Virginian (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (23 page)

But presently, “Hathaway!” said some one more clearly. “Portland 1291!”

This made no special stir in my intelligence, and I drowsed off again to the pleasant rhythm of the wheels. The little shock of stopping next brought me to, somewhat, with the voices still round me; and when we were again in motion, I heard: “Rosebud! Portland 1279!” These figures jarred me awake, and I said, “It was 1291 before,” and sat up in my blankets.

The greeting they vouchsafed and the sight of them clustering expressionless in the caboose brought last evening’s uncomfortable memory back to me. Our next stop revealed how things were going to-day.

“Forsythe,” one of them read on the station. “Portland 1266.”

They were counting the lessening distance westward. This was; the undercurrent of war. It broke on me as I procured fresh water at Forsythe and made some toilet in their stolid presence. We were drawing nearer the Rawhide station—the point, I mean, where you left the railway for the new mines. Now Rawhide station lay this side of Billings. The broad path of desertion would open ready for their feet when the narrow path to duty and Sunk Creek was still some fifty miles more to wait. Here was Trampas’s great strength; he need make no move meanwhile, but lie low for the immediate temptation to front and waylay them and win his battle over the deputy foreman. But the Virginian seemed to find nothing save enjoyment in this sunny September morning, and ate his breakfast at Forsythe serenely.

That meal done and that station gone, our caboose took up again its easy trundle by the banks of the Yellowstone. The mutineers sat for a while digesting in idleness.

“What’s your scar?” inquired one at length, inspecting casually the neck of his neighbor.

“Foolishness,” the other answered.

“Yourn?”

“Mine.”

“Well, I don’t know but I prefer to have myself to thank for a thing,” said the first.

“I was displaying myself,” continued the second. “One day last summer it was. We come on a big snake by Torrey Creek corral. The boys got betting pretty lively that I dassent make my word good as to dealing with him, so I loped my cayuse
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full tilt by Mr. Snake, and swung down and catched him up by the tail from the ground, and cracked him same as a whip, and snapped his head off. You’ve saw it done?” he said to the audience.

The audience nodded wearily.

“But the loose head flew agin me, and the fangs caught. I was pretty sick for a while.”

“It don’t pay to be clumsy,” said the first man.

“If you’d snapped the snake away from yu’ instead of toward yu’, its head would have whirled off into the brush, same as they do with me.”

“How like a knife-cut your scar looks!” said I.

“Don’t it?” said the snake-snapper. “There’s many that gets fooled by it.”

“An antelope knows a snake is his enemy,” said another to me. “Ever seen a buck circling round and round a rattler?”

“I have always wanted to see that,” said I, heartily. For this I knew to be a respectable piece of truth.

“It’s worth seeing,” the man went on. “After the buck gets close in, he gives an almighty jump up in the air, and down comes his four hoofs in a bunch right on top of Mr. Snake. Cuts him all to hash. Now you tell me how the buck knows that.”

Of course I could not tell him. And again we sat in silence for a while—friendlier silence, I thought.

“A skunk’ll kill yu’ worse than a snake bite,” said another, presently. “No, I don’t mean that way,” he added. For I had smiled. “There is a brown skunk down in Arkansaw. Kind of a prairie-dog brown. Littler than our variety, he is. And he is mad the whole year round, same as a dog gets. Only the dog has a spell and dies; but this here Arkansaw skunk is mad right along, and it don’t seem to interfere with his business in other respects. Well, suppose you’re camping out, and suppose it’s a hot night, or you’re in a hurry, and you’ve made camp late, or anyway you haven’t got inside any tent, but you have just bedded down in the open. Skunk comes travelling along and walks on your blankets. You’re warm. He likes that, same as a cat does. And he tramps with pleasure and comfort, same as a cat. And you move. You get bit, that’s all. And you die of hydrophobia. Ask anybody.”

“Most extraordinary!” said I. “But did you ever see a person die from this?”

“No, sir. Never happened to. My cousin at Bald Knob did.”

“Died?”

“No sir. Saw a man.”

“But how do you know they’re not sick skunks?”

“No, sir! They’re well skunks. Well as anything. You’ll not meet skunks in any state of the Union more robust than them in Arkansaw. And thick.”

“That’s awful true,” sighed another. “I have buried hundreds of dollars’ worth of clothes in Arkansaw.”

