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

I do not know how long I stayed there alone. It was the Virginian who came back, and as he stood at the foot of my blankets his eye, after meeting mine full for a moment, turned aside. I had never seen him look as he did now, not even in Pitchstone Canyon when we came upon the bodies of Hank and his wife. Until this moment we had found no chance of speaking together, except in the presence of others.

“Seems to be raining still,” I began after a little.

“Yes. It's a wet spell.”

He stared out of the door, smoothing his mustache.

It was again I that spoke. “What time is it?”

He brooded over his watch. “Twelve minutes to seven.”

I rose and stood drawing on my clothes.

“The fire's out,” said he; and he assembled some new sticks over the ashes. Presently he looked round with a cup.

“Never mind that for me,” I said.

“We've a long ride,” he suggested.

“I know. I've crackers in my pocket.”

My boots being pulled on, I walked to the door and watched the clouds. “They seem as if they might lift,” I said. And I took out my watch.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“A quarter of—it's run down.”

While I wound it he seemed to be consulting his own.

“Well?” I inquired.

“Ten minutes past seven.”

As I was setting my watch he slowly said:

“Steve wound his all regular. I had to night-guard him till two.” His speech was like that of one in a trance: so, at least, it sounds in my memory to-day.

Again I looked at the weather and the rainy immensity of the plain. The foot-hills eastward where we were going were a soft yellow. Over the gray-green sage-brush moved shapeless places of light—not yet the uncovered sunlight, but spots where the storm was wearing thin; and wandering streams of warmth passed by slowly in the surrounding air. As I watched the clouds and the earth, my eyes chanced to fall on the distant clump of cottonwoods. Vapors from the enfeebled storm floated round them, and they were indeed far away; but I came inside and began rolling up my blankets.

“You will not change your mind?” said the Virginian by the fire. “It is thirty-five miles.”

I shook my head, feeling a certain shame that he should see how unnerved I was.

He swallowed a hot cupful, and after it sat thinking; and presently he passed his hand across his brow, shutting his eyes. Again he poured out a cup, and emptying this, rose abruptly to his feet as if shaking himself free from something.

“Let's pack and quit here,” he said.

Our horses were in the corral and our belongings in the shelter of what had been once the cabin at this forlorn place. He collected them in silence while I saddled my own animal, and in silence we packed the two packhorses, and threw the diamond hitch, and hauled tight the slack, damp ropes. Soon we had mounted, and as we turned into the trail I gave a look back at my last night's lodging.

The Virginian noticed me. “Good-by forever!” he interpreted.

“By God, I hope so!”

“Same here,” he confessed. And these were our first natural words this morning.

“This will go well,” said I, holding my flask out to him; and both of us took some, and felt easier for it and the natural words.

For an hour we had been shirking real talk, holding fast to the weather, or anything, and all the while that silent thing we were keeping off spoke plainly in the air around us and in every syllable that we uttered. But now we were going to get away from it; leave it behind in the stable, and set ourselves free from it by talking it out. Already relief had begun to stir in my spirits.

“You never did this before,” I said.

“No. I never had it to do.” He was riding beside me, looking down at his saddle-horn.

“I do not think I should ever be able,” I pursued.

Defiance sounded in his answer. “I would do it again this morning.”

“Oh, I don't mean that. It's all right here. There's no other way.”

“I would do it all over again the same this morning. Just the same.”

“Why, so should I—if I could do it at all.” I still thought he was justifying their justice to me.

He made no answer as he rode along, looking all the while at his saddle. But again he passed his hand over his forehead with that frown and shutting of the eyes.

“I should like to be sure I should behave myself if I were condemned,” I said next. For it now came to me—which should I resemble? Could I read the newspaper, and be interested in county elections, and discuss coming death as if I had lost a game of cards? Or would they have to drag me out? That poor wretch in the gray flannel shirt—“It was bad in the stable,” I said aloud. For an after-shiver of it went through me.

A third time his hand brushed his forehead, and I ventured some sympathy.

“I'm afraid your head aches.”

“I don't want to keep seeing Steve,” he muttered.

“Steve!” I was astounded. “Why he—why all I saw of him was splendid. Since it had to be. It was—”

“Oh, yes; Ed. You're thinking about him. I'd forgot him. So you didn't enjoy Ed?”

At this I looked at him blankly. “It isn't possible that—”

Again he cut me short with a laugh almost savage. “You needn't to worry about Steve. He stayed game.”

What then had been the matter that he should keep seeing Steve—that his vision should so obliterate from him what I still shivered at, and so shake him now? For he seemed to be growing more stirred as I grew less. I asked him no further questions, however, and we went on for several minutes, he brooding always in the same fashion, until he resumed with the hard indifference that had before surprised me:— “So Ed gave you feelings! Dumb ague and so forth.”

“No doubt we're not made the same way,” I retorted.

He took no notice of this. “And you'd have been more comfortable if he'd acted same as Steve did. It cert'nly was bad seeing Ed take it that way, I reckon. And you didn't see him