The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains
Thus did her New England conscience battle to the end, and, in the end,
capitulate to love. And the next day, with the bishop’s blessing, and
Mrs. Taylor’s broadest smile, and the ring on her finger, the Virginian
departed with his bride into the mountains.
XXXVI. AT DUNBARTON
For their first bridal camp he chose an island. Long weeks beforehand he
had thought of this place, and set his heart upon it. Once established
in his mind, the thought became a picture that he saw waking and
sleeping. He had stopped at the island many times alone, and in all
seasons; but at this special moment of the year he liked it best. Often
he had added several needless miles to his journey that he might finish
the day at this point, might catch the trout for his supper beside a
certain rock upon its edge, and fall asleep hearing the stream on either
side of him.
Always for him the first signs that he had gained the true world of the
mountains began at the island. The first pine trees stood upon it; the
first white columbine grew in their shade; and it seemed to him that he
always met here the first of the true mountain air--the coolness and the
new fragrance. Below, there were only the cottonwoods, and the knolls
and steep foot-hills with their sage-brush, and the great warm air of
the plains; here at this altitude came the definite change. Out of the
lower country and its air he would urge his horse upward, talking to him
aloud, and promising fine pasture in a little while.
Then, when at length he had ridden abreast of the island pines, he would
ford to the sheltered circle of his camp-ground, throw off the saddle
and blanket from the horse’s hot, wet back, throw his own clothes off,
and, shouting, spring upon the horse bare, and with a rope for bridle,
cross with him to the promised pasture. Here there was a pause in the
mountain steepness, a level space of open, green with thick grass.
Riding his horse to this, he would leap off him, and with the flat of
his hand give him a blow that cracked sharp in the stillness and sent
the horse galloping and gambolling to his night’s freedom. And while
the animal rolled in the grass, often his master would roll also, and
stretch, and take the grass in his two hands, and so draw his body
along, limbering his muscles after a long ride. Then he would slide
into the stream below his fishing place, where it was deep enough for
swimming, and cross back to his island, and dressing again, fit his rod
together and begin his casting. After the darkness had set in, there
would follow the lying drowsily with his head upon his saddle, the
camp-fire sinking as he watched it, and sleep approaching to the murmur
of the water on either side of him.
So many visits to this island had he made, and counted so many hours of
revery spent in its haunting sweetness, that the spot had come to seem
his own. It belonged to no man, for it was deep in the unsurveyed and
virgin wilderness; neither had he ever made his camp here with any
man, nor shared with any the intimate delight which the place gave him.
Therefore for many weeks he had planned to bring her here after their
wedding, upon the day itself, and show her and share with her his pines
and his fishing rock. He would bid her smell the first true breath of
the mountains, would watch with her the sinking camp-fire, and with her
listen to the water as it flowed round the island.
Until this wedding plan, it had by no means come home to him how deep a
hold upon him the island had taken. He knew that he liked to go there,
and go alone; but so little was it his way to scan himself, his mind, or
his feelings (unless some action called for it), that he first learned
his love of the place through his love of her. But he told her nothing
of it. After the thought of taking her there came to him, he kept his
island as something to let break upon her own eyes, lest by looking
forward she should look for more than the reality.
Hence, as they rode along, when the houses of the town were shrunk to
dots behind them, and they were nearing the gates of the foot-hills, she
asked him questions. She hoped they would find a camp a long way from
the town. She could ride as many miles as necessary. She was not tired.
Should they not go on until they found a good place far enough within
the solitude? Had he fixed upon any? And at the nod and the silence
that he gave her for reply, she knew that he had thoughts and intentions
which she must wait to learn.
They passed through the gates of the foot-hills, following the stream up
among them. The outstretching fences and the widely trodden dust were
no more. Now and then they rose again into view of the fields and houses
down in the plain below. But as the sum of the miles and hours grew,
they were glad to see the road less worn with travel, and the traces of
men passing from sight. The ploughed and planted country, that quilt of
many-colored harvests which they had watched yesterday, lay in another
world from this where they rode now. No hand but nature’s had sown these
crops of yellow flowers, these willow thickets and tall cottonwoods.
Somewhere in a passage of red rocks the last sign of wagon wheels was
lost, and after this the trail became a wild mountain trail. But it was
still the warm air of the plains, bearing the sage-brush odor and not
the pine, that they breathed; nor did any forest yet cloak the shapes
of the tawny hills among which they were ascending. Twice the steepness
loosened the pack ropes, and he jumped down to tighten them, lest the
horses should get sore backs. And twice the stream that they followed
went into deep canyons, so that for a while they parted from it. When
they came back to its margin for the second time, he bade her notice how
its water had become at last wholly clear. To her it had seemed clear
enough all along, even in the plain above the town. But now she saw that
it flowed lustrously with flashes; and she knew the soil had changed to
mountain soil. Lower down, the water had carried the slightest cloud
of alkali, and this had dulled the keen edge of its transparence. Full
solitude was around them now, so that their words grew scarce, and when
they spoke it was with low voices. They began to pass nooks and points
favorable for camping, with wood and water at hand, and pasture for the
horses. More than once as they reached such places, she thought he must
surely stop; but still he rode on in advance of her (for the trail
was narrow) until, when she was not thinking of it, he drew rein and
pointed.
