 33 The spinster loses some sleep. Somewhere at the eastern base of the Tetons did those hoof-prints disappear into a mountain sanctuary where many crooked paths have led. He that took another man's possessions, or he that took another man's life, could always run here if the law or popular justice were too hot at his heels. Steep ranges and forests walled him in from the world on all four sides almost without a break, and every entrance lay through intricate solitudes. Snake River came into the place through canyons and mournful pines and marshes to the north, and went out at the south between formidable chasms. Every tributary to this stream rose among high peaks and ridges and descended into the valley by well-nigh impenetrable courses. Pacific Creek from two ocean pass, Buffalo Fork from no pass at all, Black Rock from the Toa Wojcidi Pass, all these and many more were the waters of loneliness, among whose thousand hiding places it was easy to be lost. Down in the bottom was a spread of level land, broad and beautiful, with the blue and silver Tetons rising from its chain of lakes to the west, and other heights presiding over its other sides. And up and down and in and out of this hollow square of mountains where waters plentifully flowed and game and natural pasture abounded, there sculpt a nomadic and distrustful population. This in due time built cabins, took wives, begot children, and came to speak of itself as the honest settlers of Jackson's Hole. It is a commodious title and doubtless today more accurate than it was once. Into this place the hoof prints disappeared. Not many cabins were yet built there, but the unknown rider of the horse knew well that he would find shelter and welcome among the felons of his stripe. Law and order might guess his name correctly, but there was no next step for lack of evidence, and he would wait whoever he was until the rage of popular justice which had been pursuing him and his brother thieves should subside. Then feeling his way gradually with prudence, he would let himself be seen again. And now as mysteriously as he had melted away, rumor passed over the country. No tongue seemed to be heard telling the first news. The news was there one day, a matter of whispered knowledge. On Sunk Creek and on Bear Creek and elsewhere far and wide, before men talked, men seemed secretly to know that Steve and Ed and Shorty would never again be seen. Riders met each other in the road and drew rain to discuss the event and its bearing upon the cattle interests. In town saloons men took each other aside and muttered over it in corners. Thus it reached the ears of Molly Wood, beginning in a veiled and harmless shape. A neighbor joined her when she was out riding by herself. Good morning, said he. Don't you find it lonesome? And when she answered lightly he continued, meaning well. You'll be having company again soon now. He has finished his job. Wish he'd finished it more. Well, good day. Molly thought these words over. She could not tell why they gave her a strange feeling. To her Vermont mind no suspicion of the truth would come naturally. But suspicion began to come when she returned from her ride. For entering the cabin of the tailors she came upon several people who all dropped their talk short and were not skillful at resuming it. She sat there awhile, uneasily aware that all of them knew something which she did not know and was not intended to know. A thought pierced her. Had anything happened to her lover? No, that was not it. The man she had met on horseback spoke of her having company soon again. How soon, she wondered. He had been unable to say when he should return. And now she suddenly felt that a great silence had enveloped him lately. Not the mere silence of absence, of receiving no messages or letters, but another sort of silence which now at this moment was weighing strangely upon her. And then the next day it came out at the schoolhouse. During that interval known as recess she became aware through the open window that they were playing a new game outside. Lusty screeches of delight reached her ears. Jump! a voice ordered. Jump! I don't want to! returned another voice uneasily. You said you would, said several. Didn't he say he would? Ah, he said he would. Jump now, quick! But I don't want to! quavered the voice in a tone so dismal that Molly went out to see. They had got Bob Carmody on the top of the gate by a tree, with a rope round his neck, the other end of which four little boys were joyously holding. The rest looked on eagerly, three little girls clasping their hands and springing up and down with excitement. Why children, exclaimed Molly. He said his prayers and everything, they all screamed out. He's a rustler and we're lynching him. Jump, Bob! I don't want! ah, cowered, won't take his medicine. Let him go, boys, said Molly. You might really hurt him. And so she broke up this game, but not without general protest from Wyoming's young voice. He said he would, Henry Dow assured her. And George Taylor further explained. He said he'd be Steve, but Steve didn't scare. Then George proceeded to tell the school marm eagerly, all about Steve and Ed, while the school marm looked at him with a rigid face. You promised your mother you'd not tell, said Henry Dow, after all had been told. You've gone and done it, and Henry wagged his head in a superior manner. Just did the New England girl learn what her cowboy lover had done. She spoke of it to nobody. She kept her misery to herself. He was not there to defend his act. Perhaps in a way that was better. But these were hours of darkness indeed to Molly Wood. On that visit to Dunbarton, when at the first sight of her lover's photograph in frontier dress her aunt had exclaimed, I suppose there are days when he does not kill people. She had cried in all good faith and mirth. He never killed anybody. Later when he was lying in her cabin weak from his bullet wound, but each day stronger beneath her nursing, at a certain word of his there had gone through her a shudder of doubt. Perhaps in his many wanderings he had done such a thing in self-defense or in the cause of popular justice. But she had pushed the idea away from her hastily, back into the days before she had ever seen him. If this had ever happened, let her not know of it. Then, as a cruel reward for his candor and his laying himself bare to her mother, the letters from Bennington had used that very letter of his as a weapon against him. Her sister Sarah had quoted from it. He says, with apparent pride, wrote Sarah, that he has never killed for pleasure or profit. Those are his exact words, and you may guess their dreadful effect upon mother. I congratulate you, my dear, on having chosen a protector so scrupulous. Thus her elder sister had seen fit to write, and letters from less near relatives made hints at the same subject. So she was compelled to accept this piece of knowledge thrust upon her. Yet still, still, those events had been before she knew him. They were remote, without detail or context. He had been little more than a boy. No doubt it was to save his own life, and so she bore the hurt of her discovery all the more easily because her sister's tone aroused her to defend her cowboy. But now, in her cabin alone after midnight, she arose from her sleepless bed, and lighting the candle stood before his photograph. It is a good face, her great-aunt