The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains
considering Pedro. He, too, was not pleased. But he could not interfere.
Already he had overstepped the code in these matters. He would have
dearly liked--for reasons good and bad, spite and mercy mingled--to
have spoiled Balaam’s market, to have offered a reasonable or even an
unreasonable price for Pedro, and taken possession of the horse himself.
But this might not be. In bets, in card games, in all horse transactions
and other matters of similar business, a man must take care of himself,
and wiser onlookers must suppress their wisdom and hold their peace.
That evening Shorty again had a cigar. He had parted with Pedro
for forty dollars, a striped Mexican blanket, and a pair of spurs.
Undressing over in the bunk house, he said to the Virginian, “I’ll sure
buy Pedro back off him just as soon as ever I rustle some cash.” The
Virginian grunted. He was thinking he should have to travel hard to
get the horses to the Judge by the 30th; and below that thought lay his
aching disappointment and his longing for Bear Creek.
In the early dawn Shorty sat up among his blankets on the floor of the
bunk house and saw the various sleepers coiled or sprawled in their
beds; their breathing had not yet grown restless at the nearing of day.
He stepped to the door carefully, and saw the crowding blackbirds begin
their walk and chatter in the mud of the littered and trodden corrals.
From beyond among the cottonwoods, came continually the smooth
unemphatic sound of the doves answering each other invisibly; and
against the empty ridge of the river-bluff lay the moon, no longer
shining, for there was established a new light through the sky. Pedro
stood in the pasture close to the bars. The cow-boy slowly closed the
door behind him, and sitting down on the step, drew his money out and
idly handled it, taking no comfort just then from its possession. Then
he put it back, and after dragging on his boots, crossed to the pasture,
and held a last talk with his pony, brushing the cakes of mud from his
hide where he had rolled, and passing a lingering hand over his mane. As
the sounds of the morning came increasingly from tree and plain, Shorty
glanced back to see that no one was yet out of the cabin, and then put
his arms round the horse’s neck, laying his head against him. For a
moment the cow-boy’s insignificant face was exalted by the emotion he
would never have let others see. He hugged tight this animal, who was
dearer to his heart than anybody in the world.
“Good-by, Pedro,” he said--“good-by.” Pedro looked for bread.
“No,” said his master, sorrowfully, “not any more. Yu’ know well I’d
give it yu’ if I had it. You and me didn’t figure on this, did we,
Pedro? Good-by!”
He hugged his pony again, and got as far as the bars of the pasture, but
returned once more. “Good-by, my little horse, my dear horse, my little,
little Pedro,” he said, as his tears wet the pony’s neck. Then he
wiped them with his hand, and got himself back to the bunk house. After
breakfast he and his belongings departed to Drybone, and Pedro from his
field calmly watched this departure; for horses must recognize even less
than men the black corners that their destinies turn. The pony stopped
feeding to look at the mail-wagon pass by; but the master sitting in the
wagon forebore to turn his head.
XXVI. BALAAM AND PEDRO
Resigned to wait for the Judge’s horses, Balaam went into his office
this dry, bright morning and read nine accumulated newspapers; for
he was behindhand. Then he rode out on the ditches, and met his man
returning with the troublesome animals at last. He hastened home and
sent for the Virginian. He had made a decision.
“See here,” he said; “those horses are coming. What trail would you take
over to the Judge’s?”
“Shortest trail’s right through the Bow Laig Mountains,” said the
foreman, in his gentle voice.
“Guess you’re right. It’s dinner-time. We’ll start right afterward.
We’ll make Little Muddy Crossing by sundown, and Sunk Creek to-morrow,
and the next day’ll see us through. Can a wagon get through Sunk Creek
Canyon?”
The Virginian smiled. “I reckon it can’t, seh, and stay resembling a
wagon.”
Balaam told them to saddle Pedro and one packhorse, and drive the bunch
of horses into a corral, roping the Judge’s two, who proved extremely
wild. He had decided to take this journey himself on remembering certain
politics soon to be rife in Cheyenne. For Judge Henry was indeed a
greater man than Balaam. This personally conducted return of the horses
would temper its tardiness, and, moreover, the sight of some New York
visitors would be a good thing after seven months of no warmer touch
with that metropolis than the Sunday HERALD, always eight days old when
it reached the Butte Creek Ranch.
They forded Butte Creek, and, crossing the well-travelled trail which
follows down to Drybone, turned their faces toward the uninhabited
country that began immediately, as the ocean begins off a sandy shore.
And as a single mast on which no sail is shining stands at the horizon
and seems to add a loneliness to the surrounding sea, so the long gray
line of fence, almost a mile away, that ended Balaam’s land on this side
the creek, stretched along the waste ground and added desolation to
the plain. No solitary watercourse with margin of cottonwoods or willow
thickets flowed here to stripe the dingy, yellow world with interrupting
green, nor were cattle to be seen dotting the distance, nor moving
objects at all, nor any bird in the soundless air. The last gate was
shut by the Virginian, who looked back at the pleasant trees of the
ranch, and then followed on in single file across the alkali of No Man’s
Land.
No cloud was in the sky. The desert’s grim noon shone sombrely on flat
and hill. The sagebrush was dull like zinc. Thick heat rose near at hand
from the caked alkali, and pale heat shrouded the distant peaks.