“Why didn’t yu’ travel in a sponge bag?” inquired Scipio. And this brought a slight silence.

“Speakin’ of bites,” spoke up a new man, “how’s that?” He held up his thumb.

“My!” breathed Scipio. “Must have been a lion.”

The man wore a wounded look. “I was huntin’ owl eggs for a botanist from Boston,” he explained to me.

“Chiropodist,
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weren’t he?” said Scipio. “Or maybe a sonnabulator?”
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“No, honest,” protested the man with the thumb, so that I was sorry for him, and begged him to go on.

“I’ll listen to you,” I assured him. And I wondered why this politeness of mine should throw one or two of them into stifled mirth. Scipio, on the other hand, gave me a disgusted look and sat back sullenly for a moment, and then took himself out on the platform, where the Virginian was lounging.

“The young feller wore knee-pants and ever so thick spectacles with a half-moon cut in ‘em,” resumed the narrator, “and he carried a tin box strung to a strap I took for his lunch till it flew open on him and a horn toad hustled out. Then I was sure he was a botanist—or whatever yu’ say they’re called. Well, he would have owl eggs—them little prairie-owl that some claim can turn their head clean around and keep a-watchin’ yu’, only that’s nonsense. We was ridin’ through that prairie-dog town, used to be on the flat just after yu’ crossed the south fork of Powder River on the Buffalo trail, and I said I’d dig an owl nest out for him if he was willin’ to camp till I’d dug it. I wanted to know about them owls some myself—if they did live with the dogs and snakes, yu’ know,” he broke off, appealing to me.

“Oh, yes,” I told him eagerly.

“So while the botanist went glarin’ around the town with his glasses to see if he could spot a prairie-dog and an owl usin’ the same hole, I was diggin’ in a hole I’d seen an owl run down. And that’s what I got.” He held up his thumb again.

“The snake!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Rattler was keepin’ house that day. Took me right there. I hauled him out of the hole hangin’ to me. Eight rattles.”

“Eight!” said I. “A big one.”

“Yes, sir. Thought I was dead. But the woman—”

“The woman?” said I.

“Yes, woman. Didn’t I tell yu’ the botanist had his wife along? Well, he did. And she acted better than the man, for he was losin’ his head, and shoutin’ he had no whiskey, and he didn’t guess his knife was sharp enough to amputate my thumb, and none of us chewed, and the doctor was twenty miles away, and if he had only remembered to bring his ammonia—well, he was screeching out ‘most everything he knew in the world and without arranging it any, neither. But she just clawed his pocket and burrowed and kep’ yelling ‘Give him the stone, Augustus!’ And she whipped out one of them Injun medicine-stones,—first one I ever seen,—and she clapped it on to my thumb, and it started in right away.”

“What did it do?” said I.

“Sucked. Like blotting-paper does. Soft and funny it was, and gray. They get ’em from elks’ stomachs, yu’ know. And when it had sucked the poison out of the wound, off it falls off my thumb by itself! And I thanked the woman for saving my life that capable and keeping her head that cool. I never knowed how excited she had been till afterward. She was awful shocked.”

“I suppose she started to talk when the danger was over,” said I, with deep silence around me.

“No; she didn’t say nothing to me. But when her next child was born, it had eight rattles.”

Din now rose wild in the caboose. They rocked together. The enthusiast beat his knee tumultuously. And I joined them. Who could help it? It had been so well conducted from the imperceptible beginning. Fact and falsehood blended with such perfect art. And this last, an effect so new made with such world-old material! I cared nothing that I was the victim, and I joined them; but ceased, feeling suddenly somehow estranged or chilled. It was in their laughter. The loudness was too loud. And I caught the eyes of Trampas fixed upon the Virginian with exultant malevolence. Scipio’s disgusted glance was upon me from the door.

Dazed by these signs, I went out on the platform to get away from the noise. There the Virginian said to me: “Cheer up! You’ll not be so easy for ’em that a-way next season.”

He said no more; and with his legs dangled over the railing, appeared to resume his newspaper.

“What’s the matter?” said I to Scipio.

“Oh, I don’t mind if he don‘t,” Scipio answered. “Couldn’t yu’ see? I tried to head ’em off from yu’ all I knew, but yu’ just ran in among ’em yourself. Couldn’t yu’ see? Kep’ hinderin’ and spoilin’ me with askin’ those urgent questions of yourn—why, I had to let yu’ go your way! Why, that wasn’t the ordinary play with the ordinary tenderfoot they treated you to! You ain’t a common tenderfoot this trip. You’re the foreman’s friend. They’ve hit him through you. That’s the way they count it. It’s made them encouraged. Can’t yu’ see?”

