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

stooping, kissed the jewel in that other ring which he had given her. The crimson fire in the opal seemed to mingle with that in his heart, and his arm lifted her during a moment from the saddle as he held her to him. But in her heart the love of him was troubled by that cold pang of loneliness which had crept upon her like a tide as the day drew near. None of her own people were waiting in that distant town to see her become his bride. Friendly faces she might pass on the way; but all of them new friends, made in this wild country: not a face of her childhood would smile upon her; and deep within her, a voice cried for the mother who was far away in Vermont. That she would see Mrs. Taylor's kind face at her wedding was no comfort now.

There lay the town in the splendor of Wyoming space. Around it spread the watered fields, westward for a little way, eastward to a great distance, making squares of green and yellow crops; and the town was but a poor rag in the midst of this quilted harvest. After the fields to the east, the tawny plain began; and with one faint furrow of river lining its undulations, it stretched beyond sight. But west of the town rose the Bow Leg Mountains, cool with their still unmelted snows and their dull blue gulfs of pine. From three canyons flowed three clear forks which began the river. Their confluence was above the town a good two miles; it looked but a few paces from up here, while each side the river straggled the margin cottonwoods, like thin borders along a garden walk. Over all this map hung silence like a harmony, tremendous yet serene.

“How beautiful! how I love it!” whispered the girl. “But, oh, how big it is!” And she leaned against her lover for an instant. It was her spirit seeking shelter. To-day, this vast beauty, this primal calm, had in it for her something almost of dread. The small, comfortable, green hills of home rose before her. She closed her eyes and saw Vermont: a village street, and the post-office, and ivy covering an old front door, and her mother picking some yellow roses from a bush.

At a sound, her eyes quickly opened; and here was her lover turned in his saddle, watching another horseman approach. She saw the Virginian's hand in a certain position, and knew that his pistol was ready. But the other merely overtook and passed them, as they stood at the brow of the hill.

The man had given one nod to the Virginian, and the Virginian one to him; and now he was already below them on the descending road. To Molly Wood he was a stranger; but she had seen his eyes when he nodded to her lover, and she knew, even without the pistol, that this was not enmity at first sight. It was not indeed. Five years of gathered hate had looked out of the man's eyes. And she asked her lover who this was.

“Oh,” said he, easily, “just a man I see now and then.”

“Is his name Trampas?” said Molly Wood.

The Virginian looked at her in surprise. “Why, where have you seen him?” he asked.

“Never till now. But I knew.”

“My gracious! Yu' never told me yu' had mind-reading powers.” And he smiled serenely at her.

“I knew it was Trampas as soon as I saw his eyes.”

“My gracious!” her lover repeated with indulgent irony. “I must be mighty careful of my eyes when you're lookin' at 'em.”

“I believe he did that murder,” said the girl.

“Whose mind are yu' readin' now?” he drawled affectionately.

But he could not joke her off the subject. She took his strong hand in hers, tremulously, so much of it as her little hand could hold. “I know something about that—that—last autumn,” she said, shrinking from words more definite. “And I know that you only did—”

“What I had to,” he finished, very sadly, but sternly, too.

“Yes,” she asserted, keeping hold of his hand. “I suppose that—lynching—” (she almost whispered the word) “is the only way. But when they had to die just for stealing horses, it seems so wicked that this murderer—”

“Who can prove it?” asked the Virginian.

“But don't you know it?”

“I know a heap o' things inside my heart. But that's not proving. There was only the body, and the hoofprints—and what folks guessed.”

“He was never even arrested!” the girl said.

“No. He helped elect the sheriff in that county.”

Then Molly ventured a step inside the border of her lover's reticence. “I saw—” she hesitated, “just now, I saw what you did.”

He returned to his caressing irony. “You'll have me plumb scared if you keep on seein' things.”

“You had your pistol ready for him.”

“Why, I believe I did. It was mighty unnecessary.” And the Virginian took out the pistol again, and shook his head over it, like one who has been caught in a blunder.

She looked at him, and knew that she must step outside his reticence again. By love and her surrender to him their positions had been exchanged.

He was not now, as through his long courting he had been, her half-obeying, half-refractory worshipper. She was no longer his half-indulgent, half-scornful superior. Her better birth and schooling that had once been weapons to keep him at his distance, or bring her off victorious in their encounters, had given way before the onset of the natural man himself. She knew her cow-boy lover, with all that he lacked, to be more than ever she could be, with all that she had. He was her worshipper still, but her master, too. Therefore now, against the baffling smile he gave her, she felt powerless. And once again a pang of yearning for her mother to be near her to-day shot through the girl. She looked from her untamed man to the untamed desert of Wyoming, and the town where she was to take him as her wedded husband. But for his sake she would not let him guess her loneliness.

He sat on his horse Monte, considering the pistol. Then he showed her a rattlesnake coiled by the roots of some sage-brush. “Can I hit it?” he inquired.

“You don't often miss them,” said she, striving to be cheerful.

“Well, I'm told getting married unstrings some men.” He aimed, and the snake was shattered. “Maybe it's too early yet for the unstringing to begin!” And with some deliberation he sent three more bullets into the snake. “I reckon that's enough,” said he.

“Was not the first one?”

“Oh, yes, for the snake.” And then, with one leg crooked cow-boy fashion across in front of his saddle-horn, he cleaned his pistol, and replaced the empty cartridges.

Once more she ventured near the line of his reticence. “Has—has Trampas seen you much lately?”

“Why, no; not for a right smart while. But I reckon he has