Part 10

“If that girl don’t get ready to take him pretty soon,” she observed to her husband, “I’ll give her a piece of my mind.”

Taylor was astonished. “Is he thinking of her?” he inquired.

“Lord, Mr. Taylor, and why shouldn’t he?”

Mr. Taylor scratched his head and returned to his newspaper.

It was warm--warm and beautiful upon Bear Creek. Snow shone upon the peaks of the Bow Leg range; lower on their slopes the pines were stirring with a gentle song; and flowers bloomed across the wide plains at their feet.

Molly and her Virginian sat at a certain spring where he had often ridden with her. On this day he was bidding her farewell before undertaking the most important trust which Judge Henry had as yet given him. For this journey she had provided him with Sir Walter Scott’s Kenilworth. Shakespeare he had returned to her. He had bought Shakespeare for himself. “As soon as I got used to readin’ it,” he had told her, “I knowed for certain that I liked readin’ for enjoyment.”

But it was not of books that he had spoken much to-day. He had not spoken at all. He had bade her listen to the meadow-lark, when its song fell upon the silence like beaded drops of music. He had showed her where a covey of young willow-grouse were hiding as their horses passed. And then, without warning, as they sat by the spring, he had spoken potently of his love.

She did not interrupt him. She waited until he was wholly finished.

“I am not the sort of wife you want,” she said, with an attempt of airiness.

He answered roughly, “I am the judge of that.” And his roughness was a pleasure to her, yet it made her afraid of herself. When he was absent from her, and she could sit in her cabin and look at Grandmother Stark, and read home letters, then in imagination she found it easy to play the part which she had arranged to play regarding him--the part of the guide, and superior, and indulgent companion. But when he was by her side, that part became a difficult one. Her woman’s fortress was shaken by a force unknown to her before. Sam Bannett did not have it in him to look as this man could look, when the cold lustre of his eyes grew hot with internal fire. What color they were baffled her still. “Can it possibly change?” she wondered. It seemed to her that sometimes when she had been looking from a rock straight down into clear sea water, this same color had lurked in its depths. “Is it green, or is it gray?” she asked herself, but did not turn just now to see. She kept her face toward the landscape.

“All men are born equal,” he now remarked slowly.

“Yes,” she quickly answered, with a combative flash. “Well?”

“Maybe that don’t include women?” he suggested.

“I think it does.”

“Do yu’ tell the kids so?”

“Of course I teach them what I believe!”

He pondered. “I used to have to learn about the Declaration of Independence. I hated books and truck when I was a kid.”

“But you don’t any more.”

“No. I cert’nly don’t. But I used to get kep’ in at recess for bein’ so dumb. I was most always at the tail end of the class. My brother, he’d be head sometimes.”

“Little George Taylor is my prize scholar,” said Molly.

“Knows his tasks, does he?”

“Always. And Henry Dow comes next.”

“Who’s last?”

“Poor Bob Carmody. I spend more time on him than on all the rest put together.”

“My!” said the Virginian. “Ain’t that strange!”

She looked at him, puzzled by his tone. “It’s not strange when you know Bob,” she said.

“It’s very strange,” drawled the Virginian. “Knowin’ Bob don’t help it any.”

“I don’t think that I understand you,” said Molly, sticky.

“Well, it is mighty confusin’. George Taylor, he’s your best scholar, and poor Bob, he’s your worst, and there’s a lot in the middle--and you tell me we’re all born equal!”

Molly could only sit giggling in this trap he had so ingeniously laid for her.

“I’ll tell you what,” pursued the cow-puncher, with slow and growing intensity, “equality is a great big bluff. It’s easy called.”

“I didn’t mean--” began Molly.

