The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains

  XXIII. VARIOUS POINTS

  Love had been snowbound for many weeks. Before this imprisonment itscourse had run neither smooth nor rough, so far as eye could see; ithad run either not at all, or, as an undercurrent, deep out of sight. Intheir rides, in their talks, love had been dumb, as to spoken words atleast; for the Virginian had set himself a heavy task of silence and ofpatience. Then, where winter barred his visits to Bear Creek, and therewas for the while no ranch work or responsibility to fill his thoughtsand blood with action, he set himself a task much lighter. Often,instead of Shakespeare and fiction, school books lay open on his cabintable; and penmanship and spelling helped the hours to pass. Many sheetsof paper did he fill with various exercises, and Mrs. Henry gave him herassistance in advice and corrections.

  "I shall presently be in love with him myself," she told the Judge. "Andit's time for you to become anxious."

  "I am perfectly safe," he retorted. "There's only one woman for him anymore."

  "She is not good enough for him," declared Mrs. Henry. "But he'll neversee that."

  So the snow fell, the world froze, and the spelling-books and exerciseswent on. But this was not the only case of education which wasprogressing at the Sunk Creek Ranch while love was snowbound.

  One morning Scipio le Moyne entered the Virginian's sitting room--thatapartment where Dr. MacBride had wrestled with sin so courageously allnight.

  The Virginian sat at his desk. Open books lay around him; ahalf-finished piece of writing was beneath his fist; his fingers werecoated with ink. Education enveloped him, it may be said. But there wasnone in his eye. That was upon the window, looking far across the coldplain.

  The foreman did not move when Scipio came in, and this humorous spiritsmiled to himself. "It's Bear Creek he's havin' a vision of," heconcluded. But he knew instantly that this was not so. The Virginianwas looking at something real, and Scipio went to the window to see forhimself.

  "Well," he said, having seen, "when is he going to leave us?"

  The foreman continued looking at two horsemen riding together. Theirshapes, small in the distance, showed black against the universalwhiteness.

  "When d' yu' figure he'll leave us?" repeated Scipio.

  "He," murmured the Virginian, always watching the distant horsemen; andagain, "he."

  Scipio sprawled down, familiarly, across a chair. He and the Virginianhad come to know each other very well since that first meeting atMedora. They were birds many of whose feathers were the same, and theVirginian often talked to Scipio without reserve. Consequently, Scipionow understood those two syllables that the Virginian had pronouncedprecisely as though the sentences which lay between them had been fullyexpressed.

  "Hm," he remarked. "Well, one will be a gain, and the other won't be noloss."

  "Poor Shorty!" said the Virginian. "Poor fool!"

  Scipio was less compassionate. "No," he persisted, "I ain't sorry forhim. Any man old enough to have hair on his face ought to see throughTrampas."

  The Virginian looked out of the window again, and watched Shorty andTrampas as they rode in the distance. "Shorty is kind to animals," hesaid. "He has gentled that hawss Pedro he bought with his first money.Gentled him wonderful. When a man is kind to dumb animals, I always sayhe had got some good in him."

  "Yes," Scipio reluctantly admitted. "Yes. But I always did hate a fool."

  "This hyeh is a mighty cruel country," pursued the Virginian. "Toanimals that is. Think of it! Think what we do to hundreds an' thousandsof little calves! Throw 'em down, brand 'em, cut 'em, ear mark 'em, turn'em loose, and on to the next. It has got to be, of course. But I saythis. If a man can go jammin' hot irons on to little calves and slicin'pieces off 'em with his knife, and live along, keepin' a kindness foranimals in his heart, he has got some good in him. And that's whatShorty has got. But he is lettin' Trampas get a hold of him, and both ofthem will leave us." And the Virginian looked out across the huge winterwhiteness again. But the riders had now vanished behind some foot-hills.

  Scipio sat silent. He had never put these thoughts about men and animalsto himself, and when they were put to him, he saw that they were true.

  "Queer," he observed finally.

  "What?"

  "Everything."

  "Nothing's queer," stated the Virginian, "except marriage and lightning.Them two occurrences can still give me a sensation of surprise."

  "All the same it is queer," Scipio insisted

  "Well, let her go at me."

  "Why, Trampas. He done you dirt. You pass that over. You could havefired him, but you let him stay and keep his job. That's goodness. Andbadness is resultin' from it, straight. Badness right from goodness."

  "You're off the trail a whole lot," said the Virginian.

  "Which side am I off, then?"

