Virginian (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (8 page)

The Virginian did not seem interested. He placidly attended to his food, while our landlady moved between dining room and kitchen, and the drummer expanded.

“Yes, sir! Ikey’s over by the stock-yards, patronized by all cattlemen that know what’s what. That’s where. Maybe it’s three years. Time never was nothing to me. But faces! Why, I can’t quit ‘em. Adults or children, male or female; onced I seen ’em I couldn’t lose one off my memory, not if you were to pay me bounty, five dollars a face. White men, that is. Can’t do nothing with niggers or Chinese. But you’re white, all right.” The drummer suddenly returned to the Virginian with this high compliment. The cow-puncher had taken out a pipe, and was slowly rubbing it. The compliment seemed to escape his attention, and the drummer went on.

“I can tell a man when he’s white, put him at Ikey’s or out loose here in the sage-brush.” And he rolled a cigar across to the Virginian’s plate.

“Selling them?” inquired the Virginian.

“Solid goods, my friend. Havana wrappers,
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the biggest tobacco proposition for five cents got out yet. Take it, try it, light it, watch it burn. Here.” And he held out a bunch of matches.

The Virginian tossed a five-cent piece over to him.

“Oh, no, my friend! Not from you! Not after Ikey’s. I don’t forget you. See? I knowed your face right away. See? That’s straight. I seen you at Chicago all right.”

“Maybe you did,” said the Virginian. “Sometimes I’m mighty careless what I look at.”

“Well, py damn!” now exclaimed the Dutch drummer hilariously. “I am ploom disappointed. I vas hoping to sell him somedings myself.”

“Not the same here,” stated the American. “He’s too healthy for me. I gave him up on sight.”

Now it was the American drummer whose bed the Virginian had in his eye. This was a sensible man, and had talked less than his brothers in the trade. I had little doubt who would end by sleeping in his bed; but how the thing would be done interested me more deeply than ever.

The Virginian looked amiably at his intended victim, and made one or two remarks regarding patent medicines. There must be a good deal of money in them, he supposed, with a live man to manage them. The victim was flattered. No other person at the table had been favored with so much of the tall cow-puncher’s notice. He responded, and they had a pleasant talk. I did not divine that the Virginian’s genius was even then at work, and that all this was part of his satanic strategy. But Steve must have divined it. For while a few of us still sat finishing our supper, that facetious horseman returned from doctoring his horse’s hoofs, put his head into the dining room, took in the way in which the Virginian was engaging his victim in conversation, remarked aloud, “I’ve lost!” and closed the door again.

“What’s he lost?” inquired the American drummer.

“Oh, you mustn’t mind him,” drawled the Virginian. “He’s one of those box-head jokers goes around openin’ and shuttin’ doors that-a-way. We call him harmless. Well,” he broke off, “I reckon I’ll go smoke. Not allowed in hyeh?” This last he addressed to the landlady, with especial gentleness. She shook her head, and her eyes followed him as he went out.

Left to myself I meditated for some time upon my lodging for the night, and smoked a cigar for consolation as I walked about. It was not a hotel that we had supped in. Hotel at Medicine Bow there appeared to be none. But connected with the eating-house was that place where, according to Steve, the beds were all taken, and there I went to see for myself. Steve had spoken the truth. It was a single apartment containing four or five beds, and nothing else whatever. And when I looked at these beds, my sorrow that I could sleep in none of them grew less. To be alone in one offered no temptation, and as for this courtesy of the country, this doubling up—!

“Well, they have got ahead of us.” This was the Virginian standing at my elbow.

I assented.

“They have staked out their claims,” he added.

In this public sleeping room they had done what one does to secure a seat in a railroad train. Upon each bed, as notice of occupancy, lay some article of travel or of dress. As we stood there, the two Jews came in and opened and arranged their valises, and folded and refolded their linen dusters. Then a railroad employee entered and began to go to bed at this hour, before dusk had wholly darkened into night. For him, going to bed meant removing his boots and placing his overalls and waistcoat beneath his pillow. He had no coat. His work began at three in the morning; and even as we still talked he began to snore.