“Wait, and let me say what I mean.” He had made an imperious gesture with his hand. “I know a man that mostly wins at cyards. I know a man that mostly loses. He says it is his luck. All right. Call it his luck. I know a man that works hard and he’s gettin’ rich, and I know another that works hard and is gettin’ poor. He says it is his luck. All right. Call it his luck. I look around and I see folks movin’ up or movin’ down, winners or losers everywhere. All luck, of course. But since folks can be born that different in their luck, where’s your equality? No, seh! call your failure luck, or call it laziness, wander around the words, prospect all yu’ mind to, and yu’ll come out the same old trail of inequality.” He paused a moment and looked at her. “Some holds four aces,” he went on, “and some holds nothin’, and some poor fello’ gets the aces and no show to play ’em; but a man has got to prove himself my equal before I’ll believe him.”

Molly sat gazing at him, silent.

“I know what yu’ meant,” he told her now, “by sayin’ you’re not the wife I’d want. But I am the kind that moves up. I am goin’ to be your best scholar.” He turned toward her, and that fortress within her began to shake.

“Don’t,” she murmured. “Don’t, please.”

“Don’t what?”

“Why--spoil this.”

“Spoil it?”

“These rides--I don’t love you--I can’t--but these rides are--”

“What are they?”

“My greatest pleasure. There! And, please, I want them to go on so.”

“Go on so! I don’t reckon yu’ know what you’re sayin’. Yu’ might as well ask fruit to stay green. If the way we are now can keep bein’ enough for you, it can’t for me. A pleasure to you, is it? Well, to me it is--I don’t know what to call it. I come to yu’ and I hate it, and I come again and I hate it, and I ache and grieve all over when I go. No! You will have to think of some other way than just invitin’ me to keep green.”

“If I am to see you--” began the girl.

“You’re not to see me. Not like this. I can stay away easier than what I am doin’.”

“Will you do me a favor, a great one?” said she, now.

“Make it as impossible as you please!” he cried. He thought it was to be some action.

“Go on coming. But don’t talk to me about--don’t talk in that way--if you can help it.”

He laughed out, not permitting himself to swear.

“But,” she continued, “if you can’t help talking that way--sometimes--I promise I will listen. That is the only promise I make.”

“That is a bargain,” he said.

Then he helped her mount her horse, restraining himself like a Spartan, and they rode home to her cabin.

“You have made it pretty near impossible,” he said, as he took his leave. “But you’ve been square to-day, and I’ll show you I can be square when I come back. I’ll not do more than ask you if your mind’s the same. And now I’ll not see you for quite a while. I am going a long way. But I’ll be very busy. And bein’ busy always keeps me from grievin’ too much about you.”

Strange is woman! She would rather have heard some other last remark than this.

“Oh, very well!” she said. “I’ll not miss you either.”

He smiled at her. “I doubt if yu’ can help missin’ me,” he remarked. And he was gone at once, galloping on his Monte horse.

Which of the two won a victory this day?

XIII. THE GAME AND THE NATION--ACT FIRST

There can be no doubt of this: All America is divided into two classes,--the quality and the equality.

The latter will always recognize the former when mistaken for it. Both will be with us until our women bear nothing but kings.

It was through the Declaration of Independence that we Americans acknowledged the ETERNAL INEQUALITY of man. For by it we abolished a cut-and-dried aristocracy. We had seen little men artificially held up in high places, and great men artificially held down in low places, and our own justice-loving hearts abhorred this violence to human nature. Therefore, we decreed that every man should thenceforth have equal liberty to find his own level. By this very decree we acknowledged and gave freedom to true aristocracy, saying, “Let the best man win, whoever he is.” Let the best man win! That is America’s word. That is true democracy. And true democracy and true aristocracy are one and the same thing. If anybody cannot see this, so much the worse for his eyesight.

The above reflections occurred to me before reaching Billings, Montana, some three weeks after I had unexpectedly met the Virginian at Omaha, Nebraska. I had not known of that trust given to him by Judge Henry, which was taking him East. I was looking to ride with him before long among the clean hills of Sunk Creek. I supposed he was there. But I came upon him one morning in Colonel Cyrus Jones’s eating palace.