had said, after some study of it, and these words were in her mind now. There his likeness stood at full length, confronting her, the spurs on the boots, the fringed leather and chapereros, the coiled rope in hand, the pistol at hip, the rough flannel shirt, and the scarf knotted at the throat, and then the grave eyes looking at her. It thrilled her to meet them, even so. She could read life into them. She seemed to feel passion come from them, and then something like reproach. She stood for a long while looking at him, and then, beating her hands together suddenly, she blew out her light and went back into bed, but not to sleep. You're looking pale, dearie, said Mrs. Taylor to her a few days later. Am I? And you don't eat anything. Oh yes, I do, and Molly retired to her cabin. George, said Mrs. Taylor, you come here. It may seem severe, I think that it was severe. That evening when Mr. Taylor came home to his family, George received a thrashing for disobedience. And I suppose, said Mrs. Taylor to her husband, that she came out just in time to stop him breaking Bob Carmody's neck for him. Upon the day following, Mrs. Taylor essayed the impossible. She took herself over to Molly Wood's cabin. The girl gave her a listless greeting, and the dame sat slowly down and surveyed the comfortable room. A very nice home, dearie, said she, if it was a home, but you'll fix something like this in your real home, I have no doubt. Molly made no answer. What we're going to do without you, I can't see, said Mrs. Taylor, but I'd not have it different for worlds. He'll be coming back soon, I expect. Mrs. Taylor, said Molly all at once, please don't say anything now, I can't stand it. And she broke into wretched tears. Why, dearie, he—no, not a word, please, please, I'll go out if you do. The older woman went to the younger one, and then put her arms round her. But when the tears were over, they had not done any good. It was not the storm that clears the sky. All storms do not clear the sky. And Mrs. Taylor looked at the pale girl and saw that she could do nothing to help her toward peace of mind. Of course, she said to her husband after returning from her profitless errand, you might know she'd feel dreadful. What about, said Taylor, why, you know just as well as I do, and I'll say for myself, I hope you'll never have to help hang, folks. Well, said Taylor, mildly, if I had to, I'd have to, I guess. Well, I don't want it to come. But that poor girl is eating her heart right out over it. What does she say? It's what she don't say. She'll not talk, and she'll not let me talk, and she sits and sits. I'll go talk some to her, said the man. Well, Taylor, I thought you had more sense. You'd not get a word in. She'll be sick soon if her worry ain't stopped some way, though. What does she want this country to do? inquired Taylor. Does she expect it to be like Vermont when it—we can't help what she expects, his wife interrupted, but I wish we could help her. They could not, however, and help came from another source. Judge Henry rode by the next day. To him, good Mrs. Taylor, at once confided her anxiety. The judge looked grave. Must I meddle? he said. Yes, Judge, you must, said Mrs. Taylor. But why can't I send him over here when he gets back? Then they'll just settle it between themselves. Mrs. Taylor shook her head. That would unsettle it worse than it is, she assured him. They mustn't meet just now. The judge sighed. Well, he said, very well, I'll sacrifice my character since you insist. Judge Henry sat thinking, waiting until school should be out. He did not at all relish what lay before him. He would like to have got out of it. He had been a federal judge. He had been an upright judge. He had met the responsibilities of his difficult office not only with learning, which is desirable, but also with courage and common sense besides. And these are essential. He had been a staunch servant of the law. And now he was invited to defend that which, at first sight, nay, even at second and third sight, must always seem a defiance of the law more injurious than crime itself. Every good man in this world has convictions about right and wrong. They are his soul's riches, his spiritual gold. When his conduct is at variance with these, he knows that it is a departure of falling. And this is a simple and clear matter. If falling were all that ever happened to a good man, all his days would be a simple matter of striving and repentance. But it is not all. There come to him certain junctures, crises, when life, like a highwayman, springs upon him, demanding that he stand and deliver his convictions in the name of some righteous cause, bidding him do evil that good may come. I cannot say that I believe in doing evil that good may come. I do not. I think that any man who honestly justifies such a course deceives himself. But this, I can say. To call any act evil instantly begs the question. Many an act that man does is right or wrong according to the time and place which form, so to speak, its context, strip it of its surrounding circumstances, and you tear away its meaning. Gentlemen reformers, beware of this common practice of yours. Beware of calling an act evil on Tuesday, because that same act was evil on Monday. Do you fail to follow my meaning? Then here is an illustration. On Monday I walk over my neighbor's field. There is no wrong in such walking. By Tuesday he has put up a sign that trespassers will be prosecuted according to law. I walk again on Tuesday and am a lawbreaker. Do you begin to see my point? Or are you inclined to object to the illustration because the walking on Tuesday was not wrong, but merely illegal? Then here is another illustration which you will find at a trifle more embarrassing to answer. Consider carefully, let me beg you, the case of a young man and a young woman who walked out of a door on Tuesday, pronounced man and wife by a third party inside the door. It matters not that on Monday they were, in their own hearts, sacredly vowed to each other. If they had omitted stepping inside that door, if they had dispensed with that third party, and gone away on Monday sacredly vowed to each other in their own hearts, you would have scarcely found their conduct moral. Consider these things carefully, the signpost and the third party, and the difference they make. And now, for a finish, we will return to the signpost. Suppose that I went over my neighbor's field on Tuesday after the signpost was put up, because I saw a murder about to be committed in the field, and therefore ran in and stopped it. Was I doing evil that good might come? Do you not think that to stay out and let the murder be done would have been the evil act in this case? To disobey the signpost was right, and I trust that you now perceive the same act may wear as many different hues of right or wrong as the rainbow, according to the atmosphere in which it is done. It is not safe to say of any man, he did evil that good might come. Was the thing that he did in the first place evil? That is the question. Forgive my asking you to use your mind. It is a thing which no novelist should expect of his reader, and we will go back at once to Judge Henry and his meditations about lynching. He was well aware that if he was to touch at all upon this subject with the New England girl, he could not put her off with mere platitudes and humdrum formulas, not