The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains

  XXX. A STABLE ON THE FLAT

  When the first landmark, the lone clump of cottonwoods, came at lengthin sight, dark and blurred in the gentle rain, standing out perhapsa mile beyond the distant buildings, my whole weary body hailed theapproach of repose. Saving the noon hour, I had been in the saddle sincesix, and now six was come round again. The ranch, my resting-place forthis night, was a ruin--cabin, stable, and corral. Yet after the twelvehours of pushing on and on through silence, still to have silence, stillto eat and go to sleep in it, perfectly fitted the mood of both my fleshand spirit. At noon, when for a while I had thrown off my long oilskincoat, merely the sight of the newspaper half crowded into my pocket hadbeen a displeasing reminder of the railway, and cities, and affairs. Butfor its possible help to build fires, it would have come no farther withme. The great levels around me lay cooled and freed of dust by thewet weather, and full of sweet airs. Far in front the foot-hills rosethrough the rain, indefinite and mystic. I wanted no speech with anyone, nor to be near human beings at all. I was steeped in a revery as ofthe primal earth; even thoughts themselves had almost ceased motion. Tolie down with wild animals, with elk and deer, would have made my wakingdream complete; and since such dream could not be, the cattle around thedeserted buildings, mere dots as yet across separating space, were myproper companions for this evening.

  To-morrow night I should probably be camping with the Virginian in thefoot-hills. At his letter's bidding I had come eastward across Idaho,abandoning my hunting in the Saw Tooth Range to make this journey withhim back through the Tetons. It was a trail known to him, and not tomany other honest men. Horse Thief Pass was the name his letter gave it.Business (he was always brief) would call him over there at this time.Returning, he must attend to certain matters in the Wind River country.There I could leave by stage for the railroad, or go on with him thewhole way back to Sunk Creek. He designated for our meeting the forksof a certain little stream in the foot-hills which to-day's ride hadbrought in sight. There would be no chance for him to receive an answerfrom me in the intervening time. If by a certain day--which was fourdays off still--I had not reached the forks, he would understand I hadother plans. To me it was like living back in ages gone, this way ofmeeting my friend, this choice of a stream so far and lonely that itsvery course upon the maps was wrongly traced. And to leave behind allnoise and mechanisms, and set out at ease, slowly, with one packhorse,into the wilderness, made me feel that the ancient earth was indeed mymother and that I had found her again after being lost among houses,customs, and restraints. I should arrive three days early at theforks--three days of margin seeming to me a wise precaution againstdelays unforeseen. If the Virginian were not there, good; I could fishand be happy. If he were there but not ready to start, good; I couldstill fish and be happy. And remembering my Eastern helplessness inthe year when we had met first, I enjoyed thinking how I had come to betrusted. In those days I had not been allowed to go from the ranch forso much as an afternoon's ride unless tied to him by a string, so tospeak; now I was crossing unmapped spaces with no guidance. The man whocould do this was scarce any longer a "tenderfoot."

  My vision, as I rode, took in serenely the dim foot-hills,--to-morrow'sgoal,--and nearer in the vast wet plain the clump of cottonwoods, andstill nearer my lodging for to-night with the dotted cattle round it.And now my horse neighed. I felt his gait freshen for the journey'send, and leaning to pat his neck I noticed his ears no longer slack andinattentive, but pointing forward to where food and rest awaited both ofus. Twice he neighed, impatiently and long; and as he quickened his gaitstill more, the packhorse did the same, and I realized that there wasabout me still a spice of the tenderfoot: those dots were not cattle;they were horses.

  My horse had put me in the wrong. He had known his kind from afar,and was hastening to them. The plainsman's eye was not yet mine; and Ismiled a little as I rode. When was I going to know, as by instinct, thedifferent look of horses and cattle across some two or three miles ofplain?

  These miles we finished soon. The buildings changed in their aspect asthey grew to my approach, showing their desolation more clearly, and insome way bringing apprehension into my mood. And around them the horses,too, all standing with ears erect, watching me as I came--there wassomething about them; or was it the silence? For the silence which I hadliked until now seemed suddenly to be made too great by the presence ofthe deserted buildings. And then the door of the stable opened, andmen came out and stood, also watching me arrive. By the time I wasdismounting more were there. It was senseless to feel as unpleasant asI did, and I strove to give to them a greeting that should sound easy.I told them that I hoped there was room for one more here to-night. Someof them had answered my greeting, but none of them answered this; andas I began to be sure that I recognized several of their strangelyimperturbable faces, the Virginian came from the stable; and at thatwelcome sight my relief spoke out instantly.