Did you know the palace? It stood in Omaha, near the trains, and it was ten years old (which is middle-aged in Omaha) when I first saw it. It was a shell of wood, painted with golden emblems,--the steamboat, the eagle, the Yosemite,--and a live bear ate gratuities at its entrance. Weather permitting, it opened upon the world as a stage upon the audience. You sat in Omaha’s whole sight and dined, while Omaha’s dust came and settled upon the refreshments. It is gone the way of the Indian and the buffalo, for the West is growing old. You should have seen the palace and sat there. In front of you passed rainbows of men,--Chinese, Indian chiefs, Africans, General Miles, younger sons, Austrian nobility, wide females in pink. Our continent drained prismatically through Omaha once.

So I was passing that way also, walking for the sake of ventilation from a sleeping-car toward a bath, when the language of Colonel Cyrus Jones came out to me. The actual colonel I had never seen before. He stood at the rear of his palace in gray flowery mustaches and a Confederate uniform, telling the wishes of his guests to the cook through a hole. You always bought meal tickets at once, else you became unwelcome. Guests here had foibles at times, and a rapid exit was too easy. Therefore I bought a ticket. It was spring and summer since I had heard anything like the colonel. The Missouri had not yet flowed into New York dialect freely, and his vocabulary met me like the breeze of the plains. So I went in to be fanned by it, and there sat the Virginian at a table, alone.

His greeting was up to the code of indifference proper on the plains; but he presently remarked, “I’m right glad to see somebody,” which was a good deal to say. “Them that comes hyeh,” he observed next, “don’t eat. They feed.” And he considered the guests with a sombre attention. “D’ yu’ reckon they find joyful digestion in this swallo’-an’-get-out trough?”

“What are you doing here, then?” said I.

“Oh, pshaw! When yu’ can’t have what you choose, yu’ just choose what you have.” And he took the bill-of-fare. I began to know that he had something on his mind, so I did not trouble him further.

Meanwhile he sat studying the bill-of-fare.

“Ever heard o’ them?” he inquired, shoving me the spotted document.

Most improbable dishes were there,--salmis, canapes, supremes,--all perfectly spelt and absolutely transparent. It was the old trick of copying some metropolitan menu to catch travellers of the third and last dimension of innocence; and whenever this is done the food is of the third and last dimension of awfulness, which the cow-puncher knew as well as anybody.

“So they keep that up here still,” I said.

“But what about them?” he repeated. His finger was at a special item, FROGS’ LEGS A LA DELMONICO. “Are they true anywheres?” he asked. And I told him, certainly. I also explained to him about Delmonico of New York and about Augustin of Philadelphia.

“There’s not a little bit o’ use in lyin’ to me this mawnin’,” he said, with his engaging smile. “I ain’t goin’ to awdeh anything’s laigs.”

“Well, I’ll see how he gets out of it,” I said, remembering the odd Texas legend. (The traveller read the bill-of-fare, you know, and called for a vol-au-vent. And the proprietor looked at the traveller, and running a pistol into his ear, observed, “You’ll take hash.”) I was thinking of this and wondering what would happen to me. So I took the step.

“Wants frogs’ legs, does he?” shouted Colonel Cyrus Jones. He fixed his eye upon me, and it narrowed to a slit. “Too many brain workers breakfasting before yu’ came in, professor,” said he. “Missionary ate the last leg off me just now. Brown the wheat!” he commanded, through the hole to the cook, for some one had ordered hot cakes.

“I’ll have fried aiggs,” said the Virginian. “Cooked both sides.”

“White wings!” sang the colonel through the hole. “Let ’em fly up and down.”

“Coffee an’ no milk,” said the Virginian.

“Draw one in the dark!” the colonel roared.

“And beefsteak, rare.”

“One slaughter in the pan, and let the blood drip!”

“I should like a glass of water, please,” said I. The colonel threw me a look of pity.

“One Missouri and ice for the professor!” he said.

“That fello’s a right live man,” commented the Virginian. But he seemed thoughtful. Presently he inquired, “Yu’ say he was a foreigner, an’ learned fancy cookin’ to New Yawk?”

