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

see, may unsettle our plans some. But it'll be one of two ways,—we're all goin' to Rawhide, or we're all goin' to Billings. We're all one party, yu' see.”

Trampas laughed audibly inside the door as he rejoined his men. “Let him keep up appearances,” I heard him tell them. “It don't hurt us what he says to strangers.”

“But I'm goin' to eat hearty either way,” continued the Virginian. “And I ain' goin' to be robbed. I've been kind o' promisin' myself a treat if we stopped hyeh.”

“Town's eat clean out,” said the man.

“So yu' tell me. But all you folks has forgot one source of revenue that yu' have right close by, mighty handy. If you have got a gunny sack, I'll show you how to make some money.”

“Bet your life!” said the man.

“Mr. Le Moyne,” said the Virginian, “the outfit's cookin' stuff is aboard, and if you'll get the fire ready, we'll try how frawgs' laigs go fried.” He walked off at once, the man following like a dog. Inside the caboose rose a gust of laughter.

“Frogs!” muttered Scipio. And then turning a blank face to me, “Frogs?”

“Colonel Cyrus Jones had them on his bill of fare,” I said. “'FROGS' LEGS LA DELMONICO.'”

“Shoo! I didn't get up that thing. They had it when I came. Never looked at it. Frogs?” He went down the steps very slowly, with a long frown. Reaching the ground, he shook his head. “That man's trail is surely hard to anticipate,” he said. “But I must hurry up that fire. For his appearance has given me encouragement,” Scipio concluded, and became brisk. Shorty helped him, and I brought wood. Trampas and the other people strolled off to the station, a compact band.

Our little fire was built beside the caboose, so the cooking things might be easily reached and put back. You would scarcely think such operations held any interest, even for the hungry, when there seemed to be nothing to cook. A few sticks blazing tamely in the dust, a frying-pan, half a tin bucket of lard, some water, and barren plates and knives and forks, and three silent men attending to them—that was all. But the travellers came to see. These waifs drew near us, and stood, a sad, lone, shifting fringe of audience; four to begin with; and then two wandered away; and presently one of these came back, finding it worse elsewhere. “Supper, boys?” said he. “Breakfast,” said Scipio, crossly. And no more of them addressed us. I heard them joylessly mention Wall Street to each other, and Saratoga; I even heard the name Bryn Mawr, which is near Philadelphia. But these fragments of home dropped in the wilderness here in Montana beside a freight caboose were of no interest to me now.

“Looks like frogs down there, too,” said Scipio. “See them marshy sloos full of weeds?” We took a little turn and had a sight of the Virginian quite active among the ponds. “Hush! I'm getting some thoughts,” continued Scipio. “He wasn't sorry enough. Don't interrupt me.”

“I'm not,” said I.

“No. But I'd 'most caught a-hold.” And Scipio muttered to himself again, “He wasn't sorry enough.” Presently he swore loud and brilliantly. “Tell yu'!” he cried. “What did he say to Trampas after that play they exchanged over railroad improvements and Trampas put the josh on him? Didn't he say, 'Trampas, I thought you'd be afraid to do it?' Well, sir, Trampas had better have been afraid. And that's what he meant. There's where he was bringin' it to. Trampas made an awful bad play then. You wait. Glory, but he's a knowin' man! Course he wasn't sorry. I guess he had the hardest kind of work to look as sorry as he did. You wait.”

“Wait? What for? Go on, man! What for?”

“I don't know! I don't know! Whatever hand he's been holdin' up, this is the show-down. He's played for a show-down here before the caboose gets off the bridge. Come back to the fire, or Shorty'll be leavin' it go out. Grow happy some, Shorty!” he cried on arriving, and his hand cracked on Shorty's shoulder. “Supper's in sight, Shorty. Food for reflection.”

“None for the stomach?” asked the passenger who had spoken once before.

“We're figuring on that too,” said Scipio. His crossness had melted entirely away.

“Why, they're cow-boys!” exclaimed another passenger; and he moved nearer.

From the station Trampas now came back, his herd following him less compactly. They had found famine, and no hope of supplies until the next train from the East. This was no fault of Trampas's; but they were following him less compactly. They carried one piece of cheese, the size of a fist, the weight of a brick, the hue of a corpse. And the passengers, seeing it, exclaimed, “There's Old Faithful again!” and took off their hats.

“You gentlemen met that cheese before, then?” said Scipio, delighted.

“It's been offered me three times a day for four days,” said the passenger. “Did he want a dollar or a dollar and a half?”

“Two dollars!” blurted out the enthusiast. And all of us save Trampas fell into fits of imbecile laughter.

“Here comes our grub, anyway,” said Scipio, looking off toward the marshes. And his hilarity sobered away in a moment.

“Well, the train will be in soon,” stated Trampas. “I guess we'll get a decent supper without frogs.”

All interest settled now upon the Virginian. He was coming with his man and his gunny sack, and the gunny sack hung from his shoulder heavily, as a full sack should. He took no notice of the gathering, but sat down and partly emptied the sack. “There,” said he, very businesslike, to his assistant, “that's all we'll want. I think you'll find a ready market for the balance.”

“Well, my gracious!” said the enthusiast. “What fool eats a frog?”

“Oh, I'm fool enough for a tadpole!” cried the passenger. And they began to take out their pocket-books.

“You can cook yours right hyeh, gentlemen,” said the Virginian, with his slow Southern courtesy. “The dining-cyars don't look like they were fired up.”

“How much will you sell a couple for?” inquired the enthusiast.

The Virginian looked at him with friendly surprise. “Why, help yourself! We're all together yet awhile. Help yourselves,” he repeated, to Trampas and his followers. These hung back a moment, then, with a slinking motion, set the cheese upon the earth and came forward nearer the fire to receive some supper.

“It won't scarcely be Delmonico style,” said the Virginian to the passengers, “nor yet Saynt Augustine.” He meant the great Augustin, the traditional chef of Philadelphia, whose history I had sketched for him at Colonel Cyrus Jones's eating palace.

Scipio now officiated. His frying-pan was busy, and prosperous odors rose from it.

“Run for a bucket of fresh water, Shorty,” the Virginian continued, beginning his meal. “Colonel, yu' cook pretty near good. If yu' had sold 'em as advertised, yu'd have cert'nly made