“The man that keeps the store is a friend of mine,” said the Virginian; “and you can be pretty near comfortable on his counter. Got any blankets?”

I had no blankets.

“Looking for a bed?” inquired the American drummer, now arriving.

“Yes, he’s looking for a bed,” answered the voice of Steve behind him.

“Seems a waste of time,” observed the Virginian. He looked thoughtfully from one bed to another. “I didn’t know I’d have to lay over here. Well, I have sat up before.”

“This one’s mine,” said the drummer, sitting down on it. “Half’s plenty enough room for me.”

“You’re cert‘nly mighty kind,” said the cow-puncher. “But I’d not think o’ disconveniencing yu’.”

“That’s nothing. The other half is yours. Turn in right now if you feel like it.”

“No. I don’t reckon I’ll turn in right now. Better keep your bed to yourself.”

“See here,” urged the drummer, “if I take you I’m safe from drawing some party I might not care so much about. This here sleeping proposition is a lottery.”

“Well,” said the Virginian (and his hesitation was truly masterly), “if you put it that way—”

“I do put it that way. Why, you’re clean! You’ve had a shave right now. You turn in when you feel inclined, old man! I ain’t retiring just yet.”

The drummer had struck a slightly false note in these last remarks. He should not have said “old man.” Until this I had thought him merely an amiable person who wished to do a favor. But “old man” came in wrong. It had a hateful taint of his profession; the being too soon with everybody, the celluloid good-fellowship that passes for ivory with nine in ten of the city crowd. But not so with the sons of the sagebrush. They live nearer nature, and they know better.

But the Virginian blandly accepted “old man” from his victim; he had a game to play.

“Well, I cert‘nly thank yu’,” he said. “After a while I’ll take advantage of your kind offer.”

I was surprised. Possession being nine points of the law, it seemed his very chance to intrench himself in the bed. But the cow-puncher had planned a campaign needing no intrenchments. Moreover, going to bed before nine o’clock upon the first evening in many weeks when a town’s resources were open to you, would be a dull proceeding. Our entire company, drummer and all, now walked over to the store, and here my sleeping arrangements were made easily. This store was the cleanest place and the best in Medicine Bow, and would have been a good store anywhere, offering a multitude of things for sale, and kept by a very civil proprietor. He bade me make myself at home, and placed both of his counters at my disposal. Upon the grocery side there stood a cheese too large and strong to sleep near comfortably, and I therefore chose the dry-goods side. Here thick quilts were unrolled for me, to make it soft; and no condition was placed upon me, further than that I should remove my boots, because the quilts were new, and clean, and for sale. So now my rest was assured, not an anxiety remained in my thoughts. These therefore turned themselves wholly to the other man’s bed, and how he was going to lose it.

I think that Steve was more curious even than myself. Time was on the wing. His bet must be decided and the drinks enjoyed. He stood against the grocery counter, contemplating the Virginian. But it was to me that he spoke. The Virginian, however, listened to every word.

“Your first visit to this country?”

I told him yes.

“How do you like it?”

I expected to like it very much.

“How does the climate strike you?”

I thought the climate was fine.

“Makes a man thirsty, though.”

This was the sub-current which the Virginian plainly looked for. But he, like Steve, addressed himself to me.

“Yes,” he put in, “thirsty while a man’s soft yet. You’ll harden.”

“I guess you’ll find it a drier country than you were given to expect,” said Steve.

“If your habits have been frequent that way,” said the Virginian.

“There’s parts of Wyoming,” pursued Steve, “where you’ll go hours and hours before you’ll see a drop of wetness.”

“And if yu’ keep a-thinkin’ about it,” said the Virginian, “it’ll seem like days and days.”

Steve, at this stroke, gave up, and clapped him on the shoulder with a joyous chuckle. “You old son-of-a—!” he cried affectionately.

“Drinks are due now,” said the Virginian. “My treat, Steve. But I reckon your suspense will have to linger awhile yet.”

Thus they dropped into direct talk from that speech of the fourth dimension where they had been using me for their telephone.

