bit like a\ntemperance meetin'.\"\n\nShe could not help laughing at the twist he gave to his voice. And she\nfelt happiness warming her; for in the Virginian's tone about Trampas\nwas something now that no longer excluded her. Thus he began his gradual\nrecital, in a cadence always easy, and more and more musical with the\nnative accent of the South. With the light turn he gave it, its pure\nugliness melted into charm.\n\n\"No, he don't think anything of me. Once a man in the John Day Valley\ndidn't think much, and by Canada de Oro I met another. It will always be\nso here and there, but Trampas beats 'em all. For the others have always\nexpressed themselves--got shut of their poor opinion in the open air.\"\n\n\"Yu' see, I had to explain myself to Trampas a right smart while ago,\nlong before ever I laid my eyes on yu'. It was just nothing at all. A\nlittle matter of cyards in the days when I was apt to spend my money and\nmy holidays pretty headlong. My gracious, what nonsensical times I have\nhad! But I was apt to win at cyards, 'specially poker. And Trampas, he\nmet me one night, and I expect he must have thought I looked kind o'\nyoung. So he hated losin' his money to such a young-lookin' man, and he\ntook his way of sayin' as much. I had to explain myself to him plainly,\nso that he learned right away my age had got its growth.\n\n\"Well, I expect he hated that worse, having to receive my explanation\nwith folks lookin' on at us publicly that-a-way, and him without further\nideas occurrin' to him at the moment. That's what started his poor\nopinion of me, not havin' ideas at the moment. And so the boys resumed\ntheir cyards.\n\n\"I'd most forgot about it. But Trampas's mem'ry is one of his strong\npoints. Next thing--oh, it's a good while later--he gets to losin' flesh\nbecause Judge Henry gave me charge of him and some other punchers taking\ncattle--\"\n\n\"That's not next,\" interrupted the girl.\n\n\"Not? Why--\"\n\n\"Don't you remember?\" she said, timid, yet eager. \"Don't you?\"\n\n\"Blamed if I do!\"\n\n\"The first time we met?\"\n\n\"Yes; my mem'ry keeps that--like I keep this.\" And he brought from his\npocket her own handkerchief, the token he had picked up at a river's\nbrink when he had carried her from an overturned stage.\n\n\"We did not exactly meet, then,\" she said. \"It was at that dance. I\nhadn't seen you yet; but Trampas was saying something horrid about me,\nand you said--you said, 'Rise on your legs, you pole cat, and tell them\nyou're a liar.' When I heard that, I think--I think it finished me.\" And\ncrimson suffused Molly's countenance.\n\n\"I'd forgot,\" the Virginian murmured. Then sharply, \"How did you hear\nit?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Taylor--\"\n\n\"Oh! Well, a man would never have told a woman that.\"\n\nMolly laughed triumphantly. \"Then who told Mrs. Taylor?\"\n\nBeing caught, he grinned at her. \"I reckon husbands are a special kind\nof man,\" was all that he found to say. \"Well, since you do know about\nthat, it was the next move in the game. Trampas thought I had no call\nto stop him sayin' what he pleased about a woman who was nothin' to\nme--then. But all women ought to be somethin' to a man. So I had to give\nTrampas another explanation in the presence of folks lookin' on, and it\nwas just like the cyards. No ideas occurred to him again. And down goes\nhis opinion of me some more!\n\n\"Well, I have not been able to raise it. There has been this and that\nand the other,--yu' know most of the later doings yourself,--and to-day\nis the first time I've happened to see the man since the doings last\nautumn. Yu' seem to know about them, too. He knows I can't prove he\nwas with that gang of horse thieves. And I can't prove he killed poor\nShorty. But he knows I missed him awful close, and spoiled his thieving\nfor a while. So d' yu' wonder he don't think much of me? But if I had\nlived to be twenty-nine years old like I am, and with all my chances\nmade no enemy, I'd feel myself a failure.\"\n\nHis story was finished. He had made her his confidant in matters he had\nnever spoken of before, and she was happy to be thus much nearer to him.\nIt diminished a certain fear that was mingled with her love of him.\n\nDuring the next several miles he was silent, and his silence was enough\nfor her. Vermont sank away from her thoughts, and Wyoming held less of\nloneliness. They descended altogether into the map which had stretched\nbelow them, so that it was a map no longer, but earth with growing\nthings, and prairie-dogs sitting upon it, and now and then a bird flying\nover it. And after a while she said to him, \"What are you thinking\nabout?\"\n\n\"I have been doing sums. Figured in hours it sounds right short. Figured\nin minutes it boils up into quite a mess. Twenty by sixty is twelve\nhundred. Put that into seconds, and yu' get seventy-two thousand\nseconds. Seventy-two thousand. Seventy-two thousand seconds yet before\nwe get married.\"\n\n\"Seconds! To think of its having come to seconds!\"\n\n\"I am thinkin' about it. I'm choppin' sixty of 'em off every minute.\"\n\nWith such chopping time wears away. More miles of the road lay behind\nthem, and in the virgin wilderness the scars of new-scraped water\nditches began to appear, and the first wire fences. Next, they were\npassing cabins and occasional fields, the outposts of habitation. The\nfree road became wholly imprisoned, running between unbroken stretches\nof barbed wire. Far off to the eastward a flowing column of dust marked\nthe approaching stage, bringing the bishop, probably, for whose visit\nhere they had timed their wedding. The day still brimmed with heat and\nsunshine; but the great daily shadow was beginning to move from the feet\nof the Bow Leg Mountains outward toward the town. Presently they began\nto meet citizens. Some of these knew them and nodded, while some did\nnot, and stared. Turning a corner into the town's chief street, where\nstood the hotel, the bank, the drug store, the general store, and\nthe seven saloons, they were hailed heartily. Here were three\nfriends,--Honey Wiggin, Scipio Le Moyne, and Lin McLean,--all desirous\nof drinking the Virginian's health, if his lady--would she mind? The\nthree stood grinning, with their hats off; but behind their gayety the\nVirginian read some other purpose.\n\n\"We'll all be very good,\" said Honey Wiggin.\n\n\"Pretty good,\" said Lin.\n\n\"Good,\" said Scipio.\n\n\"Which is the honest man?\" inquired Molly, glad to see them.\n\n\"Not one!\" said the Virginian. \"My old friends scare me when I think of\ntheir ways.\"\n\n\"It's bein' engaged scares yu',\" retorted Mr. McLean. \"Marriage restores\nyour courage, I find.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll trust all of you,\" said Molly. \"He's going to take me to the\nhotel, and then you can drink his health as much as you please.\"\n\nWith a smile to them she turned to proceed, and he let his horse move\nwith hers; but he looked at his friends. Then Scipio's bleached blue\neyes narrowed to a slit, and he said what they had all come out on the\nstreet to say:-- \"Don't change your clothes.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" protested Molly, \"isn't he rather dusty and countrified?\"\n\nBut the Virginian had taken Scipio's meaning. \"DON'T CHANGE YOUR\nCLOTHES.\" Innocent Molly appreciated these words no more than the\naverage reader who reads a masterpiece, complacently unaware that\nits style differs from that of the morning paper. Such was Scipio's\nintention, wishing to spare her from alarm.\n\nSo at the hotel she let her lover go with a kiss, and without a thought\nof Trampas. She in her room unlocked the possessions which were there\nwaiting for her, and changed her dress.\n\nWedding garments, and other civilized apparel proper for a genuine\nfrontiersman when he comes to town, were also in the hotel, ready for\nthe Virginian to wear. It is only the somewhat green and unseasoned\ncow-puncher who struts before the public in spurs and deadly weapons.\nFor many a year the Virginian had put away these childish things. He\nmade a sober toilet for the streets. Nothing but his face and bearing\nremained out of the common when he was in a town. But Scipio had told\nhim not to change his clothes; therefore he went out with his pistol at\nhis hip. Soon he had joined his three friends.\n\n\"I'm obliged to yu',\" he said. \"He passed me this mawnin'.\"\n\n\"We don't know his intentions,\" said Wiggin.\n\n\"Except that he's hangin' around,\" said McLean.\n\n\"And fillin' up,\" said Scipio, \"which reminds me--\"\n\nThey strolled into the saloon of a friend, where, unfortunately, sat\nsome foolish people. But one cannot always tell how much of a fool a man\nis, at sight.\n\nIt was a temperate health-drinking that they made. \"Here's how,\" they\nmuttered softly to the Virginian; and \"How,\" he returned softly, looking\naway from them. But they had a brief meeting of eyes, standing and\nlounging near each other, shyly; and Scipio shook hands with the\nbridegroom. \"Some day,\" he stated, tapping himself; for in his vagrant\nheart he began to envy the man who could bring himself to marry. And he\nnodded again, repeating, \"Here's how.