at least if he expected to do any good. She was far too intelligent, and he was really anxious to do good. For her sake he wanted the course of the girl's true love to run more smoothly, and still more did he desire this for the sake of his Virginian. I sent him myself on that business, the Judge reflected uncomfortably. I am partly responsible for the lynching. It has brought him one great unhappiness already through the death of Steve. If it gets running in this girl's mind she may, dear me, the Judge broke off. What a nuisance! And he sighed, for as all men know he also knew that many things should be done in this world in silence, and that talking about them is a mistake. But when school was out and the girl had gone to her cabin, his mind had set the subject in order thoroughly, and he knocked at her door, ready, as he had put it, to sacrifice his character in the cause of true love. Well, he said, coming straight to the point, some dark things have happened. And when she made no answer to this he continued, but you must not misunderstand us, we're too fond of you for that. Judge Henry, said Molly Wood, also coming straight to the point, have you come to tell me that you think well of lynching? He met her. Of burning southern negroes in public, no. Of hanging Wyoming cattle thieves in private, yes. You perceive there's a difference, don't you? Not in principle, said the girl, dry and short. Oh, dear me, slowly exclaimed the judge. I am sorry that you cannot see that, because I think that I can, and I think that you have just as much sense as I have. The judge made himself very grave and very good-humored at the same time. The poor girl was strung to a high pitch, and spoke harshly in spite of herself. What is the difference in principle? she demanded. Well, said the judge, easy and thoughtful, what do you mean by principle? I didn't think you'd quibble, flashed Molly, I'm not a lawyer myself. A man less wise than Judge Henry would have smiled at this, and then war would have exploded hopelessly between them, and harm been added to what was going wrong already. But the judge knew that he must give to every word that the girl said now his perfect consideration. I don't mean to quibble, he assured her. I know the trick of escaping from one question by asking another. But I don't want to escape from anything you hold me to answer. If you can show me that I am wrong, I want you to do so. But, and here the judge smiled, I want you to play fair, too. And how am I not? I want you to be just as willing to be put right by me as I am to be put right by you. And so, when you use such a word as principle, you must help me to answer by saying what principle you mean. For in all sincerity, I see no likeness in principle whatever between burning southern negroes in public and hanging Wyoming horse thieves in private. I consider the burning a proof that the south is semi-barbarous, and the hanging a proof that Wyoming is determined to become civilized. We do not torture our criminals when we lynch them. We do not invite spectators to enjoy their death agony. We put no such hideous disgrace upon the United States. We execute our criminals by the swiftest means and in the quietest way. Do you think the principle is the same? Molly had listened to him with attention. The way is different, she admitted. Only the way? So it seems to me both defy law and order. Ah, but do they both? Now we're getting near the principle. Why, yes, ordinary citizens take the law in their own hands. The principle at last, exclaimed the judge. Now tell me some more things. Out of whose hands do they take the law? The courts. What made the courts? I don't understand. How did there come to be any courts? The Constitution. How did there come to be any Constitution? Who made it? The delegates, I suppose. Who made the delegates? I suppose they were elected or appointed or something. And who elected them? Of course, the people elected them. Call them the ordinary citizens, said the judge. I like your term. They are where the law comes from, you see. For they chose the delegates who made the Constitution that provided for the courts. There's your machinery. These are the hands into which ordinary citizens have put the law. So you see, at best, when they lynched, they only take back what they once gave. Now, we'll take your two cases that you say are the same in principle. I think that they are not. For in the south, they take a negro from jail, where he was waiting to be duly hung. The south has never claimed that the law would let him go. But in Wyoming, the law has been letting our cattle thieves go for two years. We are in a very bad way, and we are trying to make that way a little better until civilization can reach us. At present, we lie beyond its pale. The courts, or rather the juries, into whose hands we have put the law, are not dealing the law. They are withered hands, or rather they are imitation hands made for show, with no life in them, no grip. They cannot hold a cattle thief. And so, when your ordinary citizen sees this, and sees that he has placed justice in a dead hand, he must take justice back into his own hands, where it was once at the beginning of all things. Call this primitive, if you will. But so far from being a defiance of the law, it is an assertion of it, the fundamental assertion of self-governing men upon whom our whole social fabric is based. There is your principle, Ms. Wood, as I see it. Now, can you help me to see anything different? She could not. But perhaps you are of the same opinion still, the judge inquired. It is all terrible to me, she said. Yes, and so is capital punishment terrible, and so is war, and perhaps some day we shall do without them, but they are none of them so terrible as unchecked theft and murder would be. After the judge had departed on his way to Sunk Creek, no one spoke to Molly upon this subject. But her face did not grow cheerful at once. It was plain from her fits of silence that her thoughts were not at rest. And sometimes at night she would stand in front of her lover's likeness, gazing upon it with both love and shrinking. End of Chapter 33 CHAPTER 34 TO FIT HER FINGER It was two rings that the Virginian wrote for when next I heard from him. After my dark sight of what the Catalan could be, I soon had journeyed home by way of Washakie and Rawlins. Steve and Shorty did not leave my memory, nor will they ever, I suppose. The Virginian had touched the whole thing the day I left him. He had noticed me looking a sort of farewell at the plains and mountains. You will come back to it, he said. If there was a headstone for every man that once pleasured in his freedom here, you'd see one most every time you turned your head. It's a heap sadder than a graveyard, but you love it all the same. Sadness had passed from him, from his uppermost mood at least, when he wrote about the rings. Deep in him was sadness, of course, as well as joy. For he had known Steve, and he had covered Shorty with earth. He had looked upon life with a marksman's eyes, very close, and no one, if he have a heart, can pass through this and not carry sadness in his spirit with him forever. But he seldom shows it openly. It bides within him, enriching his cheerfulness and rendering him of better service to his fellow men. It was a commission of cheerfulness that he now gave, being distant from where rings are