“What?” she asked timidly.
“The pines,” he answered.
She looked, and saw the island, and the water folding it with ripples
and with smooth spaces. The sun was throwing upon the pine boughs a light
of deepening red gold, and the shadow of the fishing rock lay over a
little bay of quiet water and sandy shore. In this forerunning glow of
the sunset, the pasture spread like emerald; for the dry touch of summer
had not yet come near it. He pointed upward to the high mountains which
they had approached, and showed her where the stream led into their
first unfoldings.
“To-morrow we shall be among them,” said he.
“Then,” she murmured to him, “to-night is here?”
He nodded for answer, and she gazed at the island and understood why he
had not stopped before; nothing they had passed had been so lovely as
this place.
There was room in the trail for them to go side by side; and side by
side they rode to the ford and crossed, driving the packhorses in front
of them, until they came to the sheltered circle, and he helped her down
where the soft pine needles lay. They felt each other tremble, and for a
moment she stood hiding her head upon his breast. Then she looked round
at the trees, and the shores, and the flowing stream, and he heard her
whispering how beautiful it was.
“I am glad,” he said, still holding her. “This is how I have dreamed it
would happen. Only it is better than my dreams.” And when she pressed
him in silence, he finished, “I have meant we should see our first
sundown here, and our first sunrise.”
She wished to help him take the packs from their horses, to make the
camp together with him, to have for her share the building of the fire,
and the cooking. She bade him remember his promise to her that he would
teach her how to loop and draw the pack-ropes, and the swing-ropes
on the pack-saddles, and how to pitch a tent. Why might not the first
lesson be now? But he told her that this should be fulfilled later. This
night he was to do all himself. And he sent her away until he should
have camp ready for them. He bade her explore the island, or take her
horse and ride over to the pasture, where she could see the surrounding
hills and the circle of seclusion that they made.
“The whole world is far from here,” he said. And so she obeyed him, and
went away to wander about in their hiding-place; nor was she to return,
he told her, until he called her.
Then at once, as soon as she was gone, he fell to. The packs and saddles
came off the horses, which he turned loose upon the pasture on the main
land. The tent was unfolded first. He had long seen in his mind where it
should go, and how its white shape would look beneath the green of
the encircling pines. The ground was level in the spot he had chosen,
without stones or roots, and matted with the fallen needles of the
pines. If there should come any wind, or storm of rain, the branches
were thick overhead, and around them on three sides tall rocks and
undergrowth made a barrier. He cut the pegs for the tent, and the front
pole, stretching and tightening the rope, one end of it pegged down and
one round a pine tree. When the tightening rope had lifted the canvas to
the proper height from the ground, he spread and pegged down the sides
and back, leaving the opening so that they could look out upon the fire
and a piece of the stream beyond. He cut tufts of young pine and strewed
them thickly for a soft floor in the tent, and over them spread the
buffalo hide and the blankets. At the head he placed the neat sack of
her belongings. For his own he made a shelter with crossed poles and
a sheet of canvas beyond the first pines. He built the fire where its
smoke would float outward from the trees and the tent, and near it he
stood the cooking things and his provisions, and made this first supper
ready in the twilight. He had brought much with him; but for ten minutes
he fished, catching trout enough. When at length she came riding over
the stream at his call, there was nothing for her to do but sit and eat
at the table he had laid. They sat together, watching the last of the
twilight and the gentle oncoming of the dusk. The final after-glow of
day left the sky, and through the purple which followed it came slowly
the first stars, bright and wide apart. They watched the spaces between
them fill with more stars, while near them the flames and embers of
their fire grew brighter. Then he sent her to the tent while he cleaned
the dishes and visited the horses to see that they did not stray from
the pasture. Some while after the darkness was fully come, he rejoined
her. All had been as he had seen it in his thoughts beforehand: the
pines with the setting sun upon them, the sinking camp-fire, and now the
sound of the water as it flowed murmuring by the shores of the island.
The tent opened to the east, and from it they watched together their
first sunrise. In his thoughts he had seen this morning beforehand also:
the waking, the gentle sound of the water murmuring ceaselessly, the
growing day, the vision of the stream, the sense that the world was shut
away far from them. So did it all happen, except that he whispered to
her again:-- “Better than my dreams.”