 CHAPTER XII. To the circle at Bennington, a letter from Bear Creek was always a welcome summons to gather and hear of doings very strange to Vermont. And when the tale of the changed babies arrived duly by the post, it created a more than usual sensation and was read to a large number of pleased and scandalized neighbors. I hate her to be where such things can happen, said Mrs. Wood. I wish I could have been there, said her son-in-law, Andrew Bell. She does not mention who played the trick, said Mrs. Andrew Bell. We shouldn't be any wiser if she did, said Mrs. Wood. I'd like to meet the perpetrator, said Andrew. Oh, no, said Mrs. Wood, they're all horrible. And she wrote at once, begging her daughter to take good care of herself and to see as much of Mrs. Balem as possible. And of any other ladies that are near you, for you seem to me to be in a community of roughs. I wish you would give it all up. Did you expect me to laugh about the babies? Mrs. Flint, when this story was repeated to her, she had not been invited in to hear the letter, remarked that she had always felt that Molly Wood must be a little vulgar, ever since she began to go about giving music lessons like any ordinary German. But Mrs. Wood was considerably relieved when the next letter arrived. It contained nothing horrible about barbecues or babies. It mentioned the great beauty of the weather, and how well and strong the fine air was making the writer feel. And it asked that books might be sent, many books of all sorts, novels, poetry, all the good old books, and any good new ones that could be spared. Cheap editions, of course. Indeed she shall have them, said Mrs. Wood, how her mind must be starving in that dreadful place. The letter was not a long one, and, besides the books, spoke of little else except the fine weather and the chances for outdoor exercise that this gave. You have no idea, it said, how delightful it is to ride, especially on a spirited horse, which I can do now quite well. How nice that is, said Mrs. Wood, putting down the letter. I hope the horse is not too spirited. Who does she go riding with? asked Mrs. Bell. She doesn't say, Sarah, why? Saying she has a queer way of not mentioning things now and then. Sarah, exclaimed Mrs. Wood reproachfully. Oh, well, mother, you know just as well as I do that she can be very independent and unconventional. Yes, but not in that way. She wouldn't ride with poor Sam Bannett, and after all he is a suitable person. Nevertheless, in her next letter Mrs. Wood cautioned her daughter about trusting herself with any one of whom Mrs. Balaam did not thoroughly approve. The good lady could never grasp that Mrs. Balaam lived a long day's journey from Bear Creek and that Molly saw her about once every three months. We have sent your books, the mother wrote, everybody has contributed from their store, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Browning, Longfellow, and a number of novels by Scott, Thackeray, George Eliot, Hawthorne, and Lesser Writers, some volumes of Emerson, and Jane Austen complete because you admire her so particularly. This consignment of literature reached Bear Creek about a week before Christmas time. By New Year's Day the Virginian had begun his education. Well, I have managed to get through him, he said as he entered Molly's cabin in February, and he laid two volumes upon her table. And what do you think of them? She inquired. I think that I have certainly earned a good long ride today. Georgie Taylor has sprained his ankle. No, I don't mean that kind of a ride. I've earned a ride with just us two alone. I've read every word of both of them, you know. I'll think about it. Did you like them? No, not much. If I'd known that one was a detective story, I'd have got you to try something else on me. Can you guess the murderer, or is the author too smart for you? That's all they amount to. Well, he was too smart for me this time, but that didn't distress me any. That other book talks too much. Molly was scandalized, and she told him it was a great work. Oh yes, yes, a fine book, but it will keep up its talking. Don't let you alone. Did you feel sorry for poor Maggie Tulliver? Hmm, yes, sorry for her and for Tommy too, but the man did right to drown them both. It wasn't a man, a woman wrote that. A woman did, well then of course she talks too much. I'll not go writing with you, shrieked Molly. But she did, and he returned to Sunk Creek, not with a detective story, but this time with a Russian novel. It was almost April when he brought it back to her, and a heavy sleet storm lost them their ride, so he spent his time indoors with her, not speaking a syllable of love. When he came to take his departure he asked her for some other book by this same Russian, but she had no more. I wish you had, he said. I've never saw a book that could tell the truth like that one does. Why, what do you like about it? She exclaimed, to her it had been distasteful. Everything, he answered, that young come outer and his family that can't understand him, for he is broad gauge, you see, and they are narrow gauge. The Virginian looked at Molly a moment almost shyly. Do you know, he said, and a blush spread over his face. I pretty near cried when that young come outer was dying and said about himself, I was a giant. Life made him broad gauge, you see, and then took his chance away. Molly liked the Virginian for his blush. It made him very handsome. But she thought that it came from his confession about pretty near crying. The deeper cause she failed to divine, that he, like the dying hero in the novel, felt himself to be a giant whom life had made broad gauge and denied opportunity. Beacons nature begets and squanders thousands of these rich seeds in the wilderness of life. He took away with him a volume of Shakespeare. I've saw good plays of his, he remarked. Kind Mrs. Taylor in her cabin next door watched him ride off in the sleet bound for the lonely mountain trail. If that girl don't get ready to take him pretty soon, she observed to her husband, I'll give her a piece of my mind. Taylor was astonished. Is he thinking of her? He inquired. Lord Mr. Taylor, and why shouldn't he? Mr. Taylor scratched his head and returned to his newspaper. It was warm, warm and beautiful upon Bear Creek. Snow shone upon the peaks of the bow-leg range. Lower on their slopes the pines were stirring with a gentle song, and flowers bloomed across the wide plains at their feet. Molly and her Virginians sat at a certain spring where he had often ridden with her. On this day he was bidding her farewell before undertaking the most important trust which Judge Henry had as yet given him. For this journey she had provided him with Sir Walter Scott's Kenilworth. Shakespeare he had returned to her. He had bought Shakespeare for himself. As soon as I got used to reading it, he had told her, I knowed for certain that I liked reading for enjoyment. But it was not of books that he had spoken much today. He had not spoken at all. He had bade her listen to the meadowlark when its song fell upon the silence like beaded drops of music. He had showed her where a covey of young willow-grouse were hiding as their horses passed. And then, without warning, as they sat by the spring, he had spoken potently of his love. She did not interrupt him. She waited until he was wholly finished. I am not the sort of wife you want, she said, with an attempt of airiness. He answered roughly, I am the judge of that. And his roughness was a pleasure to her, yet it made her afraid of herself. When he was absent from her, and she could sit in her cabin and look at Grandmother Stark and read home letters, then in imagination she found it easy to play the part which she had arranged to play regarding him, the part of the guide and superior and indulgent companion. But when he was by her side, that part became a difficult one. Her woman's fortress was shaken by a force unknown to her before. Sam Bannet did not have it in him to look as this man could look when the cold luster of his eyes grew hot with internal fire. What color they were baffled her still. Can it possibly change, she wondered. It seemed to her that sometimes when she had been looking from a rock straight down into clear seawater this same color had lurked in its depths. Is it green or is it gray, she asked herself, but did not turn just now to see. She kept her face toward the landscape. All men are born equal, he now remarked slowly. Yes, she quickly answered with a combative flash. Well, maybe that don't include women, he suggested. I think it does. Do you tell the kids so? Of course, I teach them what I believe. He pondered. I used to have to learn about the Declaration of Independence. I hated books and truck when I was a kid. But you don't any more? No, I certainly don't. But I used to get kept in at recess for being so dumb. I was most always at the tail end of the class. My brother, he'd be head sometimes. Little George Taylor is my prize scholar, said Molly. Knows his task, does he? And Henry Dowell comes next. Who's last? Poor Bob Carmody, I spend more time on him than all the rest put together. My, said the Virginian, ain't that strange. She looked at him, puzzled by his tone. It's not strange when you know Bob, she said. It's very strange, drawl the Virginian. No and Bob don't help it any. I don't think that I understand you, said Molly, stiffly. Well, it is mighty confusing. George Taylor, he's your best scholar. And poor Bob, he's your worst. And there's a lot in the middle. And you tell me we're all born equal. Molly can only sit giggling in this trap. He had so ingeniously laid for her. I'll tell you what, pursued the cow puncher with slow and growing intensity. Equality is a great big bluff, it's easy called. I didn't mean, began Molly. Wait and let me say what I mean. He had made an imperious gesture with his hand. I know a man that mostly wins at yards. I know a man that mostly loses. He says it is his luck. All right, call it his luck. I know a man that works hard and he's getting rich. And I know another that works hard and is getting poor. He says it is his luck. All right, call it his luck. I look around and I see folks moving up or moving down. Winners or losers everywhere. All luck, of course. But since folks can be born that different in their luck, where's your equality? No sir, call your failure luck, or call it laziness. Wander around the words, prospect all your mind to, and you'll come out the same old trail of inequality. He paused a moment and looked at her. Some holds four aces, he went on, and some holds nothing. And some poor fellow gets the aces and no show to play them. But a man has got to prove himself my equal before I'll believe him. Molly sat gazing at him silent. I know what you meant, he told her now, by saying you're not the wife I'd want. But I'm the kind that moves up. I'm going to be your best scholar. He turned toward her and that fortress within her began to shake. Don't, she