The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains
world with its blaze. The pale Bow Leg Range was coming nearer, but its
hard hot slants and rifts suggested no sort of freshness, and even
the pines that spread for wide miles along near the summit counted for
nothing in the distance and the glare, but seemed mere patches of dull
dry discoloration. No talk was exchanged between the two travellers, for
the cow-puncher had nothing to say and Balaam was sulky, so they moved
along in silent endurance of each other’s company and the tedium of the
journey.
But the slow succession of rise and fall in the plain changed and
shortened. The earth’s surface became lumpy, rising into mounds and
knotted systems of steep small hills cut apart by staring gashes of
sand, where water poured in the spring from the melting snow. After a
time they ascended through the foot-hills till the plain below was for a
while concealed, but came again into view in its entirety, distant and a
thing of the past, while some magpies sailed down to meet them from
the new country they were entering. They passed up through a small
transparent forest of dead trees standing stark and white, and a little
higher came on a line of narrow moisture that crossed the way and formed
a stale pool among some willow thickets. They turned aside to water
their horses, and found near the pool a circular spot of ashes and some
poles lying, and beside these a cage-like edifice of willow wands built
in the ground.
“Indian camp,” observed the Virginian.
There were the tracks of five or six horses on the farther side of the
pool, and they did not come into the trail, but led off among the rocks
on some system of their own.
“They’re about a week old,” said Balaam. “It’s part of that outfit
that’s been hunting.”
“They’ve gone on to visit their friends,” added the cow-puncher.
“Yes, on the Southern Reservation. How far do you call Sunk Creek now?”
“Well,” said the Virginian, calculating, “it’s mighty nigh fo’ty miles
from Muddy Crossin’, an’ I reckon we’ve come eighteen.”
“Just about. It’s noon.” Balaam snapped his watch shut. “We’ll rest here
till 12:30.”
When it was time to go, the Virginian looked musingly at the mountains.
“We’ll need to travel right smart to get through the canyon to-night,”
he said.
“Tell you what,” said Balaam; “we’ll rope the Judge’s horses together
and drive ’em in front of us. That’ll make speed.”
“Mightn’t they get away on us?” objected the Virginian. “They’re pow’ful
wild.”
“They can’t get away from me, I guess,” said Balaam, and the arrangement
was adopted. “We’re the first this season over this piece of the trail,”
he observed presently.
His companion had noticed the ground already, and assented. There were
no tracks anywhere to be seen over which winter had not come and gone
since they had been made. Presently the trail wound into a sultry gulch
that hemmed in the heat and seemed to draw down the sun’s rays more
vertically. The sorrel horse chose this place to make a try for liberty.
He suddenly whirled from the trail, dragging with him his less inventive
fellow. Leaving the Virginian with the old mare, Balaam headed them off,
for Pedro was quick, and they came jumping down the bank together, but
swiftly crossed up on the other side, getting much higher before they
could be reached. It was no place for this sort of game, as the sides of
the ravine were ploughed with steep channels, broken with jutting knobs
of rock, and impeded by short twisted pines that swung out from their
roots horizontally over the pitch of the hill. The Virginian helped,
but used his horse with more judgment, keeping as much on the level as
possible, and endeavoring to anticipate the next turn of the runaways
before they made it, while Balaam attempted to follow them close,
wheeling short when they doubled, heavily beating up the face of the
slope, veering again to come down to the point he had left, and whenever
he felt Pedro begin to flag, driving his spurs into the horse and
forcing him to keep up the pace. He had set out to overtake and capture
on the side of the mountain these two animals who had been running
wild for many weeks, and now carried no weight but themselves, and
the futility of such work could not penetrate his obstinate and rising
temper. He had made up his mind not to give in. The Virginian soon
decided to move slowly along for the present, preventing the wild horses
from passing down the gulch again, but otherwise saving his own animal
from useless fatigue. He saw that Pedro was reeking wet, with mouth
open, and constantly stumbling, though he galloped on. The cow-puncher
kept the group in sight, driving the packhorse in front of him, and
watching the tactics of the sorrel, who had now undoubtedly become
the leader of the expedition, and was at the top of the gulch, in vain
trying to find an outlet through its rocky rim to the levels above. He
soon judged this to be no thoroughfare, and changing his plan, trotted
down to the bottom and up the other side, gaining more and more; for
in this new descent Pedro had fallen twice. Then the sorrel showed the
cleverness of a genuinely vicious horse. The Virginian saw him stop
and fall to kicking his companion with all the energy that a short rope
would permit. The rope slipped, and both, unencumbered, reached the top
and disappeared. Leaving the packhorse for Balaam, the Virginian started
after them and came into a high tableland, beyond which the mountains
began in earnest. The runaways were moving across toward these at an
easy rate. He followed for a moment, then looking back, and seeing no
sign of Balaam, waited, for the horses were sure not to go fast when
they reached good pasture or water.
He got out of the saddle and sat on the ground, watching, till the mare
came up slowly into sight, and Balaam behind her. When they were near,
Balaam dismounted and struck Pedro fearfully, until the stick broke, and
he raised the splintered half to continue.
Seeing the pony’s condition, the Virginian spoke, and said, “I’d let
that hawss alone.”