\"\n\nThey stood at the bar, full of sentiment, empty of words, memory\nand affection busy in their hearts. All of them had seen rough days\ntogether, and they felt guilty with emotion.\n\n\"It's hot weather,\" said Wiggin.\n\n\"Hotter on Box Elder,\" said McLean. \"My kid has started teething.\"\n\nWords ran dry again. They shifted their positions, looked in their\nglasses, read the labels on the bottles. They dropped a word now and\nthen to the proprietor about his trade, and his ornaments.\n\n\"Good head,\" commented McLean.\n\n\"Big old ram,\" assented the proprietor. \"Shot him myself on Gray Bull\nlast fall.\"\n\n\"Sheep was thick in the Tetons last fall,\" said the Virginian.\n\nOn the bar stood a machine into which the idle customer might drop his\nnickel. The coin then bounced among an arrangement of pegs, descending\nat length into one or another of various holes. You might win as much as\nten times your stake, but this was not the most usual result; and with\nnickels the three friends and the bridegroom now mildly sported for a\nwhile, buying them with silver when their store ran out.\n\n\"Was it sheep you went after in the Tetons?\" inquired the proprietor,\nknowing it was horse thieves.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the Virginian. \"I'll have ten more nickels.\"\n\n\"Did you get all the sheep you wanted?\" the proprietor continued.\n\n\"Poor luck,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"Think there's a friend of yours in town this afternoon,\" said the\nproprietor.\n\n\"Did he mention he was my friend?\"\n\nThe proprietor laughed. The Virginian watched another nickel click down\namong the pegs.\n\nHoney Wiggin now made the bridegroom a straight offer. \"We'll take this\nthing off your hands,\" said he.\n\n\"Any or all of us,\" said Lin.\n\nBut Scipio held his peace. His loyalty went every inch as far as theirs,\nbut his understanding of his friend went deeper. \"Don't change your\nclothes,\" was the first and the last help he would be likely to give in\nthis matter. The rest must be as such matters must always be, between\nman and man. To the other two friends, however, this seemed a very\nspecial case, falling outside established precedent. Therefore they\nventured offers of interference.\n\n\"A man don't get married every day,\" apologized McLean. \"We'll just run\nhim out of town for yu'.\"\n\n\"Save yu' the trouble,\" urged Wiggin. \"Say the word.\"\n\nThe proprietor now added his voice. \"It'll sober him up to spend his\nnight out in the brush. He'll quit his talk then.\"\n\nBut the Virginian did not say the word, or any word. He stood playing\nwith the nickels.\n\n\"Think of her,\" muttered McLean.\n\n\"Who else would I be thinking of?\" returned the Southerner. His face had\nbecome very sombre. \"She has been raised so different!\" he murmured. He\npondered a little, while the others waited, solicitous.\n\nA new idea came to the proprietor. \"I am acting mayor of this town,\"\nsaid he. \"I'll put him in the calaboose and keep him till you get\nmarried and away.\"\n\n\"Say the word,\" repeated Honey Wiggin.\n\nScipio's eye met the proprietor's, and he shook his head about a quarter\nof an inch. The proprietor shook his to the same amount. They understood\neach other. It had come to that point where there was no way out, save\nonly the ancient, eternal way between man and man. It is only the great\nmediocrity that goes to law in these personal matters.\n\n\"So he has talked about me some?\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"It's the whiskey,\" Scipio explained.\n\n\"I expect,\" said McLean, \"he'd run a mile if he was in a state to\nappreciate his insinuations.\"\n\n\"Which we are careful not to mention to yu',\" said Wiggin, \"unless yu'\ninquire for 'em.\"\n\nSome of the fools present had drawn closer to hear this interesting\nconversation. In gatherings of more than six there will generally be at\nleast one fool; and this company must have numbered twenty men.\n\n\"This country knows well enough,\" said one fool, who hungered to be\nimportant, \"that you don't brand no calves that ain't your own.\"\n\nThe saturnine Virginian looked at him. \"Thank yu',\" said he, gravely,\n\"for your indorsement of my character.\" The fool felt flattered. The\nVirginian turned to his friends. His hand slowly pushed his hat back,\nand he rubbed his black head in thought.\n\n\"Glad to see yu've got your gun with you,\" continued the happy fool.\n\"You know what Trampas claims about that affair of yours in the Tetons?\nHe claims that if everything was known about the killing of Shorty--\"\n\n\"Take one on the house,\" suggested the proprietor to him, amiably. \"Your\nnews will be fresher.\" And he pushed him the bottle. The fool felt less\nimportant.\n\n\"This talk had went the rounds before it got to us,\" said Scipio, \"or\nwe'd have headed it off. He has got friends in town.\"\n\nPerplexity knotted the Virginian's brows. This community knew that a man\nhad implied he was a thief and a murderer; it also knew that he knew\nit. But the case was one of peculiar circumstances, assuredly. Could he\navoid meeting the man? Soon the stage would be starting south for the\nrailroad. He had already to-day proposed to his sweetheart that they\nshould take it. Could he for her sake leave unanswered a talking enemy\nupon the field? His own ears had not heard the enemy.\n\nInto these reflections the fool stepped once more. \"Of course this\ncountry don't believe Trampas,\" said he. \"This country--\"\n\nBut he contributed no further thoughts. From somewhere in the rear of\nthe building, where it opened upon the tin cans and the hinder purlieus\nof the town, came a movement, and Trampas was among them, courageous\nwith whiskey.\n\nAll the fools now made themselves conspicuous. One lay on the floor,\nknocked there by the Virginian, whose arm he had attempted to hold.\nOthers struggled with Trampas, and his bullet smashed the ceiling\nbefore they could drag the pistol from him. \"There now! there now!\" they\ninterposed; \"you don't want to talk like that,\" for he was pouring out a\ntide of hate and vilification. Yet the Virginian stood quiet by the bar,\nand many an eye of astonishment was turned upon him. \"I'd not stand half\nthat language,\" some muttered to each other. Still the Virginian waited\nquietly, while the fools reasoned with Trampas. But no earthly foot can\nstep between a man and his destiny. Trampas broke suddenly free.\n\n\"Your friends have saved your life,\" he rang out, with obscene epithets.\n\"I'll give you till sundown to leave town.\"\n\nThere was total silence instantly.\n\n\"Trampas,\" spoke the Virginian, \"I don't want trouble with you.\"\n\n\"He never has wanted it,\" Trampas sneered to the bystanders. \"He has\nbeen dodging it five years. But I've got him coralled.\"\n\nSome of the Trampas faction smiled.\n\n\"Trampas,\" said the Virginian again, \"are yu' sure yu' really mean\nthat?\"\n\nThe whiskey bottle flew through the air, hurled by Trampas, and crashed\nthrough the saloon window behind the Virginian.\n\n\"That was surplusage, Trampas,\" said he, \"if yu' mean the other.\"\n\n\"Get out by sundown, that's all,\" said Trampas. And wheeling, he went\nout of the saloon by the rear, as he had entered.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said the Virginian, \"I know you will all oblige me.\"\n\n\"Sure!\" exclaimed the proprietor, heartily, \"We'll see that everybody\nlets this thing alone.\"\n\nThe Virginian gave a general nod to the company, and walked out into the\nstreet.\n\n\"It's a turruble shame,\" sighed Scipio, \"that he couldn't have postponed\nit.\"\n\nThe Virginian walked in the open air with thoughts disturbed. \"I am of\ntwo minds about one thing,\" he said to himself uneasily.\n\nGossip ran in advance of him; but as he came by, the talk fell away\nuntil he had passed. Then they looked after him, and their words again\nrose audibly. Thus everywhere a little eddy of silence accompanied his\nsteps.\n\n\"It don't trouble him much,\" one said, having read nothing in the\nVirginian's face.\n\n\"It may trouble his girl some,\" said another.\n\n\"She'll not know,\" said a third, \"until it's over.\"\n\n\"He'll not tell her?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't. It's no woman's business.\"\n\n\"Maybe that's so. Well, it would have suited me to have Trampas die\nsooner.\"\n\n\"How would it suit you to have him live longer?\" inquired a member of\nthe opposite faction, suspected of being himself a cattle thief.\n\n\"I could answer your question, if I had other folks' calves I wanted to\nbrand.\" This raised both a laugh and a silence.\n\nThus the town talked, filling in the time before sunset.\n\nThe Virginian, still walking aloof in the open air, paused at the edge\nof the town. \"I'd sooner have a sickness than be undecided this way,\"\nhe said, and he looked up and down. Then a grim smile came at his own\nexpense. \"I reckon it would make me sick--but there's not time.