murmured, don't please. Don't what? Why spoil this? Spoil it? These rides, I don't love you, I can't. But these rides are, what are they? My greatest pleasure, there, and please, I want them to go on so. Go on so? I don't reckon you know what you're saying. You might as well ask fruit to stay green. If the way we are now can keep being enough for you, it can't for me. A pleasure to you, is it? Well, to me it is, I don't know what to call it. I come to you and I hate it. And I come again and I hate it. And I ache and grieve all over when I go. No, you will have to think of some other way than just inviting me to keep green. If I am to see you, began the girl. You're not to see me, not like this. I can stay away easier than what I am doing. Will you do me a favor, a great one? Said she, now. Make it as impossible as you please, he cried. He thought it was going to be some action. Go on coming, but don't talk to me about, don't talk in that way, if you can help it. He laughed out, not permitting himself to swear. But, she continued, if you can't help talking that way, sometimes I promise I will listen. That is the only promise I make. That is a bargain, he said. Then he helped her mount her horse, restraining himself like a Spartan, and they rode home to her cabin. You have made it pretty near impossible, he said, as he took his leave, but you've been square today, and I'll show you I can be square when I come back. I'll not do more than ask you if your mind's the same. And now I'll not see you for quite a while. I am going a long way, but I'll be very busy, and being busy always keeps me from grieving too much about you. Strange is woman. She would rather have heard some other last remark than this. Oh, very well, she said, I'll not miss you either. He smiled at her. I doubt if you can help missing me, he remarked, and he was gone at once galloping on his mounty horse. Which of the two won a victory this day? End of chapter 12. Chapter 13. The game and the nation. Act first. There can be no doubt of this. All America is divided into two classes, the quality and the equality. The latter will always recognize the former when mistaken for it. Both will be with us until our women bear nothing but kings. It was through the Declaration of Independence that we Americans acknowledged the eternal inequality of man. For by it, we abolished a cut and dried aristocracy. We had seen little men artificially held up in high places and great men artificially held down in low places, and our own justice-loving hearts abhorred this violence to human nature. Therefore, we decreed that every man should thenceforth have equal liberty to find his own level. By this very decree, we acknowledged and gave freedom to true aristocracy, saying, let the best man win whoever he is. Let the best man win. That is America's word. That is true democracy. And true democracy and true aristocracy are one and the same thing. If anybody cannot see this, so much the worse for his eyesight. The above reflections occurred to me before reaching Billings, Montana some three weeks after I had unexpectedly met the Virginian at Omaha, Nebraska. I had not known if that trust given to him by Judge Henry, which was taking him east. I was looking to ride with him before long among the clean hills of St. Creek. I supposed he was there. But I came upon him one morning in Colonel Cyrus Jones' eating palace. Do you know the palace? It stood in Omaha near the trains and it was 10 years old, which is middle-aged in Omaha when I first saw it. It was a shell of wood painted with golden emblems, the steamboat, the eagle, the yosemite, and a live bear ate gratuities at its entrance. Weather permitting, it opened upon the world as a stage upon the audience. You sat in Omaha's whole sight and dined while Omaha's dust came and settled upon the refreshments. It has gone the way of the Indian and the Buffalo, for the West is growing old. You should have seen the palace and sat there. In front of you passed rainbows of men, Chinese, Indian chiefs, Africans, general miles, younger sons, Austrian nobility, and wide females in pink. Our continent drained prismatically through Omaha once. So I was passing that way also, walking for the sake of ventilation from a sleeping car toward a bath, when the language of Colonel Cyrus Jones came out to me. The actual Colonel I had never seen before. He stood at the rear of his palace in gray, flowery moustaches and a confederate uniform, telling the wishes of his guests to the cook through a hole. You always bought meal tickets at once, else you became unwelcome. Guests here had foibles at times and a rapid exit was too easy. Therefore I bought a ticket. It was spring and summer since I had heard anything like the Colonel. The Missouri had not yet flowed into New York dialect freely and his vocabulary met me like the breeze of the planes. So I went in to be fanned by it and there sat the Virginian at a table alone. His greeting was up to the code of indifference proper on the planes, but he presently remarked, I'm not glad to see somebody, which was a good deal to say. Them that comes here, he observed next, don't eat, they feed. And he considered the guests with a somber attention. Do you reckon they find joyful digestion in this swallow and get-out trough? What are you doing here then, said I? Oh Shaw, when you can't have what you choose, you just choose what you have. And he took the bill of fair. I began to know that he had something on his mind so I did not trouble him further. Meanwhile, he sat studying the bill of fair. Ever heard of them? He inquired, shoving me the spotted document. Most improbable dishes were there. Salamis, canopies, Supremes, all perfectly spelt and absolutely transparent. It was the old trick of copying some metropolitan menu to catch travelers of the third and last dimension of innocence. And whenever this is done, the food is of the third and last dimension of awfulness, which the cow puncher knew as well as anybody. So they keep that up here still, I said. But what about them? He repeated. His finger was at a special item. Frogs, legs, a la Delmonico. Are they true anywheres? He asked and I told him certainly. I also explained to him about Delmonico of New York and about Augustine of Philadelphia. There's not a little bit of use in line to me this Monon, he said with his engaging smile. I ain't gone to oughta anything's legs. Well, I'll see how he gets out of it, I said, remembering the odd Texas legend. The traveler read the bill of fare, you know, and called for a vol avant. And the proprietor looked at the traveler and running a pistol into his ear observed, you'll take hash. I was thinking of this and wondering what would happen to me. So I took the step. Once Frog's legs does he? shouted Colonel Cyrus Jones. He fixed his eye upon me and it narrowed to a slit. Too many brain workers breakfastin' before you came in, professor, said he. Missionary ate the last leg off me just now. Brown the wheat, he commanded through the hole to the cook for someone had ordered hotcakes. I'll have fried eggs, said the Virginian, cook both sides. White wing sang the Colonel through the hole, let him fly up and down. Coffee and no milk, said the Virginian. Draw one in the dark, the Colonel roared. And beef steak, rare. One slaughter in the pan and let the blood drip. I should like a glass of water, please, said I. The Colonel threw me a look of pity. One Missouri in ice for the professor, he said. That fellow's a right live man, commented the Virginian. But he seemed thoughtful. Presently he inquired, you say he was a foreigner and learned fancy cooking to New York? That was this cow puncher's way. Scarcely ever would he let drop a thing new to him until he had got from you your whole information about it. So I told him the history of Lorenzo Delmonico and his pioneer work as much as I knew and the Southerner listened intently. Mighty interesting, he said, mighty. He could just take little ol' ornary frogs and dandy them up to suit the bloods. Mighty interesting. I expect though his cookin' would give an outraged stomach to a plain-raised man. If you want to follow it up, said I, by way of a sudden experiment, Miss Molly Wood might have some book about French dishes. But the Virginian did not turn a hair. I reckon she wouldn't, he answered. She was raised in Vermont. They don't bother overly about their eatin' up in Vermont. He has what Miss Wood recommended the last time I was seein' her, the cow puncher added, bringing Kenilworth from his pocket. Right fine story, that Queen Elizabeth must have certainly been a competent woman. She was, said I. But talk came to an end here. A dusty crew, most evidently from the plains, now entered and drifted to a table. And each man of them gave the Virginian about a quarter of a slouchy nod. His greeting to them was very serene. Only Kenilworth went back into his pocket and he breakfasted in silence. Among those who had greeted him, I now recognized a face. Why, that's the man you played cards with at Medicine Bow, I said. Yes, Trampas, he's got a job at the ranch now. The Virginian said no more, but went on with his breakfast. His appearance was changed. Aged, I would scarcely say, for this would seem as if he did not look young. But I think that the boy was altogether gone from his face. The boy, whose freak with Steve had turned Medicine Bow upside down, whose other freak with the babies had outraged Bear Creek, the boy who had loved to jingle his spurs. But manhood had only trained, not broken, his youth. It was all there, only obedient to the rain and curb. Presently we went together to the railway yard. The judge is doing a right smart business this year. He began very casually indeed so that I knew this was important. Besides bells and coal smoke, the smell and crowded sounds of cattle rose in the air around us. He as our first gatherer of bees on the ranch, continued the Virginian. The whole lot shipped through to Chicago in two sections over the Burlington. The judge is fighting the Elkhorn Road. We passed slowly along the two trains, 20 cars, each car packed with huddled, round-eyed, gazing steers. He examined to see if any animals were down. They ain't ate or drank anything to speak of, he said, while the terrified brutes stared at us through their slats. Not since they struck the railroad, they've not drank. You might suppose they know somehow what they're traveling to Chicago for. And casually, always casually, he told me the rest. Judge Henry could not spare his foreman away from the second gatherer of bees. Therefore, these two 10-car trains, with their double crew of cowboys, had been given to the Virginians' charge. After Chicago, he was to return by St. Paul over the Northern Pacific, for the judge had wished him to see certain of the road's directors and explain to them persuasively how good a thing it would be for them to allow especially cheap rates to the Sunk Creek outfit, henceforth. This