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

they spoke in a friendly, ordinary way, as if this were like every other morning of the week to them. They addressed the prisoners with a sort of fraternal kindness, not bringing them pointedly into the conversation, nor yet pointedly leaving them out. I made out that they must all be sitting round the breakfast together, those who had to die and those who had to kill them. The Virginian I never heard speak. But I heard the voice of Steve; he discussed with his captors the sundry points of his capture.

“Do you remember a haystack?” he asked. “Away up the south fork of Gros Ventre?”

“That was Thursday afternoon,” said one of the captors. “There was a shower.”

“Yes. It rained. We had you fooled that time. I was laying on the ledge above to report your movements.”

Several of them laughed. “We thought you were over on Spread Creek then.”

“I figured you thought so by the trail you left after the stack. Saturday we watched you turn your back on us up Spread Creek. We were snug among the trees the other side of Snake River. That was another time we had you fooled.”

They laughed again at their own expense. I have heard men pick to pieces a hand of whist with more antagonism.

Steve continued: “Would we head for Idaho? Would we swing back over the Divide? You didn't know which! And when we generalled you on to that band of horses you thought was the band you were hunting—ah, we were a strong combination!” He broke off with the first touch of bitterness I had felt in his words.

“Nothing is any stronger than its weakest point.” It was the Virginian who said this, and it was the first word he had spoken.

“Naturally,” said Steve. His tone in addressing the Virginian was so different, so curt, that I supposed he took the weakest point to mean himself. But the others now showed me that I was wrong in this explanation.

“That's so,” one said. “Its weakest point is where a rope or a gang of men is going to break when the strain comes. And you was linked with a poor partner, Steve.”

“You're right I was,” said the prisoner, back in his easy, casual voice.

“You ought to have got yourself separated from him, Steve.”

There was a pause. “Yes,” said the prisoner, moodily. “I'm sitting here because one of us blundered.” He cursed the blunderer. “Lighting his fool fire queered the whole deal,” he added. As he again heavily cursed the blunderer, the others murmured to each other various I told you so's.

“You'd never have built that fire, Steve,” said one.

“I said that when we spied the smoke,” said another. “I said, 'That's none of Steve's work, lighting fires and revealing to us their whereabouts.'”

It struck me that they were plying Steve with compliments.

“Pretty hard to have the fool get away and you get caught,” a third suggested. At this they seemed to wait. I felt something curious in all this last talk.

“Oh, did he get away?” said the prisoner, then.

Again they waited; and a new voice spoke huskily:— “I built that fire, boys.” It was the prisoner in the gray flannel shirt.

“Too late, Ed,” they told him kindly. “You ain't a good liar.”

“What makes you laugh, Steve?” said some one.

“Oh, the things I notice.”

“Meaning Ed was pretty slow in backing up your play? The joke is really on you, Steve. You'd ought never to have cursed the fire-builder if you wanted us to believe he was present. But we'd not have done much to Shorty, even if we had caught him. All he wants is to be scared good and hard, and he'll go back into virtuousness, which is his nature when not travelling with Trampas.”

Steve's voice sounded hard now. “You have caught Ed and me. That should satisfy you for one gather.”

“Well, we think different, Steve. Trampas escaping leaves this thing unfinished.”

“So Trampas escaped too, did he?” said the prisoner.

“Yes, Steve, Trampas escaped—this time; and Shorty with him—this time. We know it most as well as if we'd seen them go. And we're glad Shorty is loose, for he'll build another fire or do some other foolishness next time, and that's the time we'll get Trampas.”

Their talk drifted to other points, and I lay thinking of the skirmish that had played beneath the surface of their banter. Yes, the joke, as they put it, was on Steve. He had lost one point in the game to them. They were playing for names. He, being a chivalrous thief, was playing to hide names. They could only, among several likely confederates, guess Trampas and Shorty. So it had been a slip for him to curse the man who built the fire. At least, they so held it. For, they with subtlety reasoned, one curses the absent. And I agreed with them that Ed did not know how to lie well; he should have at once claimed the disgrace of having spoiled the expedition. If Shorty was the blunderer, then certainly Trampas was the other man; for the two were as inseparable as don and master. Trampas had enticed Shorty away from good, and trained him in evil. It now struck me that after his single remark the Virginian had been silent throughout their shrewd discussion.

It was the other prisoner that I heard them next address. “You don't eat any breakfast, Ed.”

“Brace up, Ed. Look at Steve, how hardy he eats!”

But Ed, it seemed, wanted no breakfast. And the tin dishes rattled as they were gathered and taken to be packed.

“Drink this coffee, anyway,” another urged; “you'll feel warmer.”

These words almost made it seem like my own execution. My whole body turned cold in company with the prisoner's, and as if with a clank the situation tightened throughout my senses.

“I reckon if every one's ready we'll start.” It was the Virginian's voice once more, and different from the rest. I heard them rise at his bidding, and I put the blanket over my head. I felt their tread as they walked out, passing my stall. The straw that was half under me and half out in the stable was stirred as by something heavy dragged or half lifted along over it. “Look out, you're hurting Ed's arm,” one said to another, as the steps with tangled sounds passed slowly out. I heard another among those who followed say, “Poor Ed couldn't swallow his coffee.” Outside they began getting on their horses; and next their hoofs grew distant, until all was silence round the stable except the dull, even falling of the rain.