to be bought. He could not go so far as the East to procure what he had planned. Rings were to be had in Cheyenne, and a still greater choice in Denver, and so far as either of these towns his affairs would have permitted him to travel. But he was set upon having rings from the East. They must come from the best place in the country. Nothing short of that was good enough to fit her finger, as he said. The wedding ring was a simple matter. Let it be right, that was all, the purest gold that could be used, with her initials and his together, graven round the inside, with the day of the month and the year. The date was now set. It had come so far as this. July third was to be the day. Then for sixty days and nights he was to be a bridegroom, free from his duties at Sunk Creek, free to take his bride wheresoever she might choose to go, and she had chosen. Those voices of the world had more than angered her. For after the anger a set purpose was left. Her sister should have the chance neither to come nor to stay away. Had her mother even answered the Virginian's letter there could have been some relenting. But the poor lady had been inadequate in this, as in all other searching moments of her life. She had sent messages, kind ones to be sure, but only messages. If this had hurt the Virginian no one knew it in the world, least of all the girl in whose heart it had left a cold, frozen spot. Not a good spirit in which to be married, you will say. No, frozen spots are not good at any time. But Molly's own nature gave her due punishment. Through all these days of her warm happiness a chill current ran, like those which interrupt the swimmer's perfect joy. The girl was only half as happy as her lover, but she hid this deep from him, hid it until that final, fierce hour of reckoning that her nature had with her, nay was bound to have with her, before the punishment was lifted and the frozen spot melted at length from her heart. So, meanwhile, she made her decree against Bennington. Not Vermont, but Wyoming, should be her wedding place. No world's voices should be whispering. No world's eyes should be looking on when she made her vow to him and received his vow. Those voices should be spoken and that ring put on in this wild cattle land where first she had seen him ride into the flooded river and lift her ashore upon his horse. It was this open sky which should shine down on them and this frontier soil upon which their feet should tread. The world should take its turn second. After a month with him by stream and canyon, a month far deeper into the mountain wilds than ever yet he had been free to take her, a month with sometimes a tent and sometimes the stars above them and only their horses besides themselves, after such a month as this she would take him to her mother and to Bennington and the old aunt over at Dunbarton would look at him and be once more able to declare that the Starks had always preferred a man who was a man. And so July 3rd was to be engraved inside the wedding ring. Upon the other ring the Virginian had spent much delicious meditation, all in his secret mind. He had even got the right measure of her finger without her suspecting the reason. But this step was the final one in his plan. During the time that his thoughts had begun to be busy over the other ring, by a chance he had learned from Mrs. Henry a number of old fancies regarding precious stones. Mrs. Henry often accompanied the judge in venturesome mountain climbs, and sometimes the steepness of the rocks required her to use her hands for safety. One day when the Virginian went with them to help mark out certain boundary corners, she removed her rings lest they should get scratched, and he, being just behind her, took them during the climb. I see you're looking at my topaz, she had said as he returned them. If I could have chosen it would have been a ruby, but I was born in November. He did not understand her in the least, but her words awakened exceeding interest in him, and they had descended some five miles of mountain before he spoke again. Then he became ingenious, for he had half worked out what Mrs. Henry's meaning must be, but he must make quite sure. Therefore, according to his wild, shy nature, he became ingenious. Men wear rings, he began. Some of the men on the ranch do. I don't see any harm in a man's wear in a ring, but I never have. Well, said the lady, not yet suspecting that he was undertaking to circumvent her, probably those men have sweethearts. No, ma'am, not sweethearts worth wearing rings for, in two cases anyway. They want them at yards, and they like to see them shine. I never saw a man wear a topaz. Mrs. Henry did not have any further remark to make. I was born in January myself, pursued the Virginian, very thoughtfully. Then the lady gave him one look, and without further process of mind, perceived exactly what he was driving at. That's very extravagant for rings, said she. January is diamonds. Diamonds, murmured the Virginian, more and more thoughtfully. Well, it don't matter, for I'd not wear a ring. And November is, what did you say, ma'am? Topaz. Yes, well, jewels are certainly pretty things. In the Spanish missions you'll see large ones now and again, and they're not glass, I think. And so they have got some jewel that kind of belongs to each month, right around the twelve? Yes, said Mrs. Henry, smiling, one for each month, but the opal is what you want. He looked at her and began to blush. October is the opal, she added, and she laughed outright for Miss Wood's birthday was on the fifteenth of that month. The Virginian smiled guiltily at her through his crimson. I've no doubt you can beat around the bush very well with men, said Mrs. Henry, but it's perfectly transparent with us, in matters of sentiment at least. Well, I am sorry, he presently said. I don't want to give her an opal. I have no superstition. But I don't want to give her an opal. If her mother did, or anybody like that, why, all right. But not for me. Do you understand, ma'am? Mrs. Henry did understand this subtle trait in the wild man, and she rejoiced to be able to give him immediate reassurance concerning opals. Don't worry about that, she said. The opal is said to bring ill luck, but not when it is your own month stone. Then it is supposed to be not only deprived of evil influence, but to possess peculiarly fortunate power. Let it be an opal ring. Then he asked her boldly various questions, and she showed him her rings, and gave him advice about the setting. There was no special custom, she told him. Ruling such rings as this he desired to bestow. The gem might be the lady's favorite or the lover's favorite, and to choose the lady's month stone was very well indeed. Very well indeed, the Virginian thought, but not quite well enough for him. His mind now busied itself with this lore concerning jewels, and soon his sentiment had suggested something which he forthwith carried out. When the ring was achieved it was an opal, but set with four small embracing diamonds. Thus was her month stone joined with his, that their luck and their love might be inseparably clasped. He found the size of her finger one day when winter had departed, and the early grass was green. He made a ring of twisted grass for her, while she held her hand for him to bind it. He made another for himself. Then after each had worn their grass ring for a while he begged her to exchange. He did not send his token away from him, but most carefully measured it. Thus the ring fitted her well, and the lustrous flame within the opal thrilled his heart each time he saw it. For now June was near its end, and that other plain gold ring, which for safekeeping he cherished suspended round his neck day and night, seemed to burn with an inward glow that was deeper than the opals. So in due course arrived the second of July. Molly's punishment had died as far as this. She longed for her mother to be near her at this time. But it was too late. The Virginian. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE VIRGINIAN, by Owen Wister. CHAPTER XXXV. WITH MALICE OF FORTHOUGHT. PART I. Town lay twelve straight miles before the lover and his sweetheart, when they came to the brow of the last long hill. All beneath them was like a map, neither man nor beast distinguishable, but the veined and tinted image of a country, knobs and flats set out in order clearly, shining extensive and motionless in the sun. It opened on the side of the lovers as they reached the sudden edge of the table land, where since morning they had ridden with the head of neither horse ever in advance of the other. At the view of their journey's end, the Virginian looked down at his girl beside him, his eyes filled with a bridegroom's light, and, hanging safe upon his breast, he could feel the gold ring that he would slowly press upon her finger to-morrow. He drew off the glove from her left hand, and stooping kissed the jewel in that other ring which he had given her. The crimson fire in the opal seemed to mingle with that in his heart, and his arm lifted her during a moment from the saddle as he held her to him. But in her heart the love of him was troubled by that cold pang of loneliness which had crept upon her like a tide as the day drew near. None of her own people were waiting in that distant town to see her become his bride. Friendly faces she might pass on the way, but all of them new friends made in this wild country. Not a face of her childhood would smile upon her, and deep within her a voice cried for the mother who was far away in Vermont. That she would see Mrs. Taylor's kind face at her wedding was no comfort now. There lay the town in the splendor of Wyoming's space. Around it spread the watered fields, westward for a little way, eastward to a great distance, making squares of green and yellow crops, and the town was but a poor rag in the midst of this quilted harvest. After the fields to the east the tawny plain began, and with one faint furrow of river lining its undulations it stretched beyond sight. But west of the town rose the bow-leg mountains, cool with their still unmelted snows and their dull blue gulfs of pine. From three canyons flowed three clear forks which began the river. Their confluence was above the town a good two miles. It looked but a few paces from up here. While each side the river straggled the margin cottonwoods, like thin borders along a garden walk. Overall this map hung silence like a harmony, tremendous yet serene. How beautiful, how I love it, whispered the girl, but oh how big it is. And she leaned against her lover for an instant. It was her spirit seeking shelter. Today this vast beauty, this primal calm, had in it for her something almost of dread. The small, comfortable, green hills of home rose before her. She closed her eyes and saw Vermont, a village street in the post office, an ivy covering an old front door, and her mother picking some yellow roses from a bush. At a sound her eyes quickly opened, and here was her lover turned in his saddle, watching another horseman approach. She saw the Virginian's hand in a certain position, and knew that his pistol was ready. But the other merely overtook and passed them as they stood at the brow of the hill. The man had given one nod to the Virginian, and the Virginian one to him, and now he was already below them on the descending road. To Molly Wood he was a stranger, but she had seen his eyes when he nodded to her lover, and she knew, even without the pistol, that this was not enmity at first sight. It was not, indeed, five years of gathered hate had looked out of the man's eyes, and she asked her lover who this was. Oh, said he easily, just a man I see now and then. Is his name Trampas? said Molly Wood. The Virginian looked at her in surprise. Why, where have you seen him? he asked. Never till now, but I knew. My gracious, you never told me you had mind-reading powers, and he smiled serenely at her. I knew it was Trampas as soon as I saw his eyes. My gracious, her lover repeated with indulgent irony, I must be mighty careful of my eyes when you're looking at him. I believe he did that murder, said the girl. Whose mind are you reading now? he drawled affectionately. But he could not joke her off the subject. She took his strong hand in hers, tremulously, so much of it as her little hand could hold. I know something about that last autumn, she said, shrinking from words more definite. And I know that you only did what I had to, he finished very sadly, but sternly, too. Yes, she asserted, keeping hold of his hand. I suppose that lynching, she almost whispered the word, is the only way. But when they had to die just for stealing horses, it seemed so wicked that this murderer, who can prove it, asked the Virginian. But don't you know it? I know a heap of things inside my heart, but that's not proven. There was only the body in the hoof prints and what folks guessed. He was never even arrested, the girl said. No, he helped elect the sheriff in that county. Then Molly ventured a step inside the border of her lover's reticence. I saw, she hesitated, just now I saw what you did. He returned to his caressing irony. You'll have me plumb scared if you keep on seeing things. You had your pistol ready for him. Why, I believe I did. It was mighty unnecessary, and the Virginian took out the pistol again and shook his head over it like one who has been caught in a blunder. She looked at him and knew that she must step outside his reticence again. By love and her surrender to him, their positions had been exchanged. He was not now, as through his long courting he had been, her half-obeying, half-refractory worshipper. She was no longer his half-indulgent, half-scornful superior. Her better birth and schooling that had once been weapons to keep him at his distance, to bring her off victorious in their encounters, had given way before the onset of the natural man himself. She knew her cowboy lover, with all that he lacked, to be more than ever she could be, with all that she had. He was her worshipper still, but her master, too. Therefore now, against the baffling smile he gave her, she felt powerless, and once again a pang of yearning for her mother to be near her today, shot through the girl. She looked from her untamed man to the untamed desert of Wyoming, and the town where she was to take him as her wedded husband. But for his sake she would not let him guess her loneliness. He sat on his horse, Monty, considering the pistol. Then he showed her a rattlesnake, coiled by the roots of some sagebrush. Can I hit it? he inquired. You don't often miss them, said she, striving to be cheerful. Well, I'm told, getting married unstring some men. He aimed, and the snake was shattered. Maybe it's too early yet for the unstringing