  "I am here, you see!"

  "Yes, I do see." I looked hard at him, for in his voice was the samestrangeness that I felt in everything around me. But he was looking athis companions. "This gentleman is all right," he told them.

  "That may be," said one whom I now knew that I had seen before at SunkCreek; "but he was not due to-night."

  "Nor to-morrow," said another.

  "Nor yet the day after," a third added.

  The Virginian fell into his drawl. "None of you was ever early foranything, I presume."

  One retorted, laughing, "Oh, we're not suspicioning you of complicity."

  And another, "Not even when we remember how thick you and Steve used tobe."

  Whatever jokes they meant by this he did not receive as jokes. I sawsomething like a wince pass over his face, and a flush follow it. But henow spoke to me. "We expected to be through before this," he began. "I'mright sorry you have come to-night. I know you'd have preferred to keepaway."

  "We want him to explain himself," put in one of the others. "If hesatisfies us, he's free to go away."

  "Free to go away!" I now exclaimed. But at the indulgence in theirfrontier smile I cooled down. "Gentlemen," I said, "I don't know why mymovements interest you so much. It's quite a compliment! May I get undershelter while I explain?"

  No request could have been more natural, for the rain had now begun tofall in straight floods. Yet there was a pause before one of them said,"He might as well."

  The Virginian chose to say nothing more; but he walked beside me intothe stable. Two men sat there together, and a third guarded them. Atthat sight I knew suddenly what I had stumbled upon; and on the impulseI murmured to the Virginian, "You're hanging them to-morrow."

  He kept his silence.

  "You may have three guesses," said a man behind me.

  But I did not need them. And in the recoil of my insight the clumpof cottonwoods came into my mind, black and grim. No other trees highenough grew within ten miles. This, then, was the business that theVirginian's letter had so curtly mentioned. My eyes went into allcorners of the stable, but no other prisoners were here. I half expectedto see Trampas, and I half feared to see Shorty; for poor stupidShorty's honesty had not been proof against frontier temptations, and hehad fallen away from the company of his old friends. Often of late Ihad heard talk at Sunk Creek of breaking up a certain gang of horse andcattle thieves that stole in one Territory and sold in the next, andknew where to hide in the mountains between. And now it had come to thepoint; forces had been gathered, a long expedition made, and here theywere, successful under the Virginian's lead, but a little later thantheir calculations. And here was I, a little too early, and a witness inconsequence. My presence seemed a simple thing to account for; but whenI had thus accounted for it, one of them said with good nature:-- "Soyou find us here, and we find you here. Which is the most surprised, Iwonder?"

  "There's no telling," said I, keeping as amiable as I could; "nor anytelling which objects the most."

  "Oh, there's no objection here. You're welcome to stay. But not welcometo go, I expect. He
ain't welcome to go, is he?"

  By the answers that their faces gave him it was plain that I was not."Not till we are through," said one.

  "He needn't to see anything,"' another added.

  "Better sleep late to-morrow morning," a third suggested to me.

  I did not wish to stay here. I could have made some sort of camp apartfrom them before dark; but in the face of their needless caution I washelpless. I made no attempt to inquire what kind of spy they imagined Icould be, what sort of rescue I could bring in this lonely country; mytoo early appearance seemed to be all that they looked at. And againmy eyes sought the prisoners. Certainly there were only two. One waschewing tobacco, and talking now and then to his guard as if nothingwere the matter. The other sat dull in silence, not moving his eyes;but his face worked, and I noticed how he continually moistened his drylips. As I looked at these doomed prisoners, whose fate I was invited tosleep through to-morrow morning, the one who was chewing quietly noddedto me.

  "You don't remember me?" he said.

  It was Steve! Steve of Medicine Bow! The pleasant Steve of my firstevening in the West. Some change of beard had delayed my instantrecognition of his face. Here he sat sentenced to die. A shock, chilland painful, deprived me of speech.

