The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains by Owen Wister (beach read book txt) 📗

be uncertain whether yu' was a hawss or a railroad accident. I'd do it myself, only it wouldn't cure yu'.”

I now told him that I supposed he had saved both our lives. But he detested words of direct praise. He made some grumbling rejoinder, and led the horses out of the thicket. Buck, he explained to me, was a good horse, and so was Muggins. Both of them generally meant well, and that was the Judge's reason for sending them to meet me. But these broncos had their off days. Off days might not come very often; but when the humor seized a bronco, he had to have his spree. Buck would now behave himself as a horse should for probably two months. “They are just like humans,” the Virginian concluded.

Several cow-boys arrived on a gallop to find how many pieces of us were left. We returned down the hill; and when we reached my trunk, it was surprising to see the distance that our runaway had covered. My hat was also found, and we continued on our way.

Buck and Muggins were patterns of discretion through the rest of the mountains. I thought when we camped this night that it was strange Buck should be again allowed to graze at large, instead of being tied to a rope while we slept. But this was my ignorance. With the hard work that he was gallantly doing, the horse needed more pasture than a rope's length would permit him to find. Therefore he went free, and in the morning gave us but little trouble in catching him.

We crossed a river in the forenoon, and far to the north of us we saw the Bow Leg Mountains, pale in the bright sun. Sunk Creek flowed from their western side, and our two hundred and sixty-three miles began to grow a small thing in my eyes. Buck and Muggins, I think, knew perfectly that to-morrow would see them home. They recognized this region; and once they turned off at a fork in the road. The Virginian pulled them back rather sharply.

“Want to go back to Balaam's?” he inquired of them. “I thought you had more sense.”

I asked, “Who was Balaam?”

“A maltreater of hawsses,” replied the cow-puncher. “His ranch is on Butte Creek oveh yondeh.” And he pointed to where the diverging road melted into space. “The Judge bought Buck and Muggins from him in the spring.”

“So he maltreats horses?” I repeated.

“That's the word all through this country. A man that will do what they claim Balaam does to a hawss when he's mad, ain't fit to be called human.” The Virginian told me some particulars.

“Oh!” I almost screamed at the horror of it, and again, “Oh!”

“He'd have prob'ly done that to Buck as soon as he stopped runnin' away. If I caught a man doin' that—”

We were interrupted by a sedate-looking traveller riding upon an equally sober horse.

“Mawnin', Taylor,” said the Virginian, pulling up for gossip. “Ain't you strayed off your range pretty far?”

“You're a nice one!” replied Mr. Taylor, stopping his horse and smiling amiably.

“Tell me something I don't know,” retorted the Virginian.

“Hold up a man at cards and rob him,” pursued Mr. Taylor. “Oh, the news has got ahead of you!”

“Trampas has been hyeh explainin', has he?” said the Virginian with a grin.

“Was that your victim's name?” said Mr. Taylor, facetiously. “No, it wasn't him that brought the news. Say, what did you do, anyway?”

“So that thing has got around,” murmured the Virginian. “Well, it wasn't worth such wide repawtin'.” And he gave the simple facts to Taylor, while I sat wondering at the contagious powers of Rumor. Here, through this voiceless land, this desert, this vacuum, it had spread like a change of weather. “Any news up your way?” the Virginian concluded.

Importance came into Mr. Taylor's countenance. “Bear Creek is going to build a schoolhouse,” said he.

“Goodness gracious!” drawled the Virginian. “What's that for?”

Now Mr. Taylor had been married for some years. “To educate the offspring of Bear Creek,” he answered with pride.

“Offspring of Bear Creek,” the Virginian meditatively repeated. “I don't remember noticin' much offspring. There was some white tail deer, and a right smart o' jack rabbits.”

“The Swintons have moved up from Drybone,” said Mr. Taylor, always seriously. “They found it no place for young children. And there's Uncle Carmody with six, and Ben Dow. And Westfall has become a family man, and—”

“Jim Westfall!” exclaimed the Virginian. “Him a fam'ly man! Well, if this hyeh Territory is goin' to get full o' fam'ly men and empty o' game, I believe I'll—”

“Get married yourself,” suggested Mr. Taylor.

“Me! I ain't near reached the marriageable age. No, seh! But Uncle Hughey has got there at last, yu' know.”

“Uncle Hughey!” shouted Mr. Taylor. He had not heard this. Rumor is very capricious. Therefore the Virginian told him, and the family man rocked in his saddle.

“Build your schoolhouse,” said the Virginian. “Uncle Hughey has qualified himself to subscribe to all such propositions. Got your eye on a schoolmarm?”