to begin. And with some deliberation he sent three more bullets into the snake. I reckon that's enough, said he. Was not the first one? Oh, yes, for the snake. And then with one leg crooked cowboy fashion across in front of his saddle-horn he cleaned his pistol and replaced the empty cartridges. Once more she ventured near the line of his reticence. Has—has Trampas seen you much lately? Why, no, not for a right smart while, but I reckon he has not missed me. The Virginian spoke this in his gentlest voice, but his rebuffed sweetheart turned her face away, and from her eyes she brushed a tear. He reigned his horse Monty beside her, and upon her cheek she felt his kiss. You are not the only mind-reader, said he, very tenderly, and at this she clung to him and laid her head upon his breast. I had been thinking, he went on, that the way our marriage is to be was the most beautiful way. It is the most beautiful, she murmured. He slowly spoke out his thought as if she had not said this. No folks to stare, no fuss, no jokes and ribbons and best bonnets, no public eye nor talking of tongues when most you want to hear nothing and say nothing. She answered by holding him closer. Just the bishop of Wyoming to join us, and not even him after where once joined, I did think that would be a head of all ways to get married I have seen. He paused again, and she made no rejoinder. But we have left out your mother. She looked in his face with quick astonishment. It was as if his spirit had heard the cry of her spirit. That is nowhere near right, he said. That is wrong. She could never have come here, said the girl. We should have gone there. I don't know how I can ask her to forgive me. But it was not you, cried Molly. Yes, because I did not object. I did not tell you we must go to her. I missed the point, thinking so much about my own feelings. For you see, and I've never said this to you until now, your mother did hurt me. When you said you would have me after my years of waiting, and I wrote her that letter, telling her all about myself and how my family was not like yours and all the rest I told her, why you see it hurt me never to get a word back from her except just messages through you. For I had talked to her about my hopes and my failings. I had said more than ever I've said to you because she was your mother. I wanted her to forgive me, if she could, and feel that maybe I could take good care of you after all. For it was bad enough to have her daughter quit her home to teach school out here on Bear Creek, bad enough without having me to come along and make it worse. I have missed the point in thinking of my own feelings. But it's not your doing, repeated Molly. With his deep delicacy he had put the whole matter as a hardship to her mother alone. He had saved her any pain of confession or denial. Yes, it is my doing, he now said. Shall we give it up? Give what? She did not understand. Why, the order we've got it fixed in. Plans are, well, there are no more than plans. I hate the notion of changing, but I hate hurting your mother more. Or any way I ought to hate it more. So we can shift, if you say so. It's not too late. Shift, she faltered. I mean, we can go to your home now. We can start by the stage tonight. Your mother can see us married. We can come back and finish in the mountains instead of beginning in them. It'll be just merely shifting, you see. He could scarcely bring himself to say this at all. Yet he said it almost as if he were urging it. It implied a renunciation that he could hardly bear to think of. To put off his wedding day, the bliss upon whose threshold he stood after his three years of faithful battle for it, and that wedding journey he had arranged. For there were the mountains in sight, the woods and canyons where he had planned to go with her after the bishop had joined them. The solitudes where only the wild animals would be, besides themselves. His horses, his tent, his rifle, his rod, all were waiting ready in the town for their start to-morrow. He had provided many dainty things to make her comfortable. Well, he could wait a little more, having waited three years. It would not be what his heart most desired. There would be the public eye and the talking of tongues, but he could wait. The hour would come when he could be alone with his bride at last, and so he spoke as if he urged it. Never, she cried, never, never. She pushed it from her. She would not brook such sacrifice on his part. Were they not going to her mother in four weeks? If her family had warmly accepted him, but they had not, and in any case it had gone too far, it was too late. She told her lover that she would not hear him, that if he said any more, she would gallop into town separately from him. And for his sake she would hide deep from him this loneliness of hers, and the hurt that he had given her in refusing to share with her his trouble with Trampas, when others must know of it. Accordingly they descended the hill slowly together, lingering to spin out these last miles long. Many rides had taught their horses to go side by side, and so they went now, the girl, sweet and thoughtful, in her sedate gray habit, and the man in his leatheren chaps and cartridge belt and flannel shirt, looking gravely into the distance with the level gaze of the frontier. Having read his sweetheart's mind very plainly, the lover now broke his dearest custom. It was his code never to speak ill of any man to any woman. Men's quarrels were not for women's ears. In his scheme good women were to know only a fragment of men's lives. He had lived many outlaw years, and his wide knowledge of evil made innocence doubly precious to him. But today he must depart from his code having read her mind well. He would speak evil of one man to one woman, because his reticence had hurt her. And was she not far from her mother and very lonely, do what he could? She should know the story of his quarrel, in language as light and casual as he could veil it with. He made an oblique start. He did not say to her, I'll tell you about this. You saw me get ready for Trampas, because I have been ready for him any time these five years. He began far off from the point with that rooted caution of his, that caution which is shared by the primal savage and the perfected diplomat. There's certainly a right-smarter difference between men and women, he observed. You're quite sure, she retorted. Ain't it fortunate that there's both, I mean? I don't know about fortunate. Machinery could probably do all the heavy work for us without your help. And who'd invent the machinery? She laughed. We shouldn't need the huge, noisy things you do. Our world would be a gentle one. Oh, my gracious. What do you mean by that? Oh, my gracious. Get along, Monty. A gentle world, all full of ladies. Do you call men gentle? Enquired Molly. Now, it's a funny thing about that. Have you ever noticed a joke about fathers-in-law? There's just as many fathers as mothers-in-law, but which side are your jokes? Molly was not vanquished. That's because the men write the comic papers, said she. Hear that, Monty? The men write them. Well, if the ladies wrote a comic paper, I expect that might be gentle. She gave up this battle in mirth, and he resumed. But don't you really reckon it's uncommon to meet a father-in-law flouncing around the house? As for gentle, once I had to sleep in a room next to