Scipio stated it plainly. And as we ran by the next station, “Howard!” they harshly yelled. “Portland 1256!”

We had been passing gangs of workmen on the track. And at that last yell the Virginian rose. “I reckon I’ll join the meeting again,” he said. “This filling and repairing looks like the washout might have been true.”

“Washout?” said Scipio.

“Big Horn bridge, they say—four days ago.”

“Then I wish it came this side Rawhide station.”

“Do yu’?” drawled the Virginian.

And smiling at Scipio, he lounged in through the open door.

“He beats me,” said Scipio, shaking his head. “His trail is turruble hard to anticipate.”

We listened.

“Work bein’ done on the road, I see,” the Virginian was saying, very friendly and conversational.

“We see it too,” said the voice of Trampas.

“Seem to be easin’ their grades some.”

“Roads do.”

“Cheaper to build ‘em the way they want ’em at the start, a man would think,” suggested the Virginian, most friendly. “There go some more I-talians.”

“They’re Chinese,” said Trampas.

“That’s so,” acknowledged the Virginian, with a laugh.

“What’s he monkeyin’ at now?” muttered Scipio.

“Without cheap foreigners they couldn’t afford all this hyeh new gradin’,” the Southerner continued.

“Grading! Can’t you tell when a flood’s been eating the banks?”

“Why, yes,” said the Virginian, sweet as honey. “But ain’t yu’ heard of the improvements west of Big Timber, all the way to Missoula, this season? I’m talkin’ about them.”

“Oh! Talking about them. Yes, I’ve heard.”

“Good money-savin’ scheme, ain’t it?” said the Virginian. “Lettin’ a freight run down one hill an’ up the next as far as she’ll go without steam, an’ shavin’ the hill down to that point.” Now this was an honest engineering fact. “Better’n settin’ dudes squintin’ through telescopes an’ cipherin’ over one per cent re-ductions,” the Southerner commented.

“It’s common sense,” assented Trampas. “Have you heard the new scheme about the water-tanks?”

“I ain’t right certain,” said the Southerner.

“I must watch this,” said Scipio, “or I shall bust.” He went in, and so did I.

They were all sitting over this discussion of the Northern Pacific’s recent policy as to betterments, as though they were the board of directors. Pins could have dropped. Only nobody would have cared to hear a pin.

“They used to put all their tanks at the bottom of their grades,” said Trampas.

“Why, yu’ get the water easier at the bottom.”

“You can pump it to the top, though,” said Trampas, growing superior. “And it’s cheaper.”

“That gets me,” said the Virginian, interested.

“Trains after watering can start down hill now and get the benefit of the gravity. It’ll cut down operating expenses a heap.”

“That’s cert’nly common sense!” exclaimed the Virginian, absorbed. “But ain’t it kind o’ tardy?”

“Live and learn. So they gained speed, too. High speed on half the coal this season, until the accident.”

“Accident!” said the Virginian, instantly.

“Yellowstone Limited. Man fired at engine-driver. Train was flying past that quick the bullet broke every window and killed a passenger on the back platform. You’ve been running too much with aristocrats,” finished Trampas, and turned on his heel.

“Haw, haw!” began the enthusiast, but his neighbor gripped him to silence. This was a triumph too serious for noise. Not a mutineer moved; and I felt cold.

“Trampas,” said the Virginian, “I thought yu’d be afeared to try it on me.”

Trampas whirled round. His hand was at his belt. “Afraid!” he sneered.

“Shorty!” said Scipio, sternly, and leaping upon that youth, took his half-drawn pistol from him.

“I’m obliged to yu’,” said the Virginian to Scipio.

Trampas’s hand left his belt. He threw a slight, easy look at his men, and keeping his back to the Virginian, walked out on the platform and sat on the chair where the Virginian had sat so much.

“Don’t you comprehend,” said the Virginian to Shorty, amiably, “that this hyeh question has been discussed peaceable by civilized citizens? Now you sit down and be good, and Mr. Le Moyne will return your gun when we’re across that broken bridge, if they have got it fixed for heavy trains yet.”