\"\n\nOver there in the hotel sat his sweetheart alone, away from her mother,\nher friends, her home, waiting his return, knowing nothing. He looked\ninto the west. Between the sun and the bright ridges of the mountains\nwas still a space of sky; but the shadow from the mountains' feet had\ndrawn halfway toward the town. \"About forty minutes more,\" he said\naloud. \"She has been raised so different.\" And he sighed as he\nturned back. As he went slowly, he did not know how great was his own\nunhappiness. \"She has been raised so different,\" he said again.\n\nOpposite the post-office the bishop of Wyoming met him and greeted him.\nHis lonely heart throbbed at the warm, firm grasp of this friend's hand.\nThe bishop saw his eyes glow suddenly, as if tears were close. But none\ncame, and no word more open than, \"I'm glad to see you.\"\n\nBut gossip had reached the bishop, and he was sorely troubled also.\n\"What is all this?\" said he, coming straight to it.\n\nThe Virginian looked at the clergyman frankly. \"Yu' know just as much\nabout it as I do,\" he said. \"And I'll tell yu' anything yu' ask.\"\n\n\"Have you told Miss Wood?\" inquired the bishop.\n\nThe eyes of the bridegroom fell, and the bishop's face grew at once more\nkeen and more troubled. Then the bridegroom raised his eyes again, and\nthe bishop almost loved him. He touched his arm, like a brother. \"This\nis hard luck,\" he said.\n\nThe bridegroom could scarce keep his voice steady. \"I want to do right\nto-day more than any day I have ever lived,\" said he.\n\n\"Then go and tell her at once.\"\n\n\"It will just do nothing but scare her.\"\n\n\"Go and tell her at once.\"\n\n\"I expected you was going to tell me to run away from Trampas. I can't\ndo that, yu' know.\"\n\nThe bishop did know. Never before in all his wilderness work had he\nfaced such a thing. He knew that Trampas was an evil in the country,\nand that the Virginian was a good. He knew that the cattle thieves--the\nrustlers--were gaining, in numbers and audacity; that they led many\nweak young fellows to ruin; that they elected their men to office, and\ncontrolled juries; that they were a staring menace to Wyoming. His heart\nwas with the Virginian. But there was his Gospel, that he preached, and\nbelieved, and tried to live. He stood looking at the ground and drawing\na finger along his eyebrow. He wished that he might have heard nothing\nabout all this. But he was not one to blink his responsibility as a\nChristian server of the church militant.\n\n\"Am I right,\" he now slowly asked, \"in believing that you think I am a\nsincere man?\"\n\n\"I don't believe anything about it. I know it.\"\n\n\"I should run away from Trampas,\" said the bishop.\n\n\"That ain't quite fair, seh. We all understand you have got to do the\nthings you tell other folks to do. And you do them, seh. You never talk\nlike anything but a man, and you never set yourself above others. You\ncan saddle your own horses. And I saw yu' walk unarmed into that\nWhite River excitement when those two other parsons was a-foggin' and\na-fannin' for their own safety. Damn scoundrels!\"\n\nThe bishop instantly rebuked such language about brothers of his cloth,\neven though he disapproved both of them and their doctrines. \"Every one\nmay be an instrument of Providence,\" he concluded.\n\n\"Well,\" said the Virginian, \"if that is so, then Providence makes use of\ninstruments I'd not touch with a ten-foot pole. Now if you was me, seh,\nand not a bishop, would you run away from Trampas?\"\n\n\"That's not quite fair, either!\" exclaimed the bishop, with a smile.\n\"Because you are asking me to take another man's convictions, and yet\nremain myself.\"\n\n\"Yes, seh. I am. That's so. That don't get at it. I reckon you and I\ncan't get at it.\"\n\n\"If the Bible,\" said the bishop, \"which I believe to be God's word, was\nanything to you--\"\n\n\"It is something to me, seh. I have found fine truths in it.\"\n\n\"'Thou shalt not kill,'\" quoted the bishop. \"That is plain.\"\n\nThe Virginian took his turn at smiling. \"Mighty plain to me, seh. Make\nit plain to Trampas, and there'll be no killin'. We can't get at it that\nway.\"\n\nOnce more the bishop quoted earnestly. \"'Vengeance is mine, I will\nrepay, saith the Lord.'\"\n\n\"How about instruments of Providence, seh? Why, we can't get at it that\nway. If you start usin' the Bible that way, it will mix you up mighty\nquick, seh.\"\n\n\"My friend,\" the bishop urged, and all his good, warm heart was in it,\n\"my dear fellow--go away for the one night. He'll change his mind.\"\n\nThe Virginian shook his head. \"He cannot change his word, seh. Or at\nleast I must stay around till he does. Why, I have given him the say-so.\nHe's got the choice. Most men would not have took what I took from him\nin the saloon. Why don't you ask him to leave town?\"\n\nThe good bishop was at a standstill. Of all kicking against the pricks\nnone is so hard as this kick of a professing Christian against the whole\ninstinct of human man.\n\n\"But you have helped me some,\" said the Virginian. \"I will go and tell\nher. At least, if I think it will be good for her, I will tell her.\"\n\nThe bishop thought that he saw one last chance to move him.\n\n\"You're twenty-nine,\" he began.\n\n\"And a little over,\" said the Virginian.\n\n\"And you were fourteen when you ran away from your family.\"\n\n\"Well, I was weary, yu' know, of havin' elder brothers lay down my law\nnight and mawnin'.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know. So that your life has been your own for fifteen years. But\nit is not your own now. You have given it to a woman.\"\n\n\"Yes; I have given it to her. But my life's not the whole of me. I'd\ngive her twice my life--fifty--a thousand of 'em. But I can't give\nher--her nor anybody in heaven or earth--I can't give my--my--we'll\nnever get at it, seh! There's no good in words. Good-by.\" The Virginian\nwrung the bishop's hand and left him.\n\n\"God bless him!\" said the bishop. \"God bless him!\"\n\nThe Virginian unlocked the room in the hotel where he kept stored his\ntent, his blankets, his pack-saddles, and his many accoutrements for the\nbridal journey in the mountains. Out of the window he saw the mountains\nblue in shadow, but some cottonwoods distant in the flat between were\nstill bright green in the sun. From among his possessions he took\nquickly a pistol, wiping and loading it. Then from its holster he\nremoved the pistol which he had tried and made sure of in the morning.\nThis, according to his wont when going into a risk, he shoved between\nhis trousers and his shirt in front. The untried weapon he placed in\nthe holster, letting it hang visibly at his hip. He glanced out of\nthe window again, and saw the mountains of the same deep blue. But the\ncottonwoods were no longer in the sunlight. The shadow had come past\nthem, nearer the town; for fifteen of the forty minutes were gone. \"The\nbishop is wrong,\" he said. \"There is no sense in telling her.\" And he\nturned to the door, just as she came to it herself.\n\n\"Oh!\" she cried out at once, and rushed to him.\n\nHe swore as he held her close. \"The fools!\" he said. \"The fools!\"\n\n\"It has been so frightful waiting for you,\" said she, leaning her head\nagainst him.\n\n\"Who had to tell you this?\" he demanded.\n\n\"I don't know. Somebody just came and said it.\"\n\n\"This is mean luck,\" he murmured, patting her. \"This is mean luck.\"\n\nShe went on: \"I wanted to run out and find you; but I didn't! I didn't!\nI stayed quiet in my room till they said you had come back.\"\n\n\"It is mean luck. Mighty mean,\" he repeated.\n\n\"How could you be so long?\" she asked. \"Never mind, I've got you now. It\nis over.\"\n\nAnger and sorrow filled him. \"I might have known some fool would tell\nyou,\" he said.\n\n\"It's all over. Never mind.\" Her arms tightened their hold of him. Then\nshe let him go. \"What shall we do?\" she said. \"What now?\"\n\n\"Now?\" he answered. \"Nothing now.\"\n\nShe looked at him without understanding.\n\n\"I know it is a heap worse for you,\" he pursued, speaking slowly. \"I\nknew it would be.\"\n\n\"But it is over!\" she exclaimed again.\n\nHe did not understand her now. He kissed her. \"Did you think it was\nover?\" he said simply. \"There is some waiting still before us. I wish\nyou did not have to wait alone. But it will not be long.\" He was looking\ndown, and did not see the happiness grow chilled upon her face, and then\nfade into bewildered fear. \"I did my best,\" he went on. \"I think I did.\nI know I tried. I let him say to me before them all what no man has\never said, or ever will again. I kept thinking hard of you--with all\nmy might, or I reckon I'd have killed him right there. And I gave him a\nshow to change his mind. I gave it to him twice. I spoke as quiet as\nI am speaking to you now. But he stood to it. And I expect he knows he\nwent too far in the hearing of others to go back on his threat. He will\nhave to go on to the finish now.\"\n\n\"The finish?\" she echoed, almost voiceless.\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered very gently.\n\nHer dilated eyes were fixed upon him. \"But--\" she could scarce form\nutterance, \"but you?