was all the Virginian told me, and it contained the whole matter, to be sure. So your acting foreman, said I. Why, somebody has to have the say, I reckon. And of course, you hated the promotion? I don't know about promotion, he replied. The boys have been used to seeing me one of themselves. Why don't you come along with us, as far as Platsmouth? Thus he shifted the subject from himself and called to my notice the locomotives backing up to his cars and reminded me that from Platsmouth I had the choice of two trains returning. But he could not hide or belittle this confidence of his employer in him. It was the care of several thousand perishable dollars and the control of men. It was a compliment. There were more steers than men to be responsible for, but none of the steers had been suddenly picked from the herd and set above his fellows. Moreover, Chicago finished up the steers, but the new-made deputy foreman had then to lead his six highly unoccupied brethren away from towns and back in peace to the ranch or disappoint the judge who needed their services. These things sometimes go wrong in a land where they say you are all born equal, and that quarter of a nod in Colonel Cyrus Jones' eating palace held more equality than any whole nod you could see. But the Virginian did not see it, there being a time for all things. We trundled down the flopping, heavy-edded Missouri to Platsmouth, and there they backed us onto a siding, the Christian endeavor being expected to pass that way. And while the equality absorbed themselves in a deep but harmless game of poker by the side of the railway line, the Virginian and I sat on the top of a car, contemplating the sandy shallows of the plat. I should think you'd take a hand, said I. Poker with them kittens? One flash of the inner man lightened in his eyes and died away, and he finished with his gentle drawl. When I play, I want it to be interesting. He took out Sir Walter's Kenilworth once more and turned the volume over and over slowly without opening it. You cannot tell if in spirit he wondered on Bear Creek with the girl whose book it was. The spirit will go one road and the thought another and the body its own way sometimes. Queen Elizabeth would have played a mighty powerful game, was his next remark. Poker, said I. Yes, sir, do you expect Europe has got any queen equal to her at present? I doubted it. Victoria'd get pretty nice slain sliding chips out against Elizabeth, only most probably Victoria, she'd insist on a half-cent limit. You have read this here, Kenilworth? Well, deal Elizabeth ace high and she could scare Robert Dudley with a full house plum out of the betton. I said that I believe she unquestionably could. And, said the Virginian, if Essex's play got next or too near, I reckon she'd have stacked the yards. Say, do you remember Shakespeare's Fat Man? Fall Staff? Oh yes, indeed. Ain't that grand? Why, he makes men talk the way they do in life. I reckon he couldn't get printed today. It's a write-down shame Shakespeare couldn't know about Poker. He'd have had Fall Staff playin' all day at that tear-sheet outfit and the Prince would have beat him. The Prince had the brains, said I. Brains? Well, didn't he? I never thought to notice, like it's not, he did. And Fall Staff didn't, I suppose? Oh yes, sir, Fall Staff could have played wist. I suppose you know what you're talking about. I don't, said I, for he was drawing again. The Cowpuncher's eye rested a moment amably upon me. You can play wist with your brains, he mused. Brains and yards. Now, yards are only one of the manifestations of Poker in this year world. One of the shapes you fool with it in when the day's work is over. If a man is built like that Prince boy was built, and it's a way down deep beyond Brains, he'll play win in Poker with whatever hand he's holdin' when the trouble begins. Maybe it will be a mean, triflin' army or an empty six-shooter or a lame horse, or maybe just nothin' but his natural countenance. Most any old thing will do for a fellow like that Prince boy to play Poker with. Then I'd be grateful for your definition of Poker, said I. Again, the Virginian looked me over amably. You put up a mighty pretty game of wist yourself, he remarked. Don't that give you the contented spirit? And before I had any reply to this, the Christian endeavor began to come over the bridge. Three installments crossed the Missouri from Pacific Junction bound for Pike's Peak. Every car swathed in bright bunting, and at each window a Christian with a handkerchief joyously shrieking. Then the cattle trains got the open signal and I jumped off. Tell the judge the steers was all right this far, said the Virginian. That was the last of the deputy foreman for a while. End of chapter 13. Chapter 14 of The Virginian. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Virginian by Owen Wister. Chapter 14, Between the Axe. My road to Sunk Creek lay in no straight line. By rail I diverged northwest to Fort Mead, and thence after some stay with the kind military people, I made my way on a horse. Up here in the Black Hills, it sluiced rain most intolerably. The horse and I enjoyed the country and ourselves but little, and when finally I changed from the saddle into a stagecoach, I caught a thankful expression upon the animal's face and returned the same. Six legs inside this jerky tonight, said somebody as I climbed the wheel. Well, we'll give thanks for not having eight, he added cheerfully. Clamp your mind onto that shorty, and he slapped the shoulder of his neighbor. Naturally, I took these two for old companions, but we were all total strangers. They told me of the new gold excitement at Rawhide and supposed it would bring up the Northern Pacific. And when I explained the millions owed to this road's German bondholders, they were of opinion that a German would strike it richer at Rawhide. We spoke of all sorts of things, and in our silence I gloated on the autumn holiday promised me by Judge Henry. His last letter had said that an outfit would be starting for his ranch from Billings on the seventh, and he would have a horse for me. This was the fifth, so we six legs in the jerky traveled harmoniously on over the rain-gutted road, getting no deeper knowledge of each other than what our outsides might imply. Not that we concealed anything, the man who had slapped shorty introduced himself early. Scipio Lemoine from Gallipolis, Ohio, he said. The eldest of us always gets called Scipio. It's French, but us folks have been white for a hundred years. He was limber and light-muscled and fell skilfully about, evading bruises when the jerky reeled or rose on end. He had a strange, long, jocular nose, very wary-looking and a bleached blue eye. Cattle was his business, as a rule, but of late he had been looking around some, and rawhide seemed much on his brain. Shorty struck me as looking around also. He was quite short, indeed, and the jerky hurt him almost every time. He was light-haired and mild. Think of a yellow dog that is lost and fancies each newcomer in sight is going to turn out as master, and you will have Shorty. It was the Northern Pacific that surprised us into intimacy. We were nearing Madura. We had made a last arrangement of our legs. I lay stretched in silence, placid in the knowledge it was soon to end, so I drowsed. I felt something sudden and waking saw Scipio passing through the air. As Shorty next shot from the jerky, I beheld smoke and the locomotive. The Northern Pacific had changed its schedule. Avelisse is a poor companion for catching a train with. There was rutted sand and lumpy, knee-high grease-wood in our shortcut. A piece of stray wire sprang from some hole and hung caracoling about my ankle. Tin cans spun from my stride. But we made a conspicuous race. Two of us waved hats, and there was no moment that some one of us was not screeching. It meant twenty-four hours to us. Perhaps we failed to catch the train's attention, though the theory seems monstrous. As it moved off in our faces, smooth and easy and insulting, Scipio dropped instantly to a walk, and we two others outstripped him and came desperately to the empty track. There went the train. Even still its puffs were the separated puffs of starting, that bitten-off snorty kind, and sweat and our true natures broke freely forth. I kicked my Velisse and then sat on it, dumb. Shorty yielded himself up aloud. All his humble secrets came out of him. He walked aimlessly round, lamenting. He had lost his job and he mentioned the ranch. He had played cards and he mentioned the man. He had sold his horse and saddle to catch a friend on this train, and he mentioned what the friend had been going to do for him. He told a string of griefs and names to the air, as if the air knew. Meanwhile, Scipio arrived with extreme leisure at the rails. He stuck his hands into his pockets and his head out at the very small train. His bleached blue eyes shut to slits as he watched the rear car in its smoke blur ooze away westward among the mounded bluffs. Lucky it's out of range, I thought. But now Scipio spoke to it. Why, you seem to think you've left me behind. He began easily in fawning tones. You're too much of a kid to have such thoughts. Age some. His next remark grew less weedling. I wouldn't be a bit proud to meet you. Why, if I was seen traveling with you, I'd have to explain it to my friends. Think you've left me, do you? Just because you ride through this country on a rail, do you claim you can find your way around? I could take you out 10 yards in the brush and lose you in 10 seconds, you spangle-roofed hobo. Leave me behind. You recent blanket mortgage yearling. You plush-line nickel-plated whistle in washroom. Do you figure I can't go east just as soon as west? Or I'll stay right here if it suits me, you dude-inhabited hot-box. Why, you coon-bossed face-towel. But from here he rose in flights of novelty that appalled and held me spellbound, and which are not for me to say to you. Then he came down easily again and finished with expressions of sympathy for it because it could never have known a mother. Do you expect it could show a male parent offhand, inquired a slow voice behind us? I jumped around, and there was the Virginian. Male parent scoffed the prompt sipio. Ain't you heard about them yet? Them was there too? Too, the blame thing was sired by a whole dog on Dutch syndicate. Why, the pie-bold son of a gun, responded the Virginian sweetly. I got them steers through all right, he added to me. Sorry to see you get so out of breath after the train. Is your valise suffering any? Who's he, inquired sipio, curiously, turning to me? The Southerner sat with a newspaper on the rear platform of a caboose. The caboose stood hitched behind a mile or so of freight train, and the train was headed west. So here was the deputy foreman, his steers delivered in Chicago, his men, I could hear them, safe in the caboose, his paper in his lap, and his legs dangling at ease over the railing. He