Balaam turned to him, but wholly possessed by passion did not seem to
hear, and the Southerner noticed how white and like that of a maniac his
face was. The stick slid to the ground.
“He played he was tired,” said Balaam, looking at the Virginian with
glazed eyes. The violence of his rage affected him physically, like some
stroke of illness. “He played out on me on purpose.” The man’s voice
was dry and light. “He’s perfectly fresh now,” he continued, and turned
again to the coughing, swaying horse, whose eyes were closed. Not having
the stick, he seized the animal’s unresisting head and shook it. The
Virginian watched him a moment, and rose to stop such a spectacle. Then,
as if conscious he was doing no real hurt, Balaam ceased, and turning
again in slow fashion looked across the level, where the runaways were
still visible.
“I’ll have to take your horse,” he said, “mine’s played out on me.”
“You ain’ goin’ to touch my hawss.”
Again the words seemed not entirely to reach Balaam’s understanding, so
dulled by rage were his senses. He made no answer, but mounted Pedro;
and the failing pony walked mechanically forward, while the Virginian,
puzzled, stood looking after him. Balaam seemed without purpose of going
anywhere, and stopped in a moment. Suddenly he was at work at something.
This sight was odd and new to look at. For a few seconds it had no
meaning to the Virginian as he watched. Then his mind grasped the
horror, too late. Even with his cry of execration and the tiger spring
that he gave to stop Balaam, the monstrosity was wrought. Pedro sank
motionless, his head rolling flat on the earth. Balaam was jammed
beneath him. The man had struggled to his feet before the Virginian
reached the spot, and the horse then lifted his head and turned it
piteously round.
Then vengeance like a blast struck Balaam. The Virginian hurled him to
the ground, lifted and hurled him again, lifted him and beat his face
and struck his jaw. The man’s strong ox-like fighting availed nothing.
He fended his eyes as best he could against these sledge-hammer blows
of justice. He felt blindly for his pistol. That arm was caught and
wrenched backward, and crushed and doubled. He seemed to hear his own
bones, and set up a hideous screaming of hate and pain. Then the
pistol at last came out, and together with the hand that grasped it was
instantly stamped into the dust. Once again the creature was lifted and
slung so that he lay across Pedro’s saddle a blurred, dingy, wet pulp.
Vengeance had come and gone. The man and the horse were motionless.
Around them, silence seemed to gather like a witness.
“If you are dead,” said the Virginian, “I am glad of it.” He stood
looking down at Balaam and Pedro, prone in the middle of the open
tableland. Then he saw Balaam looking at him. It was the quiet stare of
sight without thought or feeling, the mere visual sense alone, almost
frightful in its separation from any self. But as he watched those
eyes, the self came back into them. “I have not killed you,” said the
Virginian. “Well, I ain’t goin’ to do any more to yu’--if that’s a
satisfaction to know.”
Then he began to attend to Balaam with impersonal skill, like some one
hired for the purpose. “He ain’t hurt bad,” he asserted aloud, as if
the man were some nameless patient; and then to Balaam he remarked, “I
reckon it might have put a less tough man than you out of business for
quite a while. I’m goin’ to get some water now.” When he returned with
the water, Balsam was sitting up, looking about him. He had not yet
spoken, nor did he now speak. The sunlight flashed on the six-shooter
where it lay, and the Virginian secured it. “She ain’t so pretty as she
was,” he remarked, as he examined the weapon. “But she’ll go right handy
yet.”
Strength was in a measure returning to Pedro. He was a young horse,
and the exhaustion neither of anguish nor of over-riding was enough
to affect him long or seriously. He got himself on his feet and walked
waveringly over to the old mare, and stood by her for comfort. The
cow-puncher came up to him, and Pedro, after starting back slightly,
seemed to comprehend that he was in friendly hands. It was plain that he
would soon be able to travel slowly if no weight was on him, and that he
would be a very good horse again. Whether they abandoned the runaways or
not, there was no staying here for night to overtake them without food
or water. The day was still high, and what its next few hours had in
store the Virginian could not say, and he left them to take care of
themselves, determining meanwhile that he would take command of the
minutes and maintain the position he had assumed both as to Balaam and
Pedro. He took Pedro’s saddle off, threw the mare’s pack to the ground,
put Balaam’s saddle on her, and on that stowed or tied her original
pack, which he could do, since it was so light. Then he went to Balaam,
who was sitting up.
“I reckon you can travel,” said the Virginian. “And your hawss can. If
you’re comin’ with me, you’ll ride your mare. I’m goin’ to trail them
hawsses. If you’re not comin’ with me, your hawss comes with me, and
you’ll take fifty dollars for him.”
Balaam was indifferent to this good bargain. He did not look at the
other or speak, but rose and searched about him on the ground. The
Virginian was also indifferent as to whether Balaam chose to answer or
not. Seeing Balaam searching the ground, he finished what he had to say.
“I have your six-shooter, and you’ll have it when I’m ready for you to.
Now, I’m goin’,” he concluded.
Balaam’s intellect was clear enough now, and he saw that though the rest
of this journey would be nearly intolerable, it must go on. He looked
at the impassive cow-puncher getting ready to go and tying a rope on