\"\n\n\"I have got myself ready,\" he said. \"Did you think--why, what did you\nthink?\"\n\nShe recoiled a step. \"What are you going--\" She put her two hands to her\nhead. \"Oh, God!\" she almost shrieked, \"you are going--\" He made a step,\nand would have put his arm round her, but she backed against the wall,\nstaring speechless at him.\n\n\"I am not going to let him shoot me,\" he said quietly.\n\n\"You mean--you mean--but you can come away!\" she cried. \"It's not too\nlate yet. You can take yourself out of his reach. Everybody knows that\nyou are brave. What is he to you? You can leave him in this place. I'll\ngo with you anywhere. To any house, to the mountains, to anywhere away.\nWe'll leave this horrible place together and--and--oh, won't you listen\nto me?\" She stretched her hands to him. \"Won't you listen?\"\n\nHe took her hands. \"I must stay here.\"\n\nHer hands clung to his. \"No, no, no. There's something else. There's\nsomething better than shedding blood in cold blood. Only think what it\nmeans! Only think of having to remember such a thing! Why, it's what\nthey hang people for! It's murder!\"\n\nHe dropped her hands. \"Don't call it that name,\" he said sternly.\n\n\"When there was the choice!\" she exclaimed, half to herself, like a\nperson stunned and speaking to the air. \"To get ready for it when you\nhave the choice!\"\n\n\"He did the choosing,\" answered the Virginian. \"Listen to me. Are you\nlistening?\" he asked, for her gaze was dull.\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\"I work hyeh. I belong hyeh. It's my life. If folks came to think I was\na coward--\"\n\n\"Who would think you were a coward?\"\n\n\"Everybody. My friends would be sorry and ashamed, and my enemies would\nwalk around saying they had always said so. I could not hold up my head\nagain among enemies or friends.\"\n\n\"When it was explained--\"\n\n\"There'd be nothing to explain. There'd just be the fact.\" He was nearly\nangry.\n\n\"There is a higher courage than fear of outside opinion,\" said the New\nEngland girl.\n\nHer Southern lover looked at her. \"Cert'nly there is. That's what I'm\nshowing in going against yours.\"\n\n\"But if you know that you are brave, and if I know that you are brave,\noh, my dear, my dear! what difference does the world make? How much\nhigher courage to go your own course--\"\n\n\"I am goin' my own course,\" he broke in. \"Can't yu' see how it must be\nabout a man? It's not for their benefit, friends or enemies, that I have\ngot this thing to do. If any man happened to say I was a thief and I\nheard about it, would I let him go on spreadin' such a thing of me?\nDon't I owe my own honesty something better than that? Would I sit down\nin a corner rubbin' my honesty and whisperin' to it, 'There! there! I\nknow you ain't a thief?' No, seh; not a little bit! What men say about\nmy nature is not just merely an outside thing. For the fact that I\nlet 'em keep on sayin' it is a proof I don't value my nature enough to\nshield it from their slander and give them their punishment. And that's\nbeing a poor sort of a jay.\"\n\nShe had grown very white.\n\n\"Can't yu' see how it must be about a man?\" he repeated.\n\n\"I cannot,\" she answered, in a voice that scarcely seemed her own. \"If I\nought to, I cannot. To shed blood in cold blood. When I heard about that\nlast fall,--about the killing of those cattle thieves,--I kept saying to\nmyself: 'He had to do it. It was a public duty.' And lying sleepless I\ngot used to Wyoming being different from Vermont. But this--\" she gave\na shudder--\"when I think of to-morrow, of you and me, and of-- If you do\nthis, there can be no to-morrow for you and me.\"\n\nAt these words he also turned white.\n\n\"Do you mean--\" he asked, and could go no farther.\n\nNor could she answer him, but turned her head away.\n\n\"This would be the end?\" he asked.\n\nHer head faintly moved to signify yes.\n\nHe stood still, his hand shaking a little. \"Will you look at me and\nsay that?\" he murmured at length. She did not move. \"Can you do it?\" he\nsaid.\n\nHis sweetness made her turn, but could not pierce her frozen resolve.\nShe gazed at him across the great distance of her despair.\n\n\"Then it is really so?\" he said.\n\nHer lips tried to form words, but failed.\n\nHe looked out of the window, and saw nothing but shadow. The blue of the\nmountains was now become a deep purple. Suddenly his hand closed hard.\n\n\"Good-by, then,\" he said.\n\nAt that word she was at his feet, clutching him. \"For my sake,\" she\nbegged him. \"For my sake.\"\n\nA tremble passed through his frame. She felt his legs shake as she held\nthem, and, looking up, she saw that his eyes were closed with misery.\nThen he opened them, and in their steady look she read her answer. He\nunclasped her hands from holding him, and raised her to her feet.\n\n\"I have no right to kiss you any more,\" he said. And then, before his\ndesire could break him down from this, he was gone, and she was alone.\n\nShe did not fall, or totter, but stood motionless. And next--it seemed\na moment and it seemed eternity--she heard in the distance a shot, and\nthen two shots. Out of the window she saw people beginning to run. At\nthat she turned and fled to her room, and flung herself face downward\nupon the floor.\n\nTrampas had departed into solitude from the saloon, leaving behind him\nhis ULTIMATUM. His loud and public threat was town knowledge already,\nwould very likely be county knowledge to-night. Riders would take it\nwith them to entertain distant cabins up the river and down the river;\nand by dark the stage would go south with the news of it--and the news\nof its outcome. For everything would be over by dark. After five years,\nhere was the end coming--coming before dark. Trampas had got up this\nmorning with no such thought. It seemed very strange to look back upon\nthe morning; it lay so distant, so irrevocable. And he thought of how he\nhad eaten his breakfast. How would he eat his supper? For supper would\ncome afterward. Some people were eating theirs now, with nothing like\nthis before them. His heart ached and grew cold to think of them, easy\nand comfortable with plates and cups of coffee.\n\nHe looked at the mountains, and saw the sun above their ridges, and\nthe shadow coming from their feet. And there close behind him was the\nmorning he could never go back to. He could see it clearly; his thoughts\nreached out like arms to touch it once more, and be in it again. The\nnight that was coming he could not see, and his eyes and his thoughts\nshrank from it. He had given his enemy until sundown. He could not\ntrace the path which had led him to this. He remembered their first\nmeeting--five years back, in Medicine Bow, and the words which at once\nbegan his hate. No, it was before any words; it was the encounter of\ntheir eyes. For out of the eyes of every stranger looks either a friend\nor an enemy, waiting to be known. But how had five years of hate come to\nplay him such a trick, suddenly, to-day? Since last autumn he had meant\nsometime to get even with this man who seemed to stand at every turn\nof his crookedness, and rob him of his spoils. But how had he come to\nchoose such a way of getting even as this, face to face? He knew many\nbetter ways; and now his own rash proclamation had trapped him. His\nwords were like doors shutting him in to perform his threat to the\nletter, with witnesses at hand to see that he did so.\n\nTrampas looked at the sun and the shadow again. He had till sundown. The\nheart inside him was turning it round in this opposite way: it was to\nHIMSELF that in his rage he had given this lessening margin of grace.\nBut he dared not leave town in all the world's sight after all the world\nhad heard him. Even his friends would fall from him after such an act.\nCould he--the thought actually came to him--could he strike before the\ntime set? But the thought was useless. Even if his friends could harbor\nhim after such a deed, his enemies would find him, and his life would be\nforfeit to a certainty. His own trap was closing upon him.\n\nHe came upon the main street, and saw some distance off the Virginian\nstanding in talk with the bishop. He slunk between two houses, and\ncursed both of them. The sight had been good for him, bringing some\nwarmth of rage back to his desperate heart. And he went into a place and\ndrank some whiskey.\n\n\"In your shoes,\" said the barkeeper, \"I'd be afraid to take so much.\"\n\nBut the nerves of Trampas were almost beyond the reach of intoxication,\nand he swallowed some more, and went out again. Presently he fell in\nwith some of his brothers in cattle stealing, and walked along with them\nfor a little.\n\n\"Well, it will not be long now,\" they said to him. And he had never\nheard words so desolate.\n\n\"No,\" he made out to say; \"soon now.\" Their cheerfulness seemed\nunearthly to him, and his heart almost broke beneath it.\n\n\"We'll have one to your success,\" they suggested.\n\nSo with them he repaired to another place; and the sight of a man\nleaning against the bar made him start so that they noticed him. Then he\nsaw that the man was a stranger whom he had never laid eyes on till now.