That was this cow-puncher’s way. Scarcely ever would he let drop a thing new to him until he had got from you your whole information about it. So I told him the history of Lorenzo Delmonico and his pioneer work, as much as I knew, and the Southerner listened intently.

“Mighty inter-estin’,” he said--“mighty. He could just take little old o’rn’ry frawgs, and dandy ’em up to suit the bloods. Mighty inter-estin’. I expaict, though, his cookin’ would give an outraiged stomach to a plain-raised man.”

“If you want to follow it up,” said I, by way of a sudden experiment, “Miss Molly Wood might have some book about French dishes.”

But the Virginian did not turn a hair. “I reckon she wouldn’t,” he answered. “She was raised in Vermont. They don’t bother overly about their eatin’ up in Vermont. Hyeh’s what Miss Wood recommended the las’ time I was seein’ her,” the cow-puncher added, bringing Kenilworth from his pocket. “Right fine story. That Queen Elizabeth must have cert’nly been a competent woman.”

“She was,” said I. But talk came to an end here. A dusty crew, most evidently from the plains, now entered and drifted to a table; and each man of them gave the Virginian about a quarter of a slouchy nod. His greeting to them was very serene. Only, Kenilworth went back into his pocket, and he breakfasted in silence. Among those who had greeted him I now recognized a face.

“Why, that’s the man you played cards with at Medicine Bow!” I said.

“Yes. Trampas. He’s got a job at the ranch now.” The Virginian said no more, but went on with his breakfast.

His appearance was changed. Aged I would scarcely say, for this would seem as if he did not look young. But I think that the boy was altogether gone from his face--the boy whose freak with Steve had turned Medicine Bow upside down, whose other freak with the babies had outraged Bear Creek, the boy who had loved to jingle his spurs. But manhood had only trained, not broken, his youth. It was all there, only obedient to the rein and curb.

Presently we went together to the railway yard.

“The Judge is doing a right smart o’ business this year,” he began, very casually indeed, so that I knew this was important. Besides bells and coal smoke, the smell and crowded sounds of cattle rose in the air around us. “Hyeh’s our first gather o’ beeves on the ranch,” continued the Virginian. “The whole lot’s shipped through to Chicago in two sections over the Burlington. The Judge is fighting the Elkhorn road.” We passed slowly along the two trains,--twenty cars, each car packed with huddled, round-eyed, gazing steers. He examined to see if any animals were down. “They ain’t ate or drank anything to speak of,” he said, while the terrified brutes stared at us through their slats. “Not since they struck the railroad they’ve not drank. Yu’ might suppose they know somehow what they’re travellin’ to Chicago for.” And casually, always casually, he told me the rest. Judge Henry could not spare his foreman away from the second gather of beeves. Therefore these two ten-car trains with their double crew of cow-boys had been given to the Virginian’s charge. After Chicago, he was to return by St. Paul over the Northern Pacific; for the Judge had wished him to see certain of the road’s directors and explain to them persuasively how good a thing it would be for them to allow especially cheap rates to the Sunk Creek outfit henceforth. This was all the Virginian told me; and it contained the whole matter, to be sure.

“So you’re acting foreman,” said I.

“Why, somebody has to have the say, I reckon.”

“And of course you hated the promotion?”

“I don’t know about promotion,” he replied. “The boys have been used to seein’ me one of themselves. Why don’t you come along with us far as Plattsmouth?” Thus he shifted the subject from himself, and called to my notice the locomotives backing up to his cars, and reminded me that from Plattsmouth I had the choice of two trains returning. But he could not hide or belittle this confidence of his employer in him. It was the care of several thousand perishable dollars and the control of men. It was a compliment. There were more steers than men to be responsible for; but none of the steers had been suddenly picked from the herd and set above his fellows. Moreover, Chicago finished up the steers; but the new-made deputy foreman had then to lead his six highly unoccupied brethren away from towns, and back in peace to the ranch, or disappoint the Judge, who needed their services. These things sometimes go wrong in a land where they say you are all born equal; and that quarter of a nod in Colonel Cyrus Jones’s eating palace held more equality than any whole nod you could see. But the Virginian did not see it, there being a time for all things.