ladies' temperance meeting. Oh, heavens. Well, I couldn't change my room, and the hotel man he apologized to me next morning said it didn't surprise him the husbands drank some. Here the Virginian broke down over his own fantastic inventions and gave a joyous chuckle in company with his sweetheart. Yes, there's a big heap of difference between men and women, he said. Take that fellow and myself now. Trampas, said Molly, quickly serious. She looked along the road ahead and discerned the figure of Trampas still visible on its way to town. The Virginian did not wish her to be serious, more than could be helped. Why, yes, he replied, with a waving gesture at Trampas. Take him and me. He don't think much of me. How could he? And I expect he'll never. But you saw just now how it was between us. We were not a bit like a temperance meeting. She could not help laughing at the twist he gave to his voice, and she felt happiness warming her, for in the Virginian's tone about Trampas was something now that no longer excluded her. Thus he began his gradual recital in a cadence always easy and more and more musical with the native accent of the South. With the light turn he gave it, its pure ugliness melted into charm. No, he don't think anything of me. Once a man in the John Day Valley didn't think much, and by Canada de Oro I met another. It will always be so here and there, but Trampas beats them all, for the others have always expressed themselves, got shut of their poor opinion in the open air. You see, I had to explain myself to Trampas a right smart while ago, long before ever I laid my eyes on you. It was just nothing at all, a little matter of keyards in the days when I was apt to spend my money and my holidays pretty headlong. My gracious, what nonsensical times I have had. But I was apt to win at keyards, especially poker. And Trampas, he met me one night, and I expect he must have thought I looked kind of young. So he hated losing his money to such a young-looking man, and he took his way of saying as much. I had to explain myself to him plainly so that he learned right away my age had got its growth. Well, I expect he hated that worse, having to receive my explanation with folks looking on at us publicly that way, and him without further ideas occurring to him at the moment. That's what started his poor opinion of me, not having ideas at the moment, and so the boys resumed their keyards. I'd most forgot about it, but Trampas' memory is one of his strong points. Next thing—oh, it's a good while later— he gets to lose in flesh, because Judge Henry gave me charge of him and some other punchers, taking cattle. That's not next, interrupted the girl. Not? Why? Don't you remember? she said, timid, yet eager. Don't you? Blamed if I do. The first time we met? Yes, my memory keeps that, like I keep this. Like I keep this. And he brought from his pocket her own handkerchief, the token he had picked up at a river's brink when he had carried her from an overturned stage. We did not exactly meet, then, she said. It was at that dance. I hadn't seen you yet, but Trampas was saying something horrid about me, and you said, you said, Rise on your legs, you pole cat, and tell them you're a liar. When I heard that, I think— I think it finished me. And Crimson suffused Molly's countenance. I'd forgot, the Virginian murmured. Then sharply, how did you hear it? Mrs. Taylor? Oh, well, a man would never have told a woman that. Molly laughed triumphantly. Then who told Mrs. Taylor? Being caught, he grinned at her. I reckon husbands are a special kind of man, was all that he found to say. Well, since you do know about that, it was the next move in the game. Trampas thought I had no call to stop him saying what he pleased about a woman who was nothing to me, then. But all women ought to be something to a man. So I had to give Trampas another explanation in the presence of folks looking on, and it was just like the yards. No ideas occurred to him again. And down goes his opinion of me some more. Well, I have not been able to raise it. There has been this and that and the other. You know most of the later doings yourself, and today is the first time I've happened to see the man since the doings last autumn. You seem to know about them, too. He knows I can't prove he was with that gang of horse thieves, and I can't prove he killed poor Shorty. But he knows I missed him off a close and spoiled his thieving for a while. So do you wonder he don't think much of me? But if I had lived to be twenty-nine years old like I am, and with all my chances made no enemy, I'd feel myself a failure. His story was finished. He had made her his confidant in matters he had never spoken of before, and she was happy to be thus much nearer to him. It diminished a certain fear that was mingled with her love of him. During the next several miles he was silent, and his silence was enough for her. Vermont sank away from her thoughts, and Wyoming held less of loneliness. They descended altogether into the map, which had stretched below them, so that it was a map no longer, but earth with growing things and prairie dogs sitting upon it, and now and then a bird flying over it. And after a while she said to him, what are you thinking about? I have been doing sums. Figured in hours it sounds right short. Figured in minutes it boils up into quite a mess. Twenty by sixty is twelve hundred. Put that into seconds, and you get seventy-two thousand seconds. Seventy-two thousand. Seventy-two thousand seconds yet before we get married. Seconds to think of its having come to seconds. I am thinking about it. I'm chopping sixty of them off every minute. With such chopping time wears away. More miles of the road lay behind them, and in the virgin wilderness the scars of new scraped water ditches began to appear, and the first wire fences. Next they were passing cabins and occasional fields, the outposts of habitation. The free road became wholly imprisoned, running between unbroken stretches of barbed wire. Far off to the eastward a flowing column of dust marked the approaching stage, bringing the bishop probably, for whose visit here they had timed their wedding. The day still brimmed with heat and sunshine, but the great daily shadow was beginning to move from the feet of the bow-leg mountains outward toward the town. Presently they began to meet citizens. Some of these knew them and knotted, while some did not, and stared. Turning a corner into the town's chief street, where stood the hotel, the bank, the drug store, the general store, and the seven saloons, they were hailed heartily. Here were three friends, Honey Wigan, Scipio Lemoine, and Lynn McLean, all desirous of drinking the Virginian's health, if his lady, would she mind? The three stood grinning with their hats off, but behind their gaiety the Virginian read some other purpose. We'll all be very good, said Honey Wigan. Pretty good, said Lynn. Good, said Scipio. Which is the honest man, inquired Molly, glad to see them. Not one, said the Virginian. My old friends scare me when I think of their ways. It's being engaged scares ya, retorted Mr. McLean. Marriage restores your courage, I find. Well, I'll trust all of you, said Molly. He's going to take me to the hotel, and then you can drink his health as much as you please. With a smile to them, she turned to proceed, and he let his horse move with hers, but he looked