\n\n\"It looked like Shorty,\" he said, and could have bitten his tongue off.\n\n\"Shorty is quiet up in the Tetons,\" said a friend. \"You don't want to be\nthinking about him. Here's how!\"\n\nThen they clapped him on the back and he left them. He thought of his\nenemy and his hate, beating his rage like a failing horse, and treading\nthe courage of his drink. Across a space he saw Wiggin, walking with\nMcLean and Scipio. They were watching the town to see that his friends\nmade no foul play.\n\n\"We're giving you a clear field,\" said Wiggin.\n\n\"This race will not be pulled,\" said McLean.\n\n\"Be with you at the finish,\" said Scipio.\n\nAnd they passed on. They did not seem like real people to him.\n\nTrampas looked at the walls and windows of the houses. Were they real?\nWas he here, walking in this street? Something had changed. He looked\neverywhere, and feeling it everywhere, wondered what this could be. Then\nhe knew: it was the sun that had gone entirely behind the mountains, and\nhe drew out his pistol.\n\nThe Virginian, for precaution, did not walk out of the front door of the\nhotel. He went through back ways, and paused once. Against his breast\nhe felt the wedding ring where he had it suspended by a chain from his\nneck. His hand went up to it, and he drew it out and looked at it. He\ntook it off the chain, and his arm went back to hurl it from him as far\nas he could. But he stopped and kissed it with one sob, and thrust it in\nhis pocket. Then he walked out into the open, watching. He saw men here\nand there, and they let him pass as before, without speaking. He saw\nhis three friends, and they said no word to him. But they turned and\nfollowed in his rear at a little distance, because it was known that\nShorty had been found shot from behind. The Virginian gained a position\nsoon where no one could come at him except from in front; and the sight\nof the mountains was almost more than he could endure, because it was\nthere that he had been going to-morrow.\n\n\"It is quite a while after sunset,\" he heard himself say.\n\nA wind seemed to blow his sleeve off his arm, and he replied to it, and\nsaw Trampas pitch forward. He saw Trampas raise his arm from the ground\nand fall again, and lie there this time, still. A little smoke was\nrising from the pistol on the ground, and he looked at his own, and saw\nthe smoke flowing upward out of it.\n\n\"I expect that's all,\" he said aloud.\n\nBut as he came nearer Trampas, he covered him with his weapon. He\nstopped a moment, seeing the hand on the ground move. Two fingers\ntwitched, and then ceased; for it was all. The Virginian stood looking\ndown at Trampas.\n\n\"Both of mine hit,\" he said, once more aloud. \"His must have gone mighty\nclose to my arm. I told her it would not be me.\"\n\nHe had scarcely noticed that he was being surrounded and congratulated.\nHis hand was being shaken, and he saw it was Scipio in tears. Scipio's\njoy made his heart like lead within him. He was near telling his friend\neverything, but he did not.\n\n\"If anybody wants me about this,\" he said, \"I will be at the hotel.\"\n\n\"Who'll want you?\" said Scipio. \"Three of us saw his gun out.\" And he\nvented his admiration. \"You were that cool! That quick!\"\n\n\"I'll see you boys again,\" said the Virginian, heavily; and he walked\naway.\n\nScipio looked after him, astonished. \"Yu' might suppose he was in poor\nluck,\" he said to McLean.\n\nThe Virginian walked to the hotel, and stood on the threshold of his\nsweetheart's room. She had heard his step, and was upon her feet. Her\nlips were parted, and her eyes fixed on him, nor did she move, or speak.\n\n\"Yu' have to know it,\" said he. \"I have killed Trampas.\"\n\n\"Oh, thank God!\" she said; and he found her in his arms. Long they\nembraced without speaking, and what they whispered then with their\nkisses, matters not.\n\nThus did her New England conscience battle to the end, and, in the end,\ncapitulate to love. And the next day, with the bishop's blessing, and\nMrs. Taylor's broadest smile, and the ring on her finger, the Virginian\ndeparted with his bride into the mountains.\n\n\n\n\nXXXVI. AT DUNBARTON\n\n\nFor their first bridal camp he chose an island. Long weeks beforehand he\nhad thought of this place, and set his heart upon it. Once established\nin his mind, the thought became a picture that he saw waking and\nsleeping. He had stopped at the island many times alone, and in all\nseasons; but at this special moment of the year he liked it best. Often\nhe had added several needless miles to his journey that he might finish\nthe day at this point, might catch the trout for his supper beside a\ncertain rock upon its edge, and fall asleep hearing the stream on either\nside of him.\n\nAlways for him the first signs that he had gained the true world of the\nmountains began at the island. The first pine trees stood upon it; the\nfirst white columbine grew in their shade; and it seemed to him that he\nalways met here the first of the true mountain air--the coolness and the\nnew fragrance. Below, there were only the cottonwoods, and the knolls\nand steep foot-hills with their sage-brush, and the great warm air of\nthe plains; here at this altitude came the definite change. Out of the\nlower country and its air he would urge his horse upward, talking to him\naloud, and promising fine pasture in a little while.\n\nThen, when at length he had ridden abreast of the island pines, he would\nford to the sheltered circle of his camp-ground, throw off the saddle\nand blanket from the horse's hot, wet back, throw his own clothes off,\nand, shouting, spring upon the horse bare, and with a rope for bridle,\ncross with him to the promised pasture. Here there was a pause in the\nmountain steepness, a level space of open, green with thick grass.\nRiding his horse to this, he would leap off him, and with the flat of\nhis hand give him a blow that cracked sharp in the stillness and sent\nthe horse galloping and gambolling to his night's freedom. And while\nthe animal rolled in the grass, often his master would roll also, and\nstretch, and take the grass in his two hands, and so draw his body\nalong, limbering his muscles after a long ride. Then he would slide\ninto the stream below his fishing place, where it was deep enough for\nswimming, and cross back to his island, and dressing again, fit his rod\ntogether and begin his casting. After the darkness had set in, there\nwould follow the lying drowsily with his head upon his saddle, the\ncamp-fire sinking as he watched it, and sleep approaching to the murmur\nof the water on either side of him.\n\nSo many visits to this island had he made, and counted so many hours of\nrevery spent in its haunting sweetness, that the spot had come to seem\nhis own. It belonged to no man, for it was deep in the unsurveyed and\nvirgin wilderness; neither had he ever made his camp here with any\nman, nor shared with any the intimate delight which the place gave him.\nTherefore for many weeks he had planned to bring her here after their\nwedding, upon the day itself, and show her and share with her his pines\nand his fishing rock. He would bid her smell the first true breath of\nthe mountains, would watch with her the sinking camp-fire, and with her\nlisten to the water as it flowed round the island.\n\nUntil this wedding plan, it had by no means come home to him how deep a\nhold upon him the island had taken. He knew that he liked to go there,\nand go alone; but so little was it his way to scan himself, his mind, or\nhis feelings (unless some action called for it), that he first learned\nhis love of the place through his love of her. But he told her nothing\nof it. After the thought of taking her there came to him, he kept his\nisland as something to let break upon her own eyes, lest by looking\nforward she should look for more than the reality.\n\nHence, as they rode along, when the houses of the town were shrunk to\ndots behind them, and they were nearing the gates of the foot-hills, she\nasked him questions. She hoped they would find a camp a long way from\nthe town. She could ride as many miles as necessary. She was not tired.\nShould they not go on until they found a good place far enough within\nthe solitude? Had he fixed upon any? And at the nod and the silence\nthat he gave her for reply, she knew that he had thoughts and intentions\nwhich she must wait to learn.\n\nThey passed through the gates of the foot-hills, following the stream up\namong them. The outstretching fences and the widely trodden dust were\nno more. Now and then they rose again into view of the fields and houses\ndown in the plain below. But as the sum of the miles and hours grew,\nthey were glad to see the road less worn with travel, and the traces of\nmen passing from sight. The ploughed and planted country, that quilt of\nmany-colored harvests which they had watched yesterday, lay in another\nworld from this where they rode now. No hand but nature's had sown these\ncrops of yellow flowers, these willow thickets and tall cottonwoods.