wore the look of a man for whom things are going smooth, and for me, the way to Billings was smooth now also. Who's he, sipio repeated? But from inside the caboose, loud laughter and noise broke on us. Someone was reciting, and it's my night to howl. We'll all howl when we get to raw hide, said some other one, and they howled now. These he esteemed cars, said the Virginian to sipio, make a man's language mighty nigh as speedy as his travel. Of shorty, he took no notice whatever, no more than of the manifestations in the caboose. So you heard me speakin' to the express, said sipio. Well, I guess sometimes I, see here, he exclaimed for the Virginian was gravely considering him. I may have talked some, but I walked a whole lot. You didn't catch me, squanderin' no speed. Soon as, I noticed, said the Virginian, thinkin' came quicker to you than runnin'. I was glad I was not shorty to have my measure taken merely by my way of missing a train, and of course I was sorry that I had kicked my valise. Oh, I could tell you'd been enjoying us, said sipio, observin' somebody else's scrape always kinda rests me too. Maybe you're a philosopher, but maybe there's a pair of us drawin' in this deal. Approval now grew plain upon the face of the Virginian. By your legs, said he, you are used to the saddle. I'd be called used to it, I expect. By your hands, said the Southerner again, you ain't roped many steers lately, been cookin' or somethin'. Say, retorted sipio, tell my future some now, draw a conclusion from my mouth. I'm right distressed, answered the gentle Southerner. We've not a drop in the outfit. Oh, drink with me up town, cried sipio, I'm pleased to death with you. The Virginian glanced where the saloon stood just behind the station and shook his head. Why, it ain't a bit far to whiskey from here, urged the other plainively. Step down now, sipio lamoins my name. Yes, you're lookin' for my brass earrings, but there ain't no earrings on me. I've been white for a hundred years. Step down, I've a $40 thirst. You're certainly white, began the Virginian, but here the caboose resumed. I'm wild and wooly and full of peas. I'm hard to curry above the knees. I'm a she-wolf from Bitter Creek, and it's my night to howl. And as they howled and stamped, the wheels of the caboose began to turn gently into murmur. The Virginian rose suddenly. Will you save that thirst and take a $40 job? Missin' trains, profanity, or what, said sipio? I'll tell you as soon as I'm sure. At this, sipio looked hard at the Virginian. Why, you're talkin' business, said he, and leaped on the caboose where I was already. I was thinkin' of rawhide, he added, but I ain't any more. Well, good luck, said Shorty on the track behind us. Oh, say, said sipio, he wanted to go on that train, just like me. Get on, called the Virginian, but as to gettin' a job he ain't just like you. So Shorty came like a lost dog when you whistled to him. Our wheels clucked over the mainline switch. A train hand threw it shut after us, jumped aboard, and returned forward over the roofs. Inside the caboose they had reached the third howling of the she-wolf. Friends of yorn, said sipio. My outfit, draw the Virginian. Do you always travel outside, inquired sipio. It's lonesome in there, returned the deputy foreman, and here one of them came out, slamming the door. Hell, he said at sight of the distant town, then truculently to the Virginian. I told you I was going to get a bottle here. Have your bottle then, said the deputy foreman, and kicked him off into Dakota. It was not North Dakota yet, they had not divided it. The Virginian had aimed his pistol at about the same time with his boot. Therefore the man sat in Dakota quietly, watching us go away into Montana and offering no objections. Just before he became too small to make out, we saw him rise and remove himself back toward the saloons. End of chapter 14. Chapter 15, The Game and the Nation, Act Second. That is the only step I have had to take this whole trip, said the Virginian. He holstered his pistol with a jerk. I have been fearing he would force it on me. And he looked at empty, receding Dakota with disgust. Sonia back home, he muttered. Known your friend long, whispered Scipio to me. Fairly, I answered. Scipio's bleached eyes brightened with admiration as he considered the Southerner's back. Well, he stated judicially, start awful early when you go to fool with him or he'll make you feel unpunctual. I expect I've had them almost all of 3,000 miles, said the Virginian, tilting his head toward the noise in the caboose. And I've strove to deliver them back as I receive them, the whole lot. And I would have, but he has spoiled my hopes. The deputy foreman looked again at Dakota. It's a disappointment, he added. You may know what I mean. I had known a little, but not to the very deep of the man's pride and purpose in this trust. Scipio gave him sympathy. There must be quite a balance of them left with you yet, said Scipio, cheeringly. I had the boy's plum contended, pursued the deputy foreman, hurt into open talk of himself. Away along as far as St. Paul, I had them reconciled to my authority. Then this news about gold had to strike us. And there are dreamin' nuggets in Parisian bolivards, suggested Scipio. The Virginian smiled gratefully at him. Fortune is shinin' bright and blindin' to their delicate young eyes, he said, regaining his usual self. We all listened a moment to the rejoicings within. Energetic ain't they, said the Southerner. But none of them was welped savage enough to sing himself bloodthirsty. And though their strain and mighty earnest not to be tame, they're goin' back to Sunk Creek with me, according to the judge's orders. Never a calf of them will desert to rawhide for all their dangerousness, nor ain't going to have any fuss over it. Only one is left now that don't sing. Maybe I will have to make some arrangements about him. The man I have parted with, he said with another glance at Dakota, was our cook, and I will ask you to replace him, Colonel. Scipio gaped wide. Colonel, say, he stared at the Virginian, did I meet you at the palace? Not exactly, meet, replied the Southerner. I was present one mornin' last month when this gentleman awded frog's legs. Sakes and saints, but that was a mean position, burst out Scipio. I had to tell all comers anything all day, stand up and jump language hot off my brain, Adam, and the pay don't near compensate for the drain on the system. I don't care how good a man is, you let him keep a tap in his presence of mind right along without takin' a layoff, and you'll have him sick, yes sir, you'll hit his nerves. So I told him they could hire some fresh man for I was goin' back to punch cattle or fight Indians or take a rest somehow, for I didn't propose to get jaded, and me only 25 years old. There ain't no regular Colonel Cyrus Jones anymore, you know. He met a Cheyenne telegraph pole in 74 and was buried, but his palace was doin' big business and he had been a kind of attraction and so they always keep a live bear outside and some poor fellow fixed up like the Colonel used to be inside, and it's a terrible mean position. Course I'll cook for ya, you have a dandy memory for faces. I wasn't right convinced till I kicked him off and you gave that shut to your eyes again, said the Virginian. Once more, the door opened. A man with slim black eyebrows, slim black mustache, and a black shirt tied with a white handkerchief was looking steadily from one to the other of us. Good day, he remarked generally and without enthusiasm, and to the Virginian, where's Shofner? I expect he'll have got his bottle by now, Trampas. Trampas looked from one to the other of us again. Didn't he say he was comin' back? He reminded me he was goin' for a bottle and after that he didn't wait to say a thing. Trampas looked at the platform and the railing and the steps. He told me he was comin' back, he insisted. I don't reckon he has come, not without he clum up ahead somewhere. And I must say when he got off he didn't look like a man does when he has the intention of returnin'. At this, Scipio coughed and paired his nails attentively. We had already been avoiding each other's eye. Shorty did not count. Since he got aboard, his meek seat had been the bottom step. The thoughts of Trampas seemed to be in difficulty. How long's this train been started, he demanded. This year train, the Virginian consulted his watch. Why, it's been fanin' it a right smart little while, said he, laying no stress upon his indolent syllables. Huh, went Trampas. He gave the rest of us a final, unlovely scrutiny. It seems to have become a passenger train, he said, and he returned abruptly inside the caboose. Is he the member who don't sing, asked Scipio. That's the specimen, replied the Southerner. He don't see musical in the face, said Scipio. Shaw returned the Virginian. Why, you surely ain't the man to mind ugly mugs when they're hollow. The noise inside had dropped quickly to stillness. You could scarcely catch the sound of talk. Our caboose was clicking comfortably westward, rail after rail, mile upon mile, while night was beginning to rise from earth into the clouded sky. I wonder if they have sent a search party forward to hunt Shofner, said the Virginian. I think I'll maybe join their meeting. He opened the door upon them. Kinda dark here, ain't it, said he, and lighting the lantern, he shut us out. What do you think, said Scipio to me. Will he take them to Sunk Creek? He evidently thinks he will, said I. He says he will, and he has the courage of his convictions. That ain't near enough courage to have, Scipio exclaimed. There's times in life when a man has got to have courage without convictions, without them, or he is no good. Now your friend is that deep constituted that you don't know and I don't know what he's thinking about all this. If there's to be any gunplay, put in the excellent shorty, I'll stand in with him. I go to bed with your gunplay, retorted Scipio, entirely good-humored. Is the judge paying for a carload of dead punchers to gather his beef for him? And this ain't a proposition worth a man's getting hurt for himself, anyway. That's so shorty assented. No, speculated Scipio, as the night drew deeper around us and the caboose click-clucked and click-clucked over the rail joints. He's waiting for somebody else to open this pot. I'll bet he don't know but one thing now, and that's that nobody else shall know he don't know anything. Scipio had delivered himself. He lighted a cigarette and no more wisdom came from him. The night was established. The rolling badlands sank away in it. A train hand had arrived over the roof and hanging the red lights out behind left us again without remark or symptom of curiosity. The train hand seemed interested in their own society and lived in their own caboose. A chill wind with wet in it came blowing from the invisible draws and brought the feel of the distant mountains. That's Montana, said Scipio, snuffing. I