We trundled down the flopping, heavy-eddied Missouri to Plattsmouth, and there they backed us on to a siding, the Christian Endeavor being expected to pass that way. And while the equality absorbed themselves in a deep but harmless game of poker by the side of the railway line, the Virginian and I sat on the top of a car, contemplating the sandy shallows of the Platte.

“I should think you’d take a hand,” said I.

“Poker? With them kittens?” One flash of the inner man lightened in his eyes and died away, and he finished with his gentle drawl, “When I play, I want it to be interestin’.” He took out Sir Walter’s Kenilworth once more, and turned the volume over and over slowly, without opening it. You cannot tell if in spirit he wandered on Bear Creek with the girl whose book it was. The spirit will go one road, and the thought another, and the body its own way sometimes. “Queen Elizabeth would have played a mighty pow’ful game,” was his next remark.

“Poker?” said I.

“Yes, seh. Do you expaict Europe has got any queen equal to her at present?”

I doubted it.

“Victoria’d get pretty nigh slain sliding chips out agaynst Elizabeth. Only mos’ prob’ly Victoria she’d insist on a half-cent limit. You have read this hyeh Kenilworth? Well, deal Elizabeth ace high, an’ she could scare Robert Dudley with a full house plumb out o’ the bettin’.”

I said that I believed she unquestionably could.

“And,” said the Virginian, “if Essex’s play got next her too near, I reckon she’d have stacked the cyards. Say, d’ yu’ remember Shakespeare’s fat man?”

“Falstaff? Oh, yes, indeed.”

“Ain’t that grand? Why, he makes men talk the way they do in life. I reckon he couldn’t get printed to-day. It’s a right down shame Shakespeare couldn’t know about poker. He’d have had Falstaff playing all day at that Tearsheet outfit. And the Prince would have beat him.”

“The Prince had the brains,” said I.

“Brains?”

“Well, didn’t he?”

“I neveh thought to notice. Like as not he did.”

“And Falstaff didn’t, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, seh! Falstaff could have played whist.”

“I suppose you know what you’re talking about; I don’t,” said I, for he was drawling again.

The cow-puncher’s eye rested a moment amiably upon me. “You can play whist with your brains,” he mused,--“brains and cyards. Now cyards are only one o’ the manifestations of poker in this hyeh world. One o’ the shapes yu fool with it in when the day’s work is oveh. If a man is built like that Prince boy was built (and it’s away down deep beyond brains), he’ll play winnin’ poker with whatever hand he’s holdin’ when the trouble begins. Maybe it will be a mean, triflin’ army, or an empty six-shooter, or a lame hawss, or maybe just nothin’ but his natural countenance. ’Most any old thing will do for a fello’ like that Prince boy to play poker with.”

“Then I’d be grateful for your definition of poker,” said I.

Again the Virginian looked me over amiably. “You put up a mighty pretty game o’ whist yourself,” he remarked. “Don’t that give you the contented spirit?” And before I had any reply to this, the Christian Endeavor began to come over the bridge. Three instalments crossed the Missouri from Pacific Junction, bound for Pike’s Peak, every car swathed in bright bunting, and at each window a Christian with a handkerchief, joyously shrieking. Then the cattle trains got the open signal, and I jumped off. “Tell the Judge the steers was all right this far,” said the Virginian.

That was the last of the deputy foreman for a while.

XIV. BETWEEN THE ACTS

My road to Sunk Creek lay in no straight line. By rail I diverged northwest to Fort Meade, and thence, after some stay with the kind military people, I made my way on a horse. Up here in the Black Hills it sluiced rain most intolerably. The horse and I enjoyed the country and ourselves but little; and when finally I changed from the saddle into a stagecoach, I caught a thankful expression upon the animal’s face, and returned the same.