\nSomewhere in a passage of red rocks the last sign of wagon wheels was\nlost, and after this the trail became a wild mountain trail. But it was\nstill the warm air of the plains, bearing the sage-brush odor and not\nthe pine, that they breathed; nor did any forest yet cloak the shapes\nof the tawny hills among which they were ascending. Twice the steepness\nloosened the pack ropes, and he jumped down to tighten them, lest the\nhorses should get sore backs. And twice the stream that they followed\nwent into deep canyons, so that for a while they parted from it. When\nthey came back to its margin for the second time, he bade her notice how\nits water had become at last wholly clear. To her it had seemed clear\nenough all along, even in the plain above the town. But now she saw that\nit flowed lustrously with flashes; and she knew the soil had changed to\nmountain soil. Lower down, the water had carried the slightest cloud\nof alkali, and this had dulled the keen edge of its transparence. Full\nsolitude was around them now, so that their words grew scarce, and when\nthey spoke it was with low voices. They began to pass nooks and points\nfavorable for camping, with wood and water at hand, and pasture for the\nhorses. More than once as they reached such places, she thought he must\nsurely stop; but still he rode on in advance of her (for the trail\nwas narrow) until, when she was not thinking of it, he drew rein and\npointed.\n\n\"What?\" she asked timidly.\n\n\"The pines,\" he answered.\n\nShe looked, and saw the island, and the water folding it with ripples\nand with smooth spaces. The sun was throwing upon the pine boughs a light\nof deepening red gold, and the shadow of the fishing rock lay over a\nlittle bay of quiet water and sandy shore. In this forerunning glow of\nthe sunset, the pasture spread like emerald; for the dry touch of summer\nhad not yet come near it. He pointed upward to the high mountains which\nthey had approached, and showed her where the stream led into their\nfirst unfoldings.\n\n\"To-morrow we shall be among them,\" said he.\n\n\"Then,\" she murmured to him, \"to-night is here?\"\n\nHe nodded for answer, and she gazed at the island and understood why he\nhad not stopped before; nothing they had passed had been so lovely as\nthis place.\n\nThere was room in the trail for them to go side by side; and side by\nside they rode to the ford and crossed, driving the packhorses in front\nof them, until they came to the sheltered circle, and he helped her down\nwhere the soft pine needles lay. They felt each other tremble, and for a\nmoment she stood hiding her head upon his breast. Then she looked round\nat the trees, and the shores, and the flowing stream, and he heard her\nwhispering how beautiful it was.\n\n\"I am glad,\" he said, still holding her. \"This is how I have dreamed it\nwould happen. Only it is better than my dreams.\" And when she pressed\nhim in silence, he finished, \"I have meant we should see our first\nsundown here, and our first sunrise.\"\n\nShe wished to help him take the packs from their horses, to make the\ncamp together with him, to have for her share the building of the fire,\nand the cooking. She bade him remember his promise to her that he would\nteach her how to loop and draw the pack-ropes, and the swing-ropes\non the pack-saddles, and how to pitch a tent. Why might not the first\nlesson be now? But he told her that this should be fulfilled later. This\nnight he was to do all himself. And he sent her away until he should\nhave camp ready for them. He bade her explore the island, or take her\nhorse and ride over to the pasture, where she could see the surrounding\nhills and the circle of seclusion that they made.\n\n\"The whole world is far from here,\" he said. And so she obeyed him, and\nwent away to wander about in their hiding-place; nor was she to return,\nhe told her, until he called her.\n\nThen at once, as soon as she was gone, he fell to. The packs and saddles\ncame off the horses, which he turned loose upon the pasture on the main\nland. The tent was unfolded first. He had long seen in his mind where it\nshould go, and how its white shape would look beneath the green of\nthe encircling pines. The ground was level in the spot he had chosen,\nwithout stones or roots, and matted with the fallen needles of the\npines. If there should come any wind, or storm of rain, the branches\nwere thick overhead, and around them on three sides tall rocks and\nundergrowth made a barrier. He cut the pegs for the tent, and the front\npole, stretching and tightening the rope, one end of it pegged down and\none round a pine tree. When the tightening rope had lifted the canvas to\nthe proper height from the ground, he spread and pegged down the sides\nand back, leaving the opening so that they could look out upon the fire\nand a piece of the stream beyond. He cut tufts of young pine and strewed\nthem thickly for a soft floor in the tent, and over them spread the\nbuffalo hide and the blankets. At the head he placed the neat sack of\nher belongings. For his own he made a shelter with crossed poles and\na sheet of canvas beyond the first pines. He built the fire where its\nsmoke would float outward from the trees and the tent, and near it he\nstood the cooking things and his provisions, and made this first supper\nready in the twilight. He had brought much with him; but for ten minutes\nhe fished, catching trout enough. When at length she came riding over\nthe stream at his call, there was nothing for her to do but sit and eat\nat the table he had laid. They sat together, watching the last of the\ntwilight and the gentle oncoming of the dusk. The final after-glow of\nday left the sky, and through the purple which followed it came slowly\nthe first stars, bright and wide apart. They watched the spaces between\nthem fill with more stars, while near them the flames and embers of\ntheir fire grew brighter. Then he sent her to the tent while he cleaned\nthe dishes and visited the horses to see that they did not stray from\nthe pasture. Some while after the darkness was fully come, he rejoined\nher. All had been as he had seen it in his thoughts beforehand: the\npines with the setting sun upon them, the sinking camp-fire, and now the\nsound of the water as it flowed murmuring by the shores of the island.\n\nThe tent opened to the east, and from it they watched together their\nfirst sunrise. In his thoughts he had seen this morning beforehand also:\nthe waking, the gentle sound of the water murmuring ceaselessly, the\ngrowing day, the vision of the stream, the sense that the world was shut\naway far from them. So did it all happen, except that he whispered to\nher again:-- \"Better than my dreams.\"\n\nThey saw the sunlight begin upon a hilltop; and presently came the sun\nitself, and lakes of warmth flowed into the air, slowly filling the\ngreen solitude. Along the island shores the ripples caught flashes from\nthe sun.\n\n\"I am going into the stream,\" he said to her; and rising, he left her in\nthe tent. This was his side of the island, he had told her last night;\nthe other was hers, where he had made a place for her to bathe. When\nhe was gone, she found it, walking through the trees and rocks to the\nwater's edge. And so, with the island between them, the two bathed in\nthe cold stream. When he came back, he found her already busy at their\ncamp. The blue smoke of the fire was floating out from the trees,\nloitering undispersed in the quiet air, and she was getting their\nbreakfast. She had been able to forestall him because he had delayed\nlong at his dressing, not willing to return to her unshaven. She looked\nat his eyes that were clear as the water he had leaped into, and at his\nsoft silk neckerchief, knotted with care.\n\n\"Do not let us ever go away from here!\" she cried, and ran to him as he\ncame. They sat long together at breakfast, breathing the morning breath\nof the earth that was fragrant with woodland moisture and with the\npines. After the meal he could not prevent her helping him make\neverything clean. Then, by all customs of mountain journeys, it was time\nthey should break camp and be moving before the heat of the day. But\nfirst, they delayed for no reason, save that in these hours they so\nloved to do nothing. And next, when with some energy he got upon his\nfeet and declared he must go and drive the horses in, she asked, Why?\nWould it not be well for him to fish here, that they might be sure of\ntrout at their nooning? And though he knew that where they should stop\nfor noon, trout would be as sure as here, he took this chance for more\ndelay.\n\nShe went with him to his fishing rock, and sat watching him. The rock\nwas tall, higher than his head when he stood. It jutted out halfway\nacross the stream, and the water flowed round it in quick foam, and fell\ninto a pool. He caught several fish; but the sun was getting high, and\nafter a time it was plain the fish had ceased to rise.\n\nYet still he stood casting in silence, while she sat by and watched him.\nAcross the stream, the horses wandered or lay down in their pasture. At\nlength he said with half a sigh that perhaps they ought to go.\n\n\"Ought?\" she repeated softly.