  He had no such weak feelings. "Have yu' been to Medicine Bow lately?" heinquired. "That's getting to be quite a while ago."

  I assented. I should have liked to say something natural and kind,but words stuck against my will, and I stood awkward and ill at ease,noticing idly that the silent one wore a gray flannel shirt like mine.Steve looked me over, and saw in my pocket the newspaper which I hadbrought from the railroad and on which I had pencilled a few expenses.He asked me, Would I mind letting him have it for a while? And I gaveit to him eagerly, begging him to keep it as long as he wanted. I wasovereager in my embarrassment. "You need not return it at all," I said;"those notes are nothing. Do keep it."

  He gave me a short glance and a smile. "Thank you," he said; "I'll notneed it beyond to-morrow morning." And he began to search through it."Jake's election is considered sure," he said to his companion, whomade no response. "Well, Fremont County owes it to Jake." And I left himinterested in the local news.

  Dead men I have seen not a few times, even some lying pale and terribleafter violent ends, and the edge of this wears off; but I hope I shallnever again have to be in the company with men waiting to be killed.By this time to-morrow the gray flannel shirt would be buttoned rounda corpse. Until what moment would Steve chew? Against such fancies asthese I managed presently to barricade my mind, but I made a plea to beallowed to pass the night elsewhere, and I suggested the adjacent cabin.By their faces I saw that my words merely helped their distrust of me.The cabin leaked too much, they said; I would sleep drier here. One mangave it to me more directly: "If you figured on camping in this stable,what has changed your mind?" How could I tell them that I shrunk fromany contact with what they were doing, although I knew that only socould justice be dealt in this country? Their wholesome frontier nervesknew nothing of such refinements.

  But the Virginian understood part of it. "I am right sorry for yourannoyance," he said. And now I noticed he was under a constraint verydifferent from the ease of the others.

  After the twelve hours' ride my bones were hungry for rest. I spread myblankets on some straw in a stall by myself and rolled up in them; yetI lay growing broader awake, every inch of weariness stricken from myexcited senses. For a while they sat over their councils, whisperingcautiously, so that I was made curious to hear them by not being able;was it the names of Trampas and Shorty that were once or twice spoken--Icould not be sure. I heard the whisperers cease and separate. I heardtheir boots as they cast them off upon the ground. And I heard thebreathing of slumber begin and grow in the interior silence. To oneafter one sleep came, but not to me. Outside, the dull fall of the rainbeat evenly, and in some angle dripped the spouting pulses of a leak.Sometimes a cold air blew in, bearing with it the keen wet odor of thesage-brush. On hundreds of other nights this perfume had been my lastwaking remembrance; it had seemed to help drowsiness; and now I laystaring, thinking of this. Twice through the hours the thieves shiftedtheir positions with clumsy sounds, exchanging muted words with theirguard. So, often, had I heard other companions move and mutter in thedarkness and lie down again. It was the very naturalness and usualnessof every fact of the night,--the stable straw, the rain outside, myfamiliar blankets, the cool visits of the wind,--and with all this thethought of Steve chewing and the man in the gray flannel shirt, thatmade the hours unearthly and strung me tight with suspense. And at lastI heard some one get up and begin to dress. In a little while I sawlight suddenly through my closed eyelids, and then darkness shut againabruptly upon them. They had swung in a lantern and found me by mistake.I was the only one they did not wish to rouse. Moving and quiet talkingset up around me, and they began to go out of the stable. At the gleamsof new daylight which they let in my thoughts went to the clump ofcottonwoods, and I lay still with hands and feet growing steadilycold. Now it was going to happen. I wondered how they would do it; oneinstance had been described to me by a witness, but that was done from abridge, and there had been but a single victim. This morning, would onehave to wait and see the other go through with it first?

  The smell of smoke reached me, and next the rattle of tin dishes.Breakfast was something I had forgotten, and one of them was cooking itnow in the dry shelter of the stable. He was alone, because the talkingand the steps were outside the stable, and I could hear the sounds ofhorses being driven into the corral and saddled. Then I perceived thatthe coffee was ready, and almost immediately the cook called them. Onecame in, shutting the door behind him as he reentered, which the rest asthey followed imitated; for at each opening of the door I saw the lightof day leap into the stable and heard the louder sounds of the rain.Then the sound and the light would again be shut out, until some one atlength spoke out bluntly, bidding the door be left open on account ofthe smoke. What were they hiding from? he asked. The runaways that hadescaped? A laugh followed this sally, and the door was left open. ThusI learned that there had been more thieves than the two that werecaptured. It gave a little more ground for their suspicion about me andmy anxiety to pass the night elsewhere. It cost nothing to detain me,and they were taking no chances, however remote.