“Any cyards going to-night?” inquired the Virginian.

“Stud and draw,” Steve told him. “Strangers playing.”

“I think I’d like to get into a game for a while,” said the Southerner. “Strangers, yu’ say?”

And then, before quitting the store, he made his toilet for this little hand at poker. It was a simple preparation. He took his pistol from its holster, examined it, then shoved it between his overalls and his shirt in front, and pulled his waistcoat over it. He might have been combing his hair for all the attention any one paid to this, except myself. Then the two friends went out, and I bethought me of that epithet which Steve again had used to the Virginian as he clapped him on the shoulder. Clearly this wild country spoke a language other than mine—the word here was a term of endearment. Such was my conclusion.

The drummers had finished their dealings with the proprietor, and they were gossiping together in a knot by the door as the Virginian passed out.

“See you later, old man!” This was the American drummer accosting his prospective bed-fellow.

“Oh, yes,” returned the bed-fellow, and was gone.

The American drummer winked triumphantly at his brethren.

“He’s all right,” he observed, jerking a thumb after the Virginian.

“He’s easy. You got to know him to work him. That’s all.”

“Und vat is your point?” inquired the German drummer.

“Point is—he’ll not take any goods off you or me; but he’s going to talk up the Killer to any consumptive he runs acrost. I ain’t done with him yet. Say,” (he now addressed the proprietor), “what’s her name?”

“Whose name?”

“Woman runs the eating-house.”

“Glen. Mrs. Glen.”

“Ain’t she new?”

“Been settled here about a month. Husband’s a freight conductor.”

“Thought I’d not seen her before. She’s goodlooker.”

“Hm! Yes. The kind of good looks I’d sooner see in another man’s wife than mine.”

“So that’s the gait, is it?”

“Hm! well, it don’t seem to be. She come here with that reputation. But there’s been general disappointment.”

“Then she ain’t lacked suitors any?”

“Lacked! Are you acquainted with cow-boys?”

“And she disappointed ‘em? Maybe she likes her husband?”

“Hm! well, how are you to tell about them silent kind?”

“Talking of conductors,” began the drummer. And we listened to his anecdote. It was successful with his audience; but when he launched fluently upon a second I strolled out. There was not enough wit in this narrator to relieve his indecency, and I felt shame at having been surprised into laughing with him.

I left that company growing confidential over their leering stories, and I sought the saloon. It was very quiet and orderly. Beer in quart bottles at a dollar I had never met before; but saving its price, I found no complaint to make of it. Through folding doors I passed from the bar proper with its bottles and elk head back to the hall with its various tables. I saw a man sliding cards from a case, and across the table from him another man laying counters down. Near by was a second dealer pulling cards from the bottom of a pack, and opposite him a solemn old rustic piling and changing coins upon the cards which lay already exposed.

But now I heard a voice that drew my eyes to the far corner of the room.

“Why didn’t you stay in Arizona?”

Harmless looking words as I write them down here. Yet at the sound of them I noticed the eyes of the others directed to that corner. What answer was given to them I did not hear, nor did I see who spoke. Then came another remark.

“Well, Arizona’s no place for amatures.”

This time the two card dealers that I stood near began to give a part of their attention to the group that sat in the corner. There was in me a desire to leave this room. So far my hours at Medicine Bow had seemed to glide beneath a sunshine of merriment, of easy-going jocularity. This was suddenly gone, like the wind changing to north in the middle of a warm day. But I stayed, being ashamed to go.

Five or six players sat over in the corner at a round table where counters were piled. Their eyes were close upon their cards, and one seemed to be dealing a card at a time to each, with pauses and betting between. Steve was there and the Virginian; the others were new faces.

“No place for amatures,” repeated the voice; and now I saw that it was the dealer’s. There was in his countenance the same ugliness that his words conveyed.

“Who’s that talkin’?” said one of the men near me, in a low voice.

“Trampas.”

“What’s he?”

“Cow-puncher, bronco-buster, tin-horn,
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most anything.”

“Who’s he talkin’ at?”

“Think it’s the black-headed guy he’s talking at.”