\n\n\"If we are to get anywhere to-day,\" he answered.\n\n\"Need we get anywhere?\" she asked.\n\nHer question sent delight through him like a flood. \"Then you do not\nwant to move camp to-day?\" said he.\n\nShe shook her head.\n\nAt this he laid down his rod and came and sat by her. \"I am very glad we\nshall not go till to-morrow,\" he murmured.\n\n\"Not to-morrow,\" she said. \"Nor next day. Nor any day until we must.\"\nAnd she stretched her hands out to the island and the stream exclaiming,\n\"Nothing can surpass this!\"\n\nHe took her in his arms. \"You feel about it the way I do,\" he almost\nwhispered. \"I could not have hoped there'd be two of us to care so\nmuch.\"\n\nPresently, while they remained without speaking by the pool, came a\nlittle wild animal swimming round the rock from above. It had not seen\nthem, nor suspected their presence. They held themselves still, watching\nits alert head cross through the waves quickly and come down through\nthe pool, and so swim to the other side. There it came out on a small\nstretch of sand, turned its gray head and its pointed black nose this\nway and that, never seeing them, and then rolled upon its back in the\nwarm dry sand. After a minute of rolling, it got on its feet again,\nshook its fur, and trotted away.\n\nThen the bridegroom husband opened his shy heart deep down.\n\n\"I am like that fellow,\" he said dreamily. \"I have often done the same.\"\nAnd stretching slowly his arms and legs, he lay full length upon his\nback, letting his head rest upon her. \"If I could talk his animal\nlanguage, I could talk to him,\" he pursued. \"And he would say to me:\n'Come and roll on the sands. Where's the use of fretting? What's the\ngain in being a man? Come roll on the sands with me.' That's what he\nwould say.\" The Virginian paused. \"But,\" he continued, \"the trouble is,\nI am responsible. If that could only be forgot forever by you and me!\"\nAgain he paused and went on, always dreamily. \"Often when I have camped\nhere, it has made me want to become the ground, become the water, become\nthe trees, mix with the whole thing. Not know myself from it. Never\nunmix again. Why is that?\" he demanded, looking at her. \"What is it? You\ndon't know, nor I don't. I wonder would everybody feel that way here?\"\n\n\"I think not everybody,\" she answered.\n\n\"No; none except the ones who understand things they can't put words to.\nBut you did!\" He put up a hand and touched her softly. \"You understood\nabout this place. And that's what makes it--makes you and me as we are\nnow--better than my dreams. And my dreams were pretty good.\"\n\nHe sighed with supreme quiet and happiness, and seemed to stretch his\nlength closer to the earth. And so he lay, and talked to her as he had\nnever talked to any one, not even to himself. Thus she learned secrets\nof his heart new to her: his visits here, what they were to him, and why\nhe had chosen it for their bridal camp. \"What I did not know at all,\"\nhe said, \"was the way a man can be pining for--for this--and never guess\nwhat is the matter with him.\"\n\nWhen he had finished talking, still he lay extended and serene; and she\nlooked down at him and the wonderful change that had come over him,\nlike a sunrise. Was this dreamy boy the man of two days ago? It seemed\na distance immeasurable; yet it was two days only since that wedding\neve when she had shrunk from him as he stood fierce and implacable. She\ncould look back at that dark hour now, although she could not speak of\nit. She had seen destruction like sharp steel glittering in his eyes.\nWere these the same eyes? Was this youth with his black head of hair in\nher lap the creature with whom men did not trifle, whose hand knew how\nto deal death? Where had the man melted away to in this boy? For as she\nlooked at him, he might have been no older than nineteen to-day. Not\neven at their first meeting--that night when his freakish spirit was\nuppermost--had he looked so young. This change their hours upon the\nisland had wrought, filling his face with innocence.\n\nBy and by they made their nooning. In the afternoon she would have\nexplored the nearer woods with him, or walked up the stream. But since\nthis was to be their camp during several days, he made it more complete.\nHe fashioned a rough bench and a table; around their tent he built a\ntall wind-break for better shelter in case of storm; and for the fire he\ngathered and cut much wood, and piled it up. So they were provided for,\nand so for six days and nights they stayed, finding no day or night long\nenough.\n\nOnce his hedge of boughs did them good service, for they had an\nafternoon of furious storm. The wind rocked the pines and ransacked the\nisland, the sun went out, the black clouds rattled, and white bolts of\nlightning fell close by. The shower broke through the pine branches and\npoured upon the tent. But he had removed everything inside from where it\ncould touch the canvas and so lead the water through, and the rain ran\noff into the ditch he had dug round the tent. While they sat within,\nlooking out upon the bounding floods and the white lightning, she saw\nhim glance at her apprehensively, and at once she answered his glance.\n\n\"I am not afraid,\" she said. \"If a flame should consume us together now,\nwhat would it matter?\"\n\nAnd so they sat watching the storm till it was over, he with his face\nchanged by her to a boy's, and she leavened with him.\n\nWhen at last they were compelled to leave the island, or see no more of\nthe mountains, it was not a final parting. They would come back for the\nlast night before their journey ended. Furthermore, they promised each\nother like two children to come here every year upon their wedding day,\nand like two children they believed that this would be possible. But\nin after years they did come, more than once, to keep their wedding day\nupon the island, and upon each new visit were able to say to each other,\n\"Better than our dreams.\"\n\nFor thirty days by the light of the sun and the camp-fire light they\nsaw no faces except their own; and when they were silent it was all\nstillness, unless the wind passed among the pines, or some flowing water\nwas near them. Sometimes at evening they came upon elk, or black-tailed\ndeer, feeding out in the high parks of the mountains; and once from the\nedge of some concealing timber he showed her a bear, sitting with an\nold log lifted in its paws. She forbade him to kill the bear, or any\ncreature that they did not require. He took her upward by trail and\ncanyon, through the unfooted woods and along dwindling streams to their\nheadwaters, lakes lying near the summit of the range, full of trout,\nwith meadows of long grass and a thousand flowers, and above these the\npinnacles of rock and snow.\n\nThey made their camps in many places, delaying several days here, and\none night there, exploring the high solitudes together, and sinking deep\nin their romance. Sometimes when he was at work with their horses, or\nintent on casting his brown hackle for a fish, she would watch him with\neyes that were fuller of love than of understanding. Perhaps she never\ncame wholly to understand him; but in her complete love for him she\nfound enough. He loved her with his whole man's power. She had listened\nto him tell her in words of transport, \"I could enjoy dying\"; yet she\nloved him more than that. He had come to her from a smoking pistol, able\nto bid her farewell--and she could not let him go. At the last white-hot\nedge of ordeal, it was she who renounced, and he who had his way.\nNevertheless she found much more than enough, in spite of the sigh that\nnow and again breathed through her happiness when she would watch him\nwith eyes fuller of love than of understanding.\n\nThey could not speak of that grim wedding eve for a long while after;\nbut the mountains brought them together upon all else in the world and\ntheir own lives. At the end they loved each other doubly more than at\nthe beginning, because of these added confidences which they exchanged\nand shared. It was a new bliss to her to know a man's talk and thoughts,\nto be given so much of him; and to him it was a bliss still greater to\nmelt from that reserve his lonely life had bred in him. He never would\nhave guessed so much had been stored away in him, unexpressed till now.\nThey did not want to go to Vermont and leave these mountains, but the\nday came when they had to turn their backs upon their dream. So\nthey came out into the plains once more, well established in their\nfamiliarity, with only the journey still lying between themselves and\nBennington.\n\n\"If you could,\" she said, laughing. \"If only you could ride home like\nthis.\"\n\n\"With Monte and my six-shooter?\" he asked. \"To your mother?\"\n\n\"I don't think mother could resist the way you look on a horse.\"\n\nBut he said, \"It's this way she's fearing I will come.\"\n\n\"I have made one discovery,\" she said. \"You are fonder of good clothes\nthan I am.\"\n\nHe grinned. \"I cert'nly like 'em. But don't tell my friends. They would\nsay it was marriage. When you see what I have got for Bennington's\nspecial benefit, you--why, you'll just trust your husband more than\never.