  "North, south, east, and west. First point. I didn't expect to doTrampas any good by not killin' him, which I came pretty near doin'three times. Nor I didn't expect to do Trampas any good by lettin' himkeep his job. But I am foreman of this ranch. And I can sit and tell allmen to their face: 'I was above that meanness.' Point two: it ain't anyGOODNESS, it is TRAMPAS that badness has resulted from. Put him anywhereand it will be the same. Put him under my eye, and I can follow hismoves a little, anyway. You have noticed, maybe, that since you and Irun on to that dead Polled Angus cow, that was still warm when we gotto her, we have found no more cows dead of sudden death. We came mightyclose to catchin' whoever it was that killed that cow and ran her calfoff to his own bunch. He wasn't ten minutes ahead of us. We can provenothin'; and he knows that just as well as we do. But our cows have allquit dyin' of sudden death. And Trampas he's gettin' ready for a changeof residence. As soon as all the outfits begin hirin' new hands in thespring, Trampas will leave us and take a job with some of them. Andmaybe our cows'll commence gettin' killed again, and we'll have to takesteps that will be more emphatic--maybe."

  Scipio meditated. "I wonder what killin' a man feels like?" he said.

  "Why, nothing to bother yu'--when he'd ought to have been killed. Nextpoint: Trampas he'll take Shorty with him, which is certainly bad forShorty. But it's me that has kept Shorty out of harm's way this long. IfI had fired Trampas, he'd have worked Shorty into dissatisfaction thatmuch sooner."

  Scipio meditated again. "I knowed Trampas would pull his freight," hesaid. "But I didn't think of Shorty. What makes you think it?"

  "He asked me for a raise."

  "He ain't worth the pay he's getting now."

  "Trampas has told him different."

  "When a man ain't got no ideas of his own," said Scipio, "he'd ought tobe kind o' careful who he borrows 'em from."

  "That's mighty correct," said the Virginian. "Poor Shorty! He has toldme about his life. It is sorrowful. And he will never get wise. It wastoo late for him to get wise when he was born. D' yu' know why he'safter higher wages? He sends most all his money East."

  "I don't see what Trampas wants him for," said Scipio.

  "Oh, a handy tool some day."

  "Not very handy," said Scipio.

  "Well, Trampas is aimin' to train him. Yu' see, supposin' yu' werefiguring to turn professional thief--yu'd be lookin' around for a niceyoung trustful accomplice to take all the punishment and let you takethe rest."

  "No such thing!" cried Scipio, angrily. "I'm no shirker." And then,perceiving the Virginian's expression, he broke out laughing. "Well," heexclaimed, "yu' fooled me that time."

  "Looks that way. But I do mean it about Trampas."

  Presently Scipio rose, and noticed the half-finished exercise upon theVirginian's desk. "Trampas is a rolling stone," he said.

  "A rolling piece of mud," corrected the Virginian.

  "Mud! That's right. I'm a rolling stone. Sometimes I'd most like to quitbeing."

  "That's easy done," said the Virginian.

  "No doubt, when yu've found the moss yu' want to gather." As Scipioglanced at the school books again, a sparkle lurked in his bleached blueeye. "I can cipher some," he said.
"But I expect I've got my own notionsabout spelling."

  "I retain a few private ideas that way myself," remarked the Virginian,innocently; and Scipio's sparkle gathered light.

  "As to my geography," he pursued, "that's away out loose in the brush.Is Bennington the capital of Vermont? And how d' yu' spell bridegroom?"

  "Last point!" shouted the Virginian, letting a book fly after him:"don't let badness and goodness worry yu', for yu'll never be a judge ofthem."

  But Scipio had dodged the book, and was gone. As he went his way, hesaid to himself, "All the same, it must pay to fall regular in love."At the bunk house that afternoon it was observed that he was unusuallysilent. His exit from the foreman's cabin had let in a breath of winterso chill that the Virginian went to see his thermometer, a Christmaspresent from Mrs. Henry. It registered twenty below zero. After revivingthe fire to a white blaze, the foreman sat thinking over the storyof Shorty: what its useless, feeble past had been; what would be itsuseless, feeble future. He shook his head over the sombre question,Was there any way out for Shorty? "It may be," he reflected, "that themwhose pleasure brings yu' into this world owes yu' a living. But thatdon't make the world responsible. The world did not beget you. I reckonman helps them that help themselves. As for the universe, it looks likeit did too wholesale a business to turn out an article up to standardevery clip. Yes, it is sorrowful. For Shorty is kind to his hawss."

  In the evening the Virginian brought Shorty into his room. He usuallyknew what he had to say, usually found it easy to arrange his thoughts;and after such arranging the words came of themselves. But as he lookedat Shorty, this did not happen to him. There was not a line of badnessin the face; yet also there was not a line of strength; no promise ineye, or nose, or chin; the whole thing melted to a stubby, featurelessmediocrity. It was a countenance like thousands; and hopelessness filledthe Virginian as he looked at this lost dog, and his dull, wistful eyes.