am glad to have it inside my lungs again. Ain't you getting cool out there? Said the Virginian's voice. Plenty room inside. Perhaps he had expected us to follow him or perhaps he had meant us to delay long enough not to seem like a reinforcement. These gentlemen missed the express at Madora. He observed to his men simply. What they took us for upon our entrance, I cannot say or what they believed. The atmosphere of the caboose was charged with voiceless currents of thought. By way of a friendly beginning to the 300 miles of caboose we were now to share so intimately, I recalled myself to them. I trusted no more of the Christian endeavor had delayed them. I am so lucky to have caught you again, I finished. I was afraid my last chance of reaching the judges had gone. Thus I said a number of things designed to be agreeable, but they met my small talk with the smallest talk you can have. Yes, for instance, and pretty well, I guess, and grave striking of matches and thoughtful looks at the floor. I suppose we had made 20 miles to the imperturbable clicking of the caboose when one at length asked his neighbor had he ever seen New York. No, said the other, flooded with dudes, ain't it? Swimming, said the first. Leakin' too, said a third. Well, my gracious said a fourth and beat his knee in private delight. None of them ever looked at me. For some reason, I felt exceedingly ill at ease. Good clothes in New York, said the third. Rich food, said the first. Fresh eggs, too, said the third. Well, my gracious said the fourth, beating his knee. Why, yes, observed the Virginian unexpectedly. They tell me that eggs there ain't liable to be so rotten as you'll strike them in this country. None of them had a reply for this and New York was abandoned. For some reason, I felt much better. It was a new line they adopted next, led off by Trampas. Going to the excitement, he inquired, selecting Shorty. Excitement, said Shorty, looking up. Going to raw hide, Trampas repeated, and all watched Shorty. Why, I'm all adrift, Miss Annette Express, said Shorty. Maybe I can give you employment, suggested the Virginian. I am taking an outfit across the basin. You'll find most folks going to raw hide if you're looking for company, pursued Trampas, fishing for a recruit. How about raw hide anyway, said Sipio, skillfully deflecting this missionary work. Are they taking much mineral out? Have you seen any of the rock? Rock broke in the enthusiast who had beaten his knee. There, and he brought some from his pocket. You're always showing your rock, said Trampas, sulkily. For Sipio now held the conversation, and Shorty returned safely to his dozing. Hmm, went Sipio at the rock. He turned it back and forth in his hand, looking it over. He chucked and caught it slidingly in the air and handed it back. Porphyry, I see. That was his only word about it. He said it cheerily. He left no room for discussion. You could not dam a thing worse. Ever been in Santa Rita, pursued Sipio, while the enthusiast slowly pushed his rock back into his pocket. That's down in New Mexico. Ever been to Globe, Arizona? And Sipio talked away about the mines he had known. There was no getting at Shorty any more that evening. Trampas was foiled of his fish, or of learning how the fish's heart lay. And by morning Shorty had been carefully instructed to change his mind about once an hour. This is apt to discourage all but very superior missionaries, and I too escaped for the rest of this night. At Glendive we had a dim supper, and I bought some blankets, and after that it was late, and sleep occupied the attention of us all. We lay along the shelves of the caboose, a peaceful sight I should think, in that smoothly trundling cradle. I slept almost immediately, so tired that not even our stops or anything else waked me, save once when the air I was breathing grew suddenly pure and I roused. Sitting in the door was the lonely figure of the Virginian. He leaned in silent contemplation of the occasional moon, and beneath it the Yellowstone swift ripples. On the caboose shelves the others slept sound and still, each stretched or coiled as he had first put himself. They were not untrustworthy to look at, it seemed to me, except Trampas. You would have said the rest of that young humanity was average rough male blood, merely needing to be told the proper things at the right time, and one big bunchy stalking of the enthusiast stuck out of his blanket, solemn and innocent, and I laughed at it. There was a light sound by the door, and I found the Virginian's eye on me. Finding who it was, he nodded and motioned with his hand to go to sleep. And this I did, with him in my sight, still leaning in the open door, through which came the interrupted moon and the swimming reaches of the Yellowstone. CHAPTER XVI. THE GAME AND THE NATION. LAST ACT. It has happened to you, has it not, to wake in the morning and wonder for a while where on earth you are? Thus I came half to life in the caboose, hearing voices, but not the actual words at first. But presently, half away, said someone more clearly, Portland, 1291. This made no special stir in my intelligence, and I drowsed off again to the pleasant rhythm of the wheels. The little shock of stopping next brought me to, somewhat, with the voices still round me. And when we were again in motion, I heard, Rosebud, Portland, 1279. These figures jarred me awake, and I said, it was 1291 before, and sat up in my blankets. The greeting they vouchsafed, and the sight of them clustering expressionless in the caboose, brought last evening's uncomfortable memory back to me. Our next stop revealed how things were going today. Forsythe, one of them read on the station, Portland, 1266. They were counting the lessening distance westward. This was the undercurrent of war. It broke on me as I procured fresh water at Forsythe and made some toilet in their stolid presence. We were drawing near the rawhide station, the point, I mean, where you left the railway for the new mines. Now, rawhide station laid this side of billings. The broad path of desertion would open ready for their feet when the narrow path to duty and sunk creek was still some 50 miles more to wait. Here was Trampas' great strength. He need make no move meanwhile, but lie low for the immediate temptation to front and waylay them and win his battle over the deputy foreman. But the Virginians seemed to find nothing safe enjoyment in this sunny September morning and ate his breakfast at Forsythe serenely. That meal done and that station gone, our caboose took up again its easy trundle by the banks of the Yellowstone. The mutineers sat for a while digesting in idleness. What's your scar, inquired one at length, inspecting casually the neck of his neighbor? Foolishness, the other answered. Yorn? Mine. Well, I don't know, but I prefer to have myself to thank for a thing, said the first. I was displaying myself, continued the second. One day last summer it was. We come on a big snake by Torrey Creek Corral. The boys got bettin' pretty lively that I dastin' make my word good as to dealin' with him. So I loked my coyose full tilt by Mr. Snake and swung down and catched him up by the tail from the ground and cracked him, same as a whip, snapped his head off. You saw it done? He said to the audience. The audience nodded, wearily. But the loose head flew again me and the fangs caught. I was pretty sick for a while. It don't pay to be clumsy, said the first man. If you'd snap the snake away from ya, instead of toward ya, its head would've whirled off into the brush, same as they do with me. How like a knife cut your scar looks, said I. Don't it? Said the snake snapper. There's many that gets fooled by it. An antelope knows a snake is his enemy, said another to me. Ever seen a buck circling round and round a rattler? I have always wanted to see that, said I, heartily. For this I knew to be a respectable piece of truth. It's worth seeing, the man went on. After the buck gets close in, he gives an almighty jump up in the air, and down comes his four hoofs and a bunch right on top of Mr. Snake. Cuts him all to hash. Now you tell me how the buck knows that. Of course I could not tell him, and again we sat in silence for a while, friendlier silence, I thought. A skunk'll kill ya worse than a snakebite, said another presently. No, I don't mean that way, he added, for I had smiled. There is a brown skunk down in Arkansas, kind of prairie dog brown, littler than our variety he is. And he is mad the whole year round, same as a dog gets. Only the dog has a spell and dies, but this here Arkansas skunk is mad right along, and it don't seem to interfere with his business in other respects. Well, suppose you're camping out, and suppose it's a hot night, or you're in a hurry, and you've made camp late, or anyway you haven't got inside any tent, but you have just bedded down in the open. Someone comes traveling along and walks on your blankets. You're warm. He likes that, same as a cat does. And he tramps with pleasure and comfort, same as a cat. And you move. You get bit, that's all, and you die of hydrophobia. Ask anybody. Most extraordinary, said I, but did you ever see a person die from this? No sir, never happened to, my cousin at Bald Knob did. Died? No sir, saw a man. But how do you know they're not sick skunks? No sir, they're well skunks, well as anything. You'll not meet skunks in any state of the union more robust than them in Arkansas, and sick. That's awful true, sighed another. I have buried hundreds of dollars worth of clothes in Arkansas. Why didn't you travel in a sponge bag? Inquired Cipio, and this brought a slight silence. Speaking of bites, spoke up a new man. How's that? He held up his thumb. My, breathed Cipio, must have been a lion. The man wore a wounded look. I was hunting owl eggs for a botanist from Boston, he explained to me. Sheropodist Wernie, said Cipio, or maybe a senambulator? No, honest, protested the man with the thumb, so that I was sorry for him and begged him to go on. I'll listen to you, I assured him. And I wondered why this politeness of mine should throw one or two of them into stifled mirth. Cipio, on the other hand, gave me a disgusted look and sat back sullenly for a moment, and then took himself out on the platform where the Virginian was lounging. The young feller wore knee pants and ever-so-thick spectacles with a half-moon cut in them, resumed the narrator. And he carried a tin box strung to a strap I took for his lunch till it flew open on him and a horn toad hustled out. Then I was sure he was a botanist, or whatever you say they're called. Well, he would have owl eggs, them little prairie owl that some claim can turn their head clean around and keep a watch in ya, only that's nonsense. We was riding through that prairie dog town, used to be on the flat just after you crossed the South Fork of Powder River on the Buffalo Trail. And I said I'd dig an owl nest out for him if he was willing to camp till I'd dug it. I