\"\n\nShe undoubtedly did. After he had put on one particular suit, she arose\nand kissed him where he stood in it.\n\n\"Bennington will be sorrowful,\" he said. \"No wild-west show, after all.\nAnd no ready-made guy, either.\" And he looked at himself in the glass\nwith unbidden pleasure.\n\n\"How did you choose that?\" she asked. \"How did you know that homespun\nwas exactly the thing for you?\"\n\n\"Why, I have been noticing. I used to despise an Eastern man because his\nclothes were not Western. I was very young then, or maybe not so very\nyoung, as very--as what you saw I was when you first came to Bear Creek.\nA Western man is a good thing. And he generally knows that. But he has\na heap to learn. And he generally don't know that. So I took to watching\nthe Judge's Eastern visitors. There was that Mr. Ogden especially, from\nNew Yawk--the gentleman that was there the time when I had to sit up all\nnight with the missionary, yu' know. His clothes pleased me best of all.\nFit him so well, and nothing flash. I got my ideas, and when I knew I\nwas going to marry you, I sent my measure East--and I and the tailor are\nold enemies now.\"\n\nBennington probably was disappointed. To see get out of the train merely\na tall man with a usual straw hat, and Scotch homespun suit of a\nrather better cut than most in Bennington--this was dull. And his\nconversation--when he indulged in any--seemed fit to come inside the\nhouse.\n\nMrs. Flynt took her revenge by sowing broadcast her thankfulness that\npoor Sam Bannett had been Molly's rejected suitor. He had done so much\nbetter for himself. Sam had married a rich Miss Van Scootzer, of the\nsecond families of Troy; and with their combined riches this happy\ncouple still inhabit the most expensive residence in Hoosic Falls.\n\nBut most of Bennington soon began to say that Molly's cow-boy could be\ninvited anywhere and hold his own. The time came when they ceased to\nspeak of him as a cow-boy, and declared that she had shown remarkable\nsense. But this was not quite yet.\n\nDid this bride and groom enjoy their visit to her family? Well--well,\nthey did their best. Everybody did their best, even Sarah Bell. She said\nthat she found nothing to object to in the Virginian; she told Molly so.\nHer husband Sam did better than that. He told Molly he considered that\nshe was in luck. And poor Mrs. Wood, sitting on the sofa, conversed\nscrupulously and timidly with her novel son-in-law, and said to Molly\nthat she was astonished to find him so gentle. And he was undoubtedly\nfine-looking; yes, very handsome. She believed that she would grow to\nlike the Southern accent. Oh, yes! Everybody did their best; and, dear\nreader, if ever it has been your earthly portion to live with a number\nof people who were all doing their best, you do not need me to tell you\nwhat a heavenly atmosphere this creates.\n\nAnd then the bride and groom went to see the old great-aunt over at\nDunbarton.\n\nTheir first arrival, the one at Bennington, had been thus: Sam Bell\nhad met them at the train, and Mrs. Wood, waiting in her parlor, had\nembraced her daughter and received her son-in-law. Among them they had\nmanaged to make the occasion as completely mournful as any family party\ncan be, with the window blinds up. \"And with you present, my dear,\" said\nSam Bell to Sarah, \"the absence of a coffin was not felt.\"\n\nBut at Dunbarton the affair went off differently. The heart of the\nancient lady had taught her better things. From Bennington to Dunbarton\nis the good part of a day's journey, and they drove up to the gate in\nthe afternoon. The great-aunt was in her garden, picking some August\nflowers, and she called as the carriage stopped, \"Bring my nephew here,\nmy dear, before you go into the house.\"\n\nAt this, Molly, stepping out of the carriage, squeezed her husband's\nhand. \"I knew that she would be lovely,\" she whispered to him. And then\nshe ran to her aunt's arms, and let him follow. He came slowly, hat in\nhand.\n\nThe old lady advanced to meet him, trembling a little, and holding out\nher hand to him. \"Welcome, nephew,\" she said. \"What a tall fellow you\nare, to be sure. Stand off, sir, and let me look at you.\"\n\nThe Virginian obeyed, blushing from his black hair to his collar.\n\nThen his new relative turned to her niece, and gave her a flower. \"Put\nthis in his coat, my dear,\" she said. \"And I think I understand why you\nwanted to marry him.\"\n\nAfter this the maid came and showed them to their rooms. Left alone in\nher garden, the great-aunt sank on a bench and sat there for some time;\nfor emotion had made her very weak.\n\nUpstairs, Molly, sitting on the Virginian's knee, put the flower in his\ncoat, and then laid her head upon his shoulder.\n\n\"I didn't know old ladies could be that way,\" he said. \"D' yu' reckon\nthere are many?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" said the girl. \"I'm so happy!\"\n\nNow at tea, and during the evening, the great-aunt carried out her plans\nstill further. At first she did the chief part of the talking herself.\nNor did she ask questions about Wyoming too soon. She reached that in\nher own way, and found out the one thing that she desired to know. It\nwas through General Stark that she led up to it.\n\n\"There he is,\" she said, showing the family portrait. \"And a rough time\nhe must have had of it now and then. New Hampshire was full of fine\nyoung men in those days. But nowadays most of them have gone away to\nseek their fortunes in the West. Do they find them, I wonder?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. All the good ones do.\"\n\n\"But you cannot all be--what is the name?--Cattle Kings.\"\n\n\"That's having its day, ma'am, right now. And we are getting ready for\nthe change--some of us are.\"\n\n\"And what may be the change, and when is it to come?\"\n\n\"When the natural pasture is eaten off,\" he explained. \"I have seen that\ncoming a long while. And if the thieves are going to make us drive\nour stock away, we'll drive it. If they don't, we'll have big pastures\nfenced, and hay and shelter ready for winter. What we'll spend in\nimprovements, we'll more than save in wages. I am well fixed for the\nnew conditions. And then, when I took up my land, I chose a place where\nthere is coal. It will not be long before the new railroad needs that.\"\n\nThus the old lady learned more of her niece's husband in one evening\nthan the Bennington family had ascertained during his whole sojourn with\nthem. For by touching upon Wyoming and its future, she roused him to\ntalk. He found her mind alive to Western questions: irrigation, the\nIndians, the forests; and so he expanded, revealing to her his wide\nobservation and his shrewd intelligence. He forgot entirely to be shy.\nShe sent Molly to bed, and kept him talking for an hour. Then she showed\nhim old things that she was proud of, \"because,\" she said, \"we, too, had\nsomething to do with making our country. And now go to Molly, or you'll\nboth think me a tiresome old lady.\"\n\n\"I think--\" he began, but was not quite equal to expressing what he\nthought, and suddenly his shyness flooded him again.\n\n\"In that case, nephew,\" said she, \"I'm afraid you'll have to kiss me\ngood night.\"\n\nAnd so she dismissed him to his wife, and to happiness greater than\neither of them had known since they had left the mountains and come to\nthe East. \"He'll do,\" she said to herself, nodding.\n\nTheir visit to Dunbarton was all happiness and reparation for the\ndoleful days at Bennington. The old lady gave much comfort and advice\nto her niece in private, and when they came to leave, she stood at the\nfront door holding both their hands a moment.\n\n\"God bless you, my dears,\" she told them. \"And when you come next time,\nI'll have the nursery ready.\"\n\nAnd so it happened that before she left this world, the great-aunt was\nable to hold in her arms the first of their many children.\n\nJudge Henry at Sunk Creek had his wedding present ready. His growing\naffairs in Wyoming needed his presence in many places distant from his\nranch, and he made the Virginian his partner. When the thieves prevailed\nat length, as they did, forcing cattle owners to leave the country or be\nruined, the Virginian had forestalled this crash. The herds were driven\naway to Montana. Then, in 1889, came the cattle war, when, after putting\ntheir men in office, and coming to own some of the newspapers, the\nthieves brought ruin on themselves as well. For in a broken country\nthere is nothing left to steal.\n\nBut the railroad came, and built a branch to that land of the\nVirginian's where the coal was. By that time he was an important man,\nwith a strong grip on many various enterprises, and able to give his\nwife all and more than she asked or desired.\n\nSometimes she missed the Bear Creek days, when she and he had ridden\ntogether, and sometimes she declared that his work would kill him.\nBut it does not seem to have done so. Their eldest boy rides the horse\nMonte; and, strictly between ourselves, I think his father is going to\nlive a long while."