  The fresh air and the light now filled the stable, and I lay listeningwhile their breakfast brought more talk from them. They were more atease now than was I, who had nothing to do but carry out my role ofslumber in the stall; they spoke in a friendly, ordinary way, as if thiswere like every other morning of the week to them. They addressed theprisoners with a sort of fraternal kindness, not bringing them pointedlyinto the conversation, nor yet pointedly leaving them out. I made outthat they must all be sitting round the breakfast together, those whohad to die and those who had to kill them. The Virginian I never heardspeak. But I heard the voice of Steve; he discussed with his captors thesundry points of his capture.

  "Do you remember a haystack?" he asked. "Away up the south fork of GrosVentre?"

  "That was Thursday afternoon," said one of the captors. "There was ashower."

  "Yes. It rained. We had you fooled that time. I was laying on the ledgeabove to report your movements."

  Several of them laughed. "We thought you were over on Spread Creekthen."

  "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 weresnug among the trees the other side of Snake River. That was anothertime we had you fooled."

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

  Steve continued: "Would we head for Idaho? Would we swing back over theDivide? You didn't know which! And when we generalled you on to thatband of horses you thought was the band you were hunting--ah, we were astrong combination!" He broke off with the first touch of bitterness Ihad felt in his words.

  "Nothing is any
stronger than its weakest point." It was the Virginianwho said this, and it was the first word he had spoken.

  "Naturally," said Steve. His tone in addressing the Virginian was sodifferent, so curt, that I supposed he took the weakest point tomean himself. But the others now showed me that I was wrong in thisexplanation.

  "That's so," one said. "Its weakest point is where a rope or a gang ofmen is going to break when the strain comes. And you was linked with apoor 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 herebecause one of us blundered." He cursed the blunderer. "Lighting hisfool fire queered the whole deal," he added. As he again heavily cursedthe blunderer, the others murmured to each other various I told youso's.

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

  "I said that when we spied the smoke," said another. "I said, 'That'snone of Steve's work, lighting fires and revealing to us theirwhereabouts.'"

  It struck me that they were plying Steve with compliments.

  "Pretty hard to have the fool get away and you get caught," a thirdsuggested. At this they seemed to wait. I felt something curious in allthis 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 reallyon you, Steve. You'd ought never to have cursed the fire-builder ifyou wanted us to believe he was present. But we'd not have done much toShorty, even if we had caught him. All he wants is to be scared good andhard, and he'll go back into virtuousness, which is his nature when nottravelling with Trampas."

  Steve's voice sounded hard now. "You have caught Ed and me. That shouldsatisfy you for one gather."

  "Well, we think different, Steve. Trampas escaping leaves this thingunfinished."

  "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 Shortyis loose, for he'll build another fire or do some other foolishness nexttime, and that's the time we'll get Trampas."

  Their talk drifted to other points, and I lay thinking of the skirmishthat had played beneath the surface of their banter. Yes, the joke, asthey 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 playingto hide names. They could only, among several likely confederates, guessTrampas and Shorty. So it had been a slip for him to curse the manwho built the fire. At least, they so held it. For, they with subtletyreasoned, one curses the absent. And I agreed with them that Ed did notknow how to lie well; he should have at once claimed the disgraceof having spoiled the expedition. If Shorty was the blunderer, thencertainly Trampas was the other man; for the two were as inseparable asdon and master. Trampas had enticed Shorty away from good, and trainedhim in evil. It now struck me that after his single remark the Virginianhad been silent throughout their shrewd discussion.

  It was the other prisoner that I heard them next address. "You don't eatany breakfast, Ed."

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

  But Ed, it seemed, wanted no breakfast. And the tin dishes rattled asthey 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 bodyturned cold in company with the prisoner's, and as if with a clank thesituation tightened throughout my senses.

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