There were five horses. Balaam led on Pedro, his squat figure stiff in
the saddle, but solid as a rock, and tilted a little forward, as his
habit was. One of the Judge’s horses came next, a sorrel, dragging back
continually on the rope by which he was led. After him ambled Balaam’s
wise pack-animal, carrying the light burden of two days’ food and
lodging. She was an old mare who could still go when she chose, but had
been schooled by the years, and kept the trail, giving no trouble to the
Virginian who came behind her. He also sat solid as a rock, yet subtly
bending to the struggles of the wild horse he led, as a steel spring
bends and balances and resumes its poise.
Thus they made but slow time, and when they topped the last dull rise of
ground and looked down on the long slant of ragged, caked earth to the
crossing of Little Muddy, with its single tree and few mean bushes, the
final distance where eyesight ends had deepened to violet from the thin,
steady blue they had stared at for so many hours, and all heat was
gone from the universal dryness. The horses drank a long time from the
sluggish yellow water, and its alkaline taste and warmth were equally
welcome to the men. They built a little fire, and when supper was ended,
smoked but a short while and in silence, before they got in the blankets
that were spread in a smooth place beside the water.
They had picketed the two horses of the Judge in the best grass they
could find, letting the rest go free to find pasture where they could.
When the first light came, the Virginian attended to breakfast, while
Balaam rode away on the sorrel to bring in the loose horses. They had
gone far out of sight, and when he returned with them, after some two
hours, he was on Pedro. Pedro was soaking with sweat, and red froth
creamed from his mouth. The Virginian saw the horses must have been hard
to drive in, especially after Balaam brought them the wild sorrel as a
leader.
“If you’d kep’ ridin’ him, ’stead of changin’ off on your hawss, they’d
have behaved quieter,” said the foreman.
“That’s good seasonable advice,” said Balaam, sarcastically. “I could
have told you that now.”
“I could have told you when you started,” said the Virginian, heating
the coffee for Balaam.
Balaam was eloquent on the outrageous conduct of the horses. He had come
up with them evidently striking back for Butte Creek, with the old mare
in the lead.
“But I soon showed her the road she was to go,” he said, as he drove
them now to the water.
The Virginian noticed the slight limp of the mare, and how her pastern
was cut as if with a stone or the sharp heel of a boot.
“I guess she’ll not be in a hurry to travel except when she’s wanted
to,” continued Balaam. He sat down, and sullenly poured himself some
coffee. “We’ll be in luck if we make any Sunk Creek this night.”
He went on with his breakfast, thinking aloud for the benefit of his
companion, who made no comments, preferring silence to the discomfort of
talking with a man whose vindictive humor was so thoroughly uppermost.
He did not even listen very attentively, but continued his preparations
for departure, washing the dishes, rolling the blankets, and moving
about in his usual way of easy and visible good nature.
“Six o’clock, already,” said Balaam, saddling the horses. “And we’ll
not get started for ten minutes more.” Then he came to Pedro. “So you
haven’t quit fooling yet, haven’t you?” he exclaimed, for the pony
shrank as he lifted the bridle. “Take that for your sore mouth!” and he
rammed the bit in, at which Pedro flung back and reared.
“Well, I never saw Pedro act that way yet,” said the Virginian.
“Ah, rubbish!” said Balaam. “They’re all the same. Not a bastard one
but’s laying for his chance to do for you. Some’ll buck you off, and
some’ll roll with you, and some’ll fight you with their fore feet. They
may play good for a year, but the Western pony’s man’s enemy, and when
he judges he’s got his chance, he’s going to do his best. And if you
come out alive it won’t be his fault.” Balaam paused for a while,
packing. “You’ve got to keep them afraid of you,” he said next; “that’s
what you’ve got to do if you don’t want trouble. That Pedro horse there
has been fed, hand-fed, and fooled with like a damn pet, and what’s that
policy done? Why, he goes ugly when he thinks it’s time, and decides
he’ll not drive any horses into camp this morning. He knows better now.”
“Mr. Balaam,” said the Virginian, “I’ll buy that hawss off yu’ right
now.”
Balaam shook his head. “You’ll not do that right now or any other time,”
said he. “I happen to want him.”
The Virginian could do no more. He had heard cow-punchers say to
refractory ponies, “You keep still, or I’ll Balaam you!” and he now
understood the aptness of the expression.
Meanwhile Balaam began to lead Pedro to the creek for a last drink
before starting across the torrid drought. The horse held back on the
rein a little, and Balaam turned and cut the whip across his forehead.
A delay of forcing and backing followed, while the Virginian, already
in the saddle, waited. The minutes passed, and no immediate prospect,
apparently, of getting nearer Sunk Creek.
“He ain’ goin’ to follow you while you’re beatin’ his haid,” the
Southerner at length remarked.
“Do you think you can teach me anything about horses?” retorted Balaam.
“Well, it don’t look like I could,” said the Virginian, lazily.
“Then don’t try it, so long as it’s not your horse, my friend.”
Again the Southerner levelled his eye on Balaam. “All right,” he said,
in the same gentle voice. “And don’t you call me your friend. You’ve
made that mistake twiced.”
The road was shadeless, as it had been from the start, and they could
not travel fast. During the first few hours all coolness was driven out
of the glassy morning, and another day of illimitable sun invested the