wanted to know about them owls some myself if they did live with the dogs and snakes, you know? He broke off, appealing to me. Oh yes, I told him eagerly. So while the botanist went glaring around the town with his glasses to see if he could spot a prairie dog and an owl using the same hole, I was digging in a hole I'd seen an owl run down. And that's what I got, he held up his thumb again. The snake, I exclaimed. Yes, sir, Mr. Rattler was keeping house that day, took me right there. I hauled him out of the hole, hanging to me. Eight rattles. Eight, said I, a big one. Yes, sir, thought I was dead, but the woman, the woman, said I. Yes, woman, didn't I tell you the botanist had his wife along? Well, he did, and she acted better than the man, for he was rose in his head and shouting he had no whiskey and he didn't guess his knife was sharp enough to amputate my thumb, and none of us chewed and the doctor was 20 miles away, and if he had only remembered to bring his ammonia, well, he was screeching out most everything he knew in the world and without arranging it any, neither. But she just clawed his pocket and burrowed and kept yelling, give him the stone, Augustus. And she whipped out one of them engine medicine stones, first one I ever seen, and she clapped it onto my thumb and it started in right away. What did it do, said I. Sucked like blotting paper does, soft and funny it was and gray, they get them from elk's stomachs, you know. And when it had sucked the poison out of the wound, off it falls on my thumb by itself, and I thank the woman for saving my life that capable and keeping her head that cool, I never knowed how excited she had been till afterward, she was awful shocked. I suppose she started to talk when the danger was over, said I, with deep silence around me. No, she didn't say nothing to me, but when her next child was born it had eight rattles. Din now rose wild in the caboose, they rocked together, the enthusiast beat his knee tumultuously, and I joined them, who could help it? It had been so well conducted from the imperceptible beginning, fact and falsehood blended with such perfect art, and this last, an effect so new, made with such world old material. I cared nothing that I was the victim and I joined them, but ceased, feeling suddenly somehow estranged or chilled. It was in their laughter, the loudness was too loud, and I caught the eyes of Trampas, fixed upon the Virginian with exultant malevolence. Cipio's disgusted glance was upon me from the door. Dazed by these signs, I went out on the platform to get away from the noise. There the Virginian said to me, cheer up, you'll not be so easy for him that away next season. He said no more, and with his legs dangled over the railing, appeared to resume his newspaper. What's the matter, said I to Cipio? Oh, I don't mind if he don't, Cipio answered. Couldn't you see? I tried to head him off from y'all I knew, but you just ran in among them yourself. Couldn't you see? Kept hindering and spoiling me with asking those urgent questions of yarn. Why, I had to let you go your way. Why, that wasn't the ordinary play with the ordinary tenderfoot they treated you to. You ain't a common tenderfoot this trip. You're the foreman's friend. They've hit him through you. That's the way they count it. It's made them encouraged, can't you see? Cipio stated it plainly. And as we ran by the next station, Howard, they harshly yelled, Portland, 1256. We had been passing gangs of workmen on the track, and at that last yell, the Virginian rose. I reckon I'll join the meetin' again, he said. This fillin' in repairin' looks like the washout might've been true. Washout, said Cipio. Big Horn Bridge, they say, four days ago. Then I wish it came this side, raw hide station. Do ya, draw the Virginian, and smiling at Cipio, he lounged in through the open door. He beats me, said Cipio, shaking his head. His trail is terrible hard to anticipate. We listened. Work bein' done on the road I see, the Virginian was saying, very friendly and conversational. We see it too, said the voice of Trampas. Seem to be easin' their grades some. Roads do. Cheaper to build'em the way they want'em at the start, a man would think, suggested the Virginian, most friendly. There goes some more Italians. They're Chinese, said Trampas. That so acknowledged the Virginian with a laugh. What's he monkein' at now, muttered Cipio? Without cheap foreigners, they couldn't afford all this here new gradeen, the Southerner continued. Grading, can't you tell when a flood's been eatin' the banks? Why, yes, said the Virginian, sweet as honey. But ain't ya heard of the improvements west of Big Timber, all the way to Missoula this season? I'm talkin' about them. Oh, talkin' about them, yes, I've heard. Good money-saving scheme, ain't it? Said the Virginian. Lettin' a freight run down one hill and up the next as far as she'll go without steam and shavin' the hill down to that point. Now, this was an honest engineering fact. Better insettin' dudes squintin' through telescopes and cypherin' over 1% reductions, the Southerner commented. It's common sense, assented Trampas. Have you heard the new scheme about the water tanks? I ain't right, certain, said the Southerner. I must watch this, said Cypio, or I shall bust. He went in and so did I. They were all sitting over this discussion of the Northern Pacific's recent policy as to betterments as though they were the Board of Directors. Pins could've dropped, only nobody would've cared to hear a pin. They used to put all their tanks at the bottom of their grades, said Trampas. Why, you get the water easier at the bottom. You can pump it to the top, though, said Trampas, growing superior, and it's cheaper. That gets me, said the Virginian, interested. Trains after watering can start down hill now and get the benefit of the gravity. It'll cut down operating expenses a heap. That's certainly common sense, exclaimed the Virginian, absorbed. That ain't it kinda tardy? Live and learn, so they gain speed, too. High speed on half the cold this season, until the accident. Accident, said the Virginian, instantly. Yellowstone limited. Man fired an engine driver. Train was flying past that quick. The bullet broke every window and killed a passenger on the back platform. You've been running too much with aristocrats, finished Trampas and turned on his heel. Ha, he began the enthusiast, but his neighbor gripped him to silence. This was a triumph too serious for noise. Not a mutineer moved and I felt cold. Trampas, said the Virginian, I thought you'd be afeared to try it on me. Trampas whirled round. His hand was at his belt. Afraid, he sneered. Shorty, said Scipio, sternly, and leaping upon that youth took his half-drawn pistol from him. I'm obliged to you, said the Virginian to Scipio. Trampas's hand left his belt. He threw a slight easy look at his men and keeping his back to the Virginian, walked out on the platform and sat on the chair where the Virginian had sat so much. Don't you comprehend, said the Virginian to Shorty, amably, that this here question has been discussed peaceable by civilized citizens? Now you sit down and be good and Mr. Lemoine will return your gun when we're across that broken bridge if they've got it fixed for heavy trains yet. This train will be lighter when it gets to that bridge, spoke Trampas out on his chair. Why, that's true too, said the Virginian. Maybe none of us are crossing that big horn bridge now except me. Funny if you should end by persuading me to quit and go to raw hide myself, but I reckon all not. I reckon I'll worry along to Sunk Creek somehow. Don't forget, I'm cooking for you, said Scipio, gruffly. I'm obliged to you, said the Southerner. You were speaking of a job for me, said Shorty. I'm right obliged, but you see, I ain't exactly foreman the way this comes out and my promises might not bind Judge Henry to pay salaries. A push came through the train from forward. We were slowing for the raw hide station and all began to be busy and to talk. Going up to the mines today? Oh, let's grub first. Guess it's too late anyway and so forth while they rolled and roped their bedding and put on their coats with a good deal of elbow motion and otherwise showed off. It was wasted. The Virginian did not know what was going on in the caboose. He was leaning and looking out ahead and Scipio's puzzled eye never left him. And as we halted for the water tank, the Southerner exclaimed, they ain't got away yet as if it were good news to him. He meant the delayed trains. Four stalled expresses were in front of us besides several freight and two hours more at least before the bridge would be ready. Travelers stood and sat about forlorn near their cars out in the sagebrush anywhere. People in hats and spurs watched them and Indian chiefs offered them painted bows and arrows and shiny horns. I reckon them passengers would prefer a Lego mutton said the Virginian to a man loafing near the caboose. Bet your life, said the man. First lot has been stuck here four days. Plum starved, ain't they? inquired the Virginian. Bet your life they've eat up their dining cars and they've eat up this town. Well, said the Virginian looking at the town. I expect the dining cars contained more nourishment. Say you're about right there, said the man. He walked beside the caboose as we puffed slowly forward from the water tank to our siding. Find business here, we'd only been ready, he continued. And the crow agent has let his Indians come over from the reservation. There has been a little beef brought in and game and fish and big money in it, bet your life. Them Eastern passengers has just been robbed. I wished I had something to sell. Anything starting for raw hide this afternoon? Said Trampas out of the caboose door. Not until morning, said the man. You going to the mines? He resumed to the Virginian. Why? Answered the Southerner slowly and casually and addressing himself strictly to the man while Trampas on his side paid obvious inattention. This here delay, you see, may unsettle our plans some but it'll be one of two ways. We're all going to raw hide or we'll all go into billings. We're all one party, you see. Trampas laughed audibly inside the door as he rejoined his men. Let him keep up appearances, I heard him tell them. It don't hurt us what he says to strangers. But I'm going to eat hearty either way, continued the Virginian. And I ain't going to be robbed. I've been kind of promising myself a treat if we stopped here. Towns eat clean out, said the man. So you tell me, but all you folks has forgot one source of revenue that you have right close by, mighty handy. If you have got a gunny sack, I'll show you how to make some money. Bet your life, said the man. Mr. Lemoine, said the Virginian, the outfit's cooking stuff is a board and if you'll get the fire ready, we'll try how frog's legs go fried. He walked off at once, the man following like a dog. Inside the caboose rose a gust of laughter. Frogs, muttered