  But some beginning must be made.

  "I wonder what the thermometer has got to be," he said. "Yu' can see it,if yu'll hold the lamp to that right side of the window."

  Shorty held the lamp. "I never used any," he said, looking out at theinstrument, nevertheless.

  The Virginian had forgotten that Shorty could not read. So he lookedout of the window himself, and found that it was twenty-two below zero."This is pretty good tobacco," he remarked; and Shorty helped himself,and filled his pipe.

  "I had to rub my left ear with snow to-day," said he. "I was just intime."

  "I thought it looked pretty freezy out where yu' was riding," said theforeman.

  The lost dog's eyes showed plain astonishment. "We didn't see you outthere," said he.

  "Well," said the foreman, "it'll soon not be freezing any more; and thenwe'll all be warm enough with work. Everybody will be working all overthe range. And I wish I knew somebody that had a lot of stable work tobe attended to. I cert'nly do for your sake."

  "Why?" said Shorty.

  "Because it's the right kind of a job for you."

  "I can make more--" began Shorty, and stopped.

  "There is a time coming," said the Virginian, "when I'll want somebodythat knows how to get the friendship of hawsses. I'll want him to handlesome special hawsses the Judge has plans about. Judge Henry would payfifty a month for that."

  "I can make more," said Shorty, this time with stubbornness.

  "Well, yes. Sometimes a man can--when he's not worth it, I mean. But itdon't generally last."

  Shorty was silent. "I used to make more myself," said the Virginian.

  "You're making a lot more now," said Shorty.

  "Oh, yes. But I mean when I was fooling around the earth, jumping fromjob to job, and helling all over town between whiles. I was not worthfifty a month then, nor twenty-five. But there was nights I made a heapmore at cyards."

  Shorty's eyes grew large.

  "And then, bang! it was gone with treatin' the men and the girls."

  "I don't always--" said Shorty, and stopped again.

  The Virginian knew that he was thinking about the money he sent East."After a while," he continued, "I noticed a right strange fact. Themoney I made easy that I WASN'T worth, it went like it came. I strainedmyself none gettin' or spendin' it. But the money I made hard that I WASworth, why I began to feel right careful about that. And now I have gotsavings stowed away. If once yu' could know how good that feels--"

  "So I would know," said Shorty, "with your luck."

  "What's my luck?" said the Virginian, sternly.

  "Well, if I had took up land along a creek that never goes dry andproved upon it like you have, and if I had saw that land raise its valueon me with me lifting no finger--"

  "Why did you lift no finger?" cut in the Virginian. "Who stopped yu'taking up land? Did it not stretch in front of yu', behind yu', allaround yu', the biggest, baldest opportunity in sight? That was the timeI lifted my finger; but yu' didn't."

  Shorty stood stubborn.

  "But never mind that," said the Virginian. "Take my land away to-morrow,and I'd still have my savings in bank. Because, you see, I had to workright hard gathering them in. I found out what I could do, and I settleddown and did it. Now you can do that too. The only tough part is thefinding out what you're good for. And for you, that is found. If you'lljust decide to work at this thing you can do, and gentle those hawssesfor the Judge, you'll be having savings in a bank yourself."

  "I can make more," said the lost dog.

  The Virginian was on the point of saying, "Then get out!" But instead,he spoke kindness to the end. "The weather is freezing yet," he said,"and it will be for a good long while. Take your time, and tell me ifyu' change your mind."

  After that Shorty returned to the bunk house, and the Virginian knewthat the boy had learned his lesson of discontent from Trampas witha thoroughness past all unteaching. This petty triumph of evil seemedscarce of the size to count as any victory over the Virginian. But allmen grasp at straws. Since that first moment, when in the Medicine Bowsaloon the Virginian had shut the mouth of Trampas by a word, the manhad been trying to get even without risk; and at each successive clashof his weapon with the Virginian's, he had merely met another publichumiliation. Therefore, now at the Sunk Creek Ranch in these cold whitedays, a certain lurking insolence in his gait showed plainly his opinionthat by disaffecting Shorty he had made some sort of reprisal.

  Yes, he had poisoned the lost dog. In the springtime, when theneighboring ranches needed additional hands, it happened as theVirginian had foreseen,--Trampas departed to a "better job," as he tookpains to say, and with him the docile Shorty rode away upon his horsePedro.

  Love now was not any longer snowbound. The mountain trails were openenough for the sure feet of love's steed--that horse called Monte.But duty blocked the path of love. Instead of turning his face to BearCreek, the foreman had other journeys to make, full of heavy work,and watchfulness, and councils with the Judge. The cattle thieves weregrowing bold, and winter had scattered the cattle widely over the range.Therefore the Virginian, instead of going to see her, wrote a letter tohis sweetheart. It was his first.