The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains
The Virginian set down my valise, and seemed to meditate. “I did want a
bed to-night,” he murmured gently.
“Well,” Steve suggested, “the American looks like he washed the
oftenest.”
“That’s of no consequence to me,” observed the Southerner.
“Guess it’ll be when yu’ see ’em.”
“Oh, I’m meaning something different. I wanted a bed to myself.”
“Then you’ll have to build one.”
“Bet yu’ I have the Dutchman’s.”
“Take a man that won’t scare. Bet yu’ drinks yu’ can’t have the
American’s.”
“Go yu’” said the Virginian. “I’ll have his bed without any fuss. Drinks
for the crowd.”
“I suppose you have me beat,” said Steve, grinning at him
affectionately. “You’re such a son-of-a---- when you get down to work.
Well, so long! I got to fix my horse’s hoofs.”
I had expected that the man would be struck down. He had used to the
Virginian a term of heaviest insult, I thought. I had marvelled to hear
it come so unheralded from Steve’s friendly lips. And now I marvelled
still more. Evidently he had meant no harm by it, and evidently
no offence had been taken. Used thus, this language was plainly
complimentary. I had stepped into a world new to me indeed, and
novelties were occurring with scarce any time to get breath between
them. As to where I should sleep, I had forgotten that problem
altogether in my curiosity. What was the Virginian going to do now? I
began to know that the quiet of this man was volcanic.
“Will you wash first, sir?”
We were at the door of the eating-house, and he set my valise inside.
In my tenderfoot innocence I was looking indoors for the washing
arrangements.
“It’s out hyeh, seh,” he informed me gravely, but with strong Southern
accent. Internal mirth seemed often to heighten the local flavor of his
speech. There were other times when it had scarce any special accent or
fault in grammar.
A trough was to my right, slippery with soapy water; and hanging from
a roller above one end of it was a rag of discouraging appearance. The
Virginian caught it, and it performed one whirling revolution on its
roller. Not a dry or clean inch could be found on it. He took off his
hat, and put his head in the door.
“Your towel, ma’am,” said he, “has been too popular.”
She came out, a pretty woman. Her eyes rested upon him for a moment,
then upon me with disfavor; then they returned to his black hair.
“The allowance is one a day,” said she, very quietly. “But when folks
are particular--” She completed her sentence by removing the old towel
and giving a clean one to us.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said the cow-puncher.
She looked once more at his black hair, and without any word returned to
her guests at supper.
A pail stood in the trough, almost empty; and this he filled for me from
a well. There was some soap sliding at large in the trough, but I got my
own. And then in a tin basin I removed as many of the stains of travel
as I was able. It was not much of a toilet that I made in this first
wash-trough of my experience, but it had to suffice, and I took my seat
at supper.
Canned stuff it was,--corned beef. And one of my table companions said
the truth about it. “When I slung my teeth over that,” he remarked, “I
thought I was chewing a hammock.” We had strange coffee, and condensed
milk; and I have never seen more flies. I made no attempt to talk,
for no one in this country seemed favorable to me. By reason of
something,--my clothes, my hat, my pronunciation, whatever it might be,
I possessed the secret of estranging people at sight. Yet I was doing
better than I knew; my strict silence and attention to the corned beef
made me in the eyes of the cow-boys at table compare well with the
over-talkative commercial travellers.
The Virginian’s entrance produced a slight silence. He had done wonders
with the wash-trough, and he had somehow brushed his clothes. With all
the roughness of his dress, he was now the neatest of us. He nodded to
some of the other cow-boys, and began his meal in quiet.
But silence is not the native element of the drummer. An average fish
can go a longer time out of water than this breed can live without
talking. One of them now looked across the table at the grave,
flannel-shirted Virginian; he inspected, and came to the imprudent
conclusion that he understood his man.
“Good evening,” he said briskly.
“Good evening,” said the Virginian.
“Just come to town?” pursued the drummer.
“Just come to town,” the Virginian suavely assented.
“Cattle business jumping along?” inquired the drummer.
“Oh, fair.” And the Virginian took some more corned beef.
“Gets a move on your appetite, anyway,” suggested the drummer.
The Virginian drank some coffee. Presently the pretty woman refilled his
cup without his asking her.
“Guess I’ve met you before,” the drummer stated next.
The Virginian glanced at him for a brief moment.
“Haven’t I, now? Ain’t I seen you somewhere? Look at me. You been in
Chicago, ain’t you? You look at me well. Remember Ikey’s, don’t you?”
“I don’t reckon I do.”
“See, now! I knowed you’d been in Chicago. Four or five years ago. Or
maybe it’s two years. Time’s nothing to me. But I never forget a face.
Yes, sir. Him and me’s met at Ikey’s, all right.” This important point
the drummer stated to all of us. We were called to witness how well he
had proved old acquaintanceship. “Ain’t the world small, though!” he
exclaimed complacently. “Meet a man once and you’re sure to run on to
him again. That’s straight. That’s no bar-room josh.” And the drummer’s
eye included us all in his confidence. I wondered if he had attained
that high perfection when a man believes his own lies.
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 cattle-men
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 and 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, 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