Scipio, and then turning a blank face to me. Frogs? Colonel Cyrus Jones had them on his bill of fare, I said, frog's legs a la Delmonico. Shoe, I didn't get up that thing. They had it when I came, never looked at it. Frogs? He went down the steps very slowly with a long frown. Reaching the ground, he shook his head. That man's trail is surely hard to anticipate, he said, but I must hurry up that fire for his appearance has given me encouragement. Scipio concluded and became brisk. Shorty helped him and I brought wood. Trampas and the other people strolled off to the station, a compact band. Our little fire was built beside the caboose, so the cooking things might be easily reached and put back. You would scarcely think such operations held any interest, even for the hungry, when there seemed to be nothing to cook. A few sticks blazing tamely in the dust, a frying pan, half a tin bucket of lard, some water and barren plates and knives and forks, and three silent men attending to them, that was all. But the travelers came to see. These waves drew near us and stood, a sad, lone, shifting fringe of audience, four to begin with, and then two wondered away, and presently one of these came back finding it worse elsewhere. Supper boys, said he. Breakfast, said Scipio crossly, and no more of them addressed us. I heard them joylessly mention Wall Street to each other and Saratoga, I even heard the name Bryn Mauer, which is near Philadelphia. But these fragments of home dropped in the wilderness here in Montana beside a freight caboose were of no interest to me now. Looks like frogs down there, too, said Scipio. See them marshy slogs full of weeds? We took a little turn and had a sight of the Virginian quite active among the ponds. Hush, I'm getting some thoughts, continued Scipio. He wasn't sorry enough, don't interrupt me. I'm not, said I. No, but I'd most caught a hold, and Scipio muttered to himself again. He wasn't sorry enough. Presently, he swore loud and brilliantly. Tell ya, he cried. What did he say to Trampas after that play they exchanged over railroad improvements and Trampas put the josh on him? Didn't he say, Trampas, I thought you'd be afraid to do it? Well, sir, Trampas had better have been afraid, and that's what he meant. That's where he was bringing it to. Trampas made an awful bad play then. You wait, Glory, but he's a knowing man. Course he wasn't sorry. I guess he had the hardest kind of work to look as sorry as he did. You wait. Wait, what for? Go on, man, what for? I don't know, I don't know. Whatever hand he's been holding up, this is the showdown. He's played for a showdown here before the caboose gets off the bridge. Come back to the fire or Shorty'll be leaving it go out. Grow happy, some Shorty, he cried on arriving and his hand cracked on Shorty's shoulder. Supper's in sight, Shorty, food for reflection. None for the stomach, asked the passenger who had spoken once before. We're figuring on that too, said Scipio. His crossness had melted entirely away. Why, they're cowboys, exclaimed another passenger, and he moved nearer. From the station, Trampas now came back, his herd following him less compactly. They had found famine and no hope of supplies until the next train from the east. This was no fault of Trampas's, but they were following him less compactly. They carried one piece of cheese, the size of a fist, the weight of a brick, the hue of a corpse, and the passengers seeing it exclaimed, there's old faithful again, and took off their hats. You gentlemen met that cheese before then, said Scipio, delighted. It's been offered me three times a day for four days, said the passenger. Did he want a dollar or a dollar and a half? Two dollars blurted out the enthusiast, and all of us saved Trampas fell into fits of imbecile laughter. Here comes our grub anyway, said Scipio, looking off toward the marshes, and his hilarity sobered away in a moment. Well, the train will be in soon, stated Trampas. I guess we'll get a decent supper without frogs. All interest settled now upon the Virginian. He was coming with his man and his gunny sack, and the gunny sack hung from his shoulder heavily as a full sack should. He took no notice of the gathering, but sat down and partly emptied the sack. There, said he, very business-like to his assistant, that's all we'll want. I think you'll find a ready market for the balance. Well, my gracious, said the enthusiast, what fool eats a frog? Oh, I'm fool enough for a tadpole, cried the passenger, and they began to take out their pocketbooks. You can cook yours right here, gentlemen, said the Virginian, with his slow southern courtesy. The dining-kyars don't look like they were fired up. How much will you sell a couple for, inquired the enthusiast. The Virginian looked at him with friendly surprise. Why, help yourself. We're all together yet awhile. Help yourselves, he repeated to Trampas and his followers. These hung back a moment, then, with a slinking motion, set the cheese upon the earth and came forward nearer the fire to receive some supper. It won't scarcely be Delmonico's style, said the Virginian to the passengers, nor yet St. Augustine. He meant the great Augustine, the traditional chef of Philadelphia, whose history I had sketched for him at Colonel Cyrus Jones' eating palace. Scipio now officiated. His frying pan was busy and prosperous odors arose from it. Run for a bucket of fresh water, shorty, the Virginian continued, beginning his meal. Colonel, you cook pretty near good. If you had sold them as advertised, you'd have certainly made a name. Several were now eating with satisfaction, but not Scipio. It was all that he could do to cook straight. The whole man seemed to glisten. His eye was shut to a slit once more while the innocent passengers thankfully swallowed. Now, you see, you have made some money, began the Virginian to the native who had helped him get the frogs. Bet your life, exclaimed the man. Divvy, won't you? And he held out half his gains. Keep them, returned the Southerner. I reckon we're square. But I expect they'll not equal Delmonico's sir, he said to a passenger. Don't trust the judgment of a man as hungry as I am, exclaimed the traveler with a laugh. And he turned to his fellow travelers. Did you ever enjoy supper at Delmonico's more than this? Never, they sighed. Why, look here, said the traveler. What fools the people of this town are? Here we've been all these starving days and you come and get ahead of them. That's right, easy explained, said the Virginian. I've been where there was big money and frogs and they ain't been. They're all cattle here. Talk cattle, think cattle, and they're bankrupt in consequence. Fallen through, ain't that so? He inquired of the native. That's about the way, said the man. It's mighty hard to do what your neighbors ain't doing, pursued the Virginian. Montana is all cattle and these folks must be cattle and never notice the country right here as too small for a range and swampy anyway and just waiting to be a frog ranch. At this all wore a face of careful reserve. I'm not claiming to be smarter than you folks here, said the Virginian, deprecatingly to his assistant. But traveling learns a man many customs. You wouldn't do the business they'd done at Tulare, California, north side of the lake. They certainly utilized them hopeless swamps splendid. Of course, they put up big capital and went into it scientific, getting advice from the government fish commission and such like knowledge. You see, they had big markets for their frogs. San Francisco, Los Angeles, and cleared to New York after the Southern Pacific was through. But up here, you could sell to passengers every day like you done this one day. They would get to know you along the line, compete in swamps or scarce. The dining cars would take your frogs and you would have the Yellowstone Park for four months in the year. Them hotels are anxious to please and they would buy off you what their eastern patrons' esteem is fine-eaten and you folks would be selling something instead of nothing. That's a practical idea, said a traveler and little cost. And little cost, said the Virginian. Would Eastern people eat frogs? inquired the man. Look at us, said the traveler. Del Monaco doesn't give you such a treat, said the Virginian. Not exactly, the traveler exclaimed. How much would be paid for frogs? said Trampas to him and I saw Scipio been closer to his cooking. Oh, I don't know, said the traveler. We've paid pretty well, you see. You're late for two-layer, Trampas, said the Virginian. I was not thinking of two-layer, Trampas retorted. Scipio's nose was in the frying pan. Most comical spot you ever struck, said the Virginian, looking round upon the whole company. He allowed himself a broad smile of retrospect. To hear him talk frogs at two-layer, same as other folks talks, or causses, or steers, or whatever they're raisin' to sell, you'd fall into it yourselves if you started the business. Anything a man's bread and butter depends on, he's going to be earnest about. Don't care if it is a frog. That's so, said the native, and it paid good? The only money in the county was right there, answered the Virginian. It was a dead county and only frogs was movin'. But that business was a fanin' to beat four of a kind. It made you feel strange at first, as I said, for all the men had been cattlemen at one time or another. Till you got accustomed, it would give most anybody a shock to hear him speakin' about herdin' the bulls and a pasture by themselves. The Virginian allowed himself another smile, but became serious again. That was their policy, he explained, except at certain times of year they kept the bulls separate. The fish commission told them they'd better, and it certainly worked mighty well. It or somethin' did for gentlemen hush, but there was millions. You'd have said all the frogs in the world had taken charge at two lair. And the money rolled in, gentlemen hush, it was a gold mine for the owners. 40% they netted some years, and they paid generous wages, for they could sell to all them French restaurants in San Francisco, you see. And there was the Cliff House, and the Palace Hotel made it a specialty, and the officers took frogs at the Presidio, and Angel Island, and Alcatraz, and Benicia. Los Angeles was beginin' its boom. The corner lot sharps wanted somethin' by way of varnish, and so they dazzled the eastern investors with advertising two lair frogs clear to New Orleans and New York. It was only in Sacramento frogs was dull. I expect the California legislature was too ornery for them fine-raised luxuries. They tell of one of them senators that he raked a million out of Los Angeles real estate, and started in for a bang-up meal with champagne. Wanted to scatter his new gold thick and quick, but he got astray among all the fancy dishes and just yelled right out before the ladies, damn it, bring me $40 worth of ham and eggs. He was a funny senator now. The Virginian paused and finished eating a leg, and then with diabolic art, he made a faint at wandering to new fields of anecdote. Talkin' of senators, he resumed. Senator Wise, how much did you say wages were too lair, inquired one of the Trampas faction? How much? Why, I never knew what the foreman got. The regular hands got a hundred. Senator Wise, a hundred a month? Why, it was wet and muddy work, you see. A man risked rheumatism some. He risked it a good deal. Well, I was going to tell about Senator Wise, when Senator Wise was speakin' of his visit to Alaska. Forty percent was it, said Trampas. Oh, I must call my wife, said the traveler behind me. This is what I came west for, and he hurried away. Not 40% the bad years, replied the Virginian. The frogs had enemies, same as cattle. I remember when a pelican got in the spring pasture and the herd broke through the fence. Fence, said a passenger. Ditch, sir, and wire net. Every pasture was a square swamp with a ditch around and a wire net. You've heard the mournful, mixed up sound a big bunch of cattle will make. Well, sir, as you drove from the railroad to the two-layer frog ranch, you could hear them a mile. Springtime they'd sing like girls in the organ loft, and by August they were about ready to hire out for base. And all was fit to be soloists, if I'm a judge. But in a bad year, it might only be 20%. The pelican rushed him from the pasture right into the San Joaquin River, which was close by the property. The big balance of the herd stampeded, and though, of course, they came out on the banks again, the news had went round, and folks below at Hemlin eat most of them just to spite the company. You see, a frog in a river is more hopeless than any maverick loose on the range, and they never struck any plan to brand their stock and prove ownership. Well, 20% is good enough for me, said Trampas, if rawhide don't suit me. A hundred a month, said the enthusiast, and busy calculations began to arise among them. It went to 50%, pursued the Virginian, when New York and Philadelphia got to bidden against each other. Both cities had signs all over them, claiming to furnish the two-layer frog, and both had them all right. And same as cattle trains, you'd see frog trains tearing across Arizona, big glass tanks with wire over them, through to New York, and the frogs staring out. Why, George, whispered a woman's voice behind me, he's merely deceiving them, he's merely making that stuff up out of his head. Yes, my dear, that's merely what he's doing. Well, I don't see why you imagined I should care for this, I think I'll go back. Better see it out, Daisy, this beats the geysers or anything we're likely to find in the Yellowstone. Then I wish we had gone to Bar Harbor as usual, said the lady, and she returned to her Pullman. But her husband stayed. Indeed, the male crowd now was a goodly sight to see how the men edged close, drawn by a common tie. Their different kinds of feet told the strength of the bond. Yellow sleeping car slippers planted miscellaneous and motionless near a pair of Mexican spurs. All eyes watched the Virginian and gave him their entire sympathy. Though they could not know his motive for it, what he was doing had fallen as light upon them, all except the excited calculators. These were loudly making their fortunes at both raw hide and to lair, drugged by their satanically aroused hopes of gold, heedless of the slippers and the spurs. Had a man given any sign to warn them, I think he would have been lynched. Even the Indian chiefs had come to see in their show war bonnets and blankets. They naturally understood nothing of it, yet magnetically knew that the Virginian was the great man, and they watched him with approval. He sat by the fire with the frying pan, looking his daily self engaging in Saturnine. And now, as Trampas declared tickets to California would be dear and raw hide had better come first, the Southerner let loose his heaven-born imagination. There's a better reason for raw hide than tickets, Trampas said he. I said it was too late for too lair. I heard you, said Trampas, opinions may differ. You and I don't think alike on several points. God, Trampas said the Virginian, do you reckon I'd be rotten here on $40 if too lair was like it used to be? Too lair is broke. What broke it, you're leaving? Revenge broke it and disease, said the Virginian, striking the frying pan on his knee for the frogs were all gone. At those lurid words their untamed child minds took fire and they drew round him again to hear a tale of blood. The crowds seemed to lean nearer. But for a short moment it threatened to be spoiled. A passenger came along, demanding in an important voice, where are these frogs? He was a prominent New York after-dinner speaker, they whispered me, and out for a holiday in his private car. Reaching us and walking to the Virginian, he said cheerily, how much do you want for your frogs, my friend? You got a friend here, said the Virginian, that's good for you need care taken of ya. And the prominent after-dinner speaker did not further discomode us. That's worth my trip, whispered a New York passenger to me. Yes, it was a case of revenge, resumed the Virginian, and disease. There was a man named St. Augustine got run out of Domingo, which is a Dago Island. He come to Philadelphia and he was dead broke. But St. Augustine was a live man and he saw Philadelphia was full of Quakers that dressed plain and eat humdrum. So he started cooking Domingo way for him and they caught right a hold. Terrapin he gave him and croquettes and he'd use 40 chickens to make a broth, he called consomme. And he got rich and Philadelphia got well-known. And Delmonico in New York, he got jealous. He was the cook that had to say so in New York. Was Delmonico one of them Italians? Inquired a fascinated mutineer. I don't know, but he acted like one. Lorenzo was his front name. He aimed to cut Domingo's throat, breathed the enthusiast. Aimed to cut away the trade from St. Augustine and put Philadelphia back where he thought she belonged. Frogs was the fashionable rage then. These foreign cooks set the fashion in Eaton, same as foreign dressmakers do women's clothes. Both cities was catching and swallowing all the frogs two layer could throw at him. So he, Lorenzo, said the enthusiast. Yes, Lorenzo Delmonico, he bid a dollar a tank higher and St. Augustine raised him 50 cents and Lorenzo raised him a dollar and St. Augustine shoved her up three. Lorenzo, he didn't expect Philadelphia would go that high and he got hot in the collar and flew around his kitchen in New York and claimed he'd twist St. Augustine's Domingo tail for him and crack his ossified system. Lorenzo raised his language to a high temperature they say and then quite sudden off he starts for two layer. He buys tickets over the Santa Fe and he goes a fan and a fogging. But gentlemen hush, the very same day St. Augustine he tears out of Philadelphia. He traveled by the way of Washington and out he comes a fan and a fogging over the Southern Pacific. Of course, two layer didn't know nothing of this. All it knowed was how the frog market was on soaring wings and it was feeling like a flight of rockets. If only there'd been some preparation, a telegram or something. The disaster would never have occurred. But Lorenzo and St. Augustine was that absorbed watching each other for you see the Santa Fe and the Southern Pacific come together at Mojave and the two cooks traveled a matter of 210 miles in the same cure. They never thought about a telegram and when they arrived breathless and started in to screeching what they'd give for the monopoly why them unsuspecting two layer boys got amused at them. I never heard just all they done but they had Lorenzo singing and dancing while St. Augustine played the fiddle for him and one of Lorenzo's heels did get a trifle grazed. Well, them two cooks quit that ranch without disclosing their identity and soon as they got to a safe distance they swore eternal friendship in their excitable foreign way and they went home over the Union Pacific sharing the same state room. Their revenge killed frogs. The disease, how killed frogs, demanded Trampas. Just killed them. Delmonico and St. Augustine wiped frogs off the slate of fashion. Not a banker in Fifth Avenue will touch one now of another bankers around watching them and if ever you see a man that hides his feet and won't take off his socks and company he has worked in them two layer swamps and got the disease. Catch him waiting and you'll find he's web footed. Frogs are dead, Trampas and so are you. Rise up liars and salute your king, yelled Scipio. Oh, I'm in love with you. And he threw his arms around the Virginian. Let me shake hands with you, said the traveler who had failed to interest his wife in these things. I wish I was going to have more of your company. Thank you, sir, said the Virginian. Other passengers greeted him and the Indian chiefs came saying how because they followed their feelings without understanding. Don't show so humbled, boys, said the deputy foreman to his most sheepish crew. These gentlemen from the east have been enjoying you some, I know. But think what a weary weight they have had here. And you insisted on playing the game with me this way, you see, what outlet did you give me? Didn't I have it to do? And I'll tell you one thing for your consolation, when I got to the middle of the frogs, I most believed it myself. And he laughed out the first laugh I had heard him give. The enthusiast came up and shook hands. That let off and the rest followed with trampas at the end. The tide was too strong for him. He was not a graceful loser, but he got through this and the Virginian eased him down by treating him precisely like the others, apparently. Possibly the supreme, the most American moment of all was when word came that the bridge was open and the Pullman trains with noise and triumph began to move westward at last. Everyone waved farewell to everyone, craning from steps and windows so that the cars twinkled with hilarity. And in 20 minutes, the whole procession in front had moved and our turn came. Last chance for raw hide, said the Virginian. Last chance for sunk creek, said a reconstructed mutineer and all sprang aboard. There was no question who had won his spurs now. Our caboose trundled on to billings along the shingly cotton-wooded Yellowstone. And as the planes and bluffs and the distant snow began to grow well-known, even to me, we turned to our baggage that was to come off since camp would begin in the morning. Thus I saw the Virginian carefully rewrapping Kenilworth that he might bring it to its owner unharmed. And I said, don't you think you could have played poker with Queen Elizabeth? No, I expect she'd have beat me, he replied. She was a lady. It wasn't billings on this day that I made those reflections about equality, for the Virginian had been equal to the occasion. That is the only kind of equality which I recognize. End of chapter 16.