at his friends. Then Scipio's bleached blue eyes narrowed to a slit, and he said what they had all come out on the street to say. Don't change your clothes. Oh, protested Molly, isn't he rather dusty and contrived? But the Virginian had taken Scipio's meaning. Don't change your clothes. Innocent Molly appreciated these words no more than the average reader who reads a masterpiece, complacently unaware that its style differs from that of the morning paper. Such was Scipio's intention, wishing to spare her from alarm. So at the hotel, she let her lover go with a kiss, and without a thought of Trampas. She and her room unlocked the possessions which were there waiting for her, and changed her dress. End of Chapter 35 Part 1 Chapter 35 Part 2 of The Virginian This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Virginian by Owen Wister Chapter 35 with Malice of forethought Part 2 Wedding garments and other civilized apparel proper for a genuine frontiersman when he comes to town were also in the hotel ready for the Virginian to wear. It is only the somewhat green and unseasoned cow-puncher who struts before the public in spurs and deadly weapons. For many a year the Virginian had put away these childish things. He made a sober toilet for the streets. Nothing but his face and bearing remained out of the common when he was in a town. But Scipio had told him not to change his clothes. Therefore he went out with his pistol at his hip. Soon he had joined his three friends. I'm obliged to you, he said. He passed me this morning. We don't know his intentions, said Wigan. Except that he's hanging around, said McLean. Anne, filling up, said Scipio, which reminds me. They strolled into the saloon of a friend where, unfortunately, sat some foolish people. But one cannot always tell how much of a fool a man is at sight. It was a temperate health-drinking that they made. Here's how they muttered softly to the Virginian, and how he returned softly looking away from them. But they had a brief meeting of eyes standing and lounging near each other shyly, and Scipio shook hands with the bridegroom. Some day he stated, tapping himself, for in his vagrant heart he began to envy the man who could bring himself to marry. And he nodded again, repeating, Here's how. They stood at the bar, full of sentiment, empty of words, memory and affection busy in their hearts. All of them had seen rough days together, and they felt guilty with emotion. It's hot weather, said Wigan. Hotter on box elder, said McLean. My kid has started teething. Words ran dry again. They shifted their positions, looked in their glasses, read the labels on the bottles. They dropped a word now and then to the proprietor about his trade and his ornaments. Goodhead, commented McLean. Big ol' Ram, assented the proprietor, shot him myself on Grey Bull last fall. Sheep was thick in the teetons last fall, said the Virginian. On the bar stood a machine into which the idle customer might drop his nickel. The coin then bounced among an arrangement of pegs, descending at length into one or another of various holes. You might win as much as ten times your stake, but this was not the most usual result. And with nickels, the three friends in the bridegroom now mildly sported for a while, buying them with silver when their store ran out. Was it sheep you went after in the teetons? Inquired the proprietor, knowing it was horse thieves. Yes, said the Virginian. I'll have ten more nickels. Did you get all the sheep you wanted? The proprietor continued. Poor Luck, said the Virginian. Think there's a friend of yours in town this afternoon, said the proprietor. Did he mention he was my friend? The proprietor laughed. The Virginian watched another nickel click down among the pegs. Honey Wigan now made the bridegroom a straight offer. We'll take this thing off your hands, said he. Any or all of us, said Lynn. But Scipio held his peace. His loyalty went every inch as far as theirs, but his understanding of his friend went deeper. Don't change your clothes was the first and the last help he would be likely to give in this matter. The rest must be as such matters must always be, between man and man. To the other two friends, however, this seemed a very special case, falling outside established precedent. Therefore they ventured offers of interference. A man don't get married every day, apologized McLean. We'll just run him out of town for you. Save you the trouble, urged Wigan, say the word. The proprietor now added his voice. It'll sober him up to spend his night out in the brush. He'll quit his talk then. But the Virginian did not say the word, or any word. He stood playing with the nickels. Think of her, muttered McLean. Who else would I be thinking of? returned the Southerner. His face had become very somber. She has been raised so different, he murmured. He pondered a little while the others waited, solicitous. A new idea came to the proprietor. I am acting mayor of this town, said he. I'll put him in the calaboose and keep him till you get married and away. Say the word, repeated Honey Wigan. Scipio's eye met the proprietors, and he shook his head about a quarter of an inch. The proprietors shook his to the same amount. They understood each other. It had come to that point where there was no way out. Save only the ancient, eternal way between man and man. It is only the great mediocrity that goes to law in these personal matters. So he has talked about me some, said the Virginian. It's the whiskey, Scipio explained. I expect, said McLean, he'd run a mile if he was in a state to appreciate his insinuations. Which we are careful not to mention to you, said Wigan, unless you inquire for him. Some of the fools present had drawn closer to hear this interesting conversation. In gatherings of more than six, there will generally be at least one fool, and this company must have numbered twenty men. This country knows well enough, said one fool, who hungered to be important, that you don't brand no calves that ain't your own. The Saturnine Virginian looked at him. Thank you, said he gravely, for your endorsement of my character. The fool felt flattered. The Virginian turned to his friends. His hand slowly pushed his hat back, and he rubbed his black head and thought. Glad to see you've got your gun with you, continued the happy fool. You know what Trampas claims about that affair of yours in the Tetons? He claims that if everything was known about the killing of Shorty, take one on the house, suggested the proprietor to him amiably. Your news will be fresher. And he pushed him the bottle. The fool felt less important. This talk had went the rounds before it got to us, said Scipio, or we'd have headed it off. He has got friends in town. Perplexity nodded the Virginian's brows. This community knew that a man had implied he was a thief and a murderer. It also knew that he knew it. But the case was one of peculiar circumstances assuredly. Could he avoid meeting the man? Soon the stage would be starting south for the railroad. He had already, today, proposed to his sweetheart that they should take it. Could he, for her sake, leave unanswered a talking enemy upon the field? His own ears had not heard the enemy. Into these reflections, the fool stepped once more. Of course, this country don't believe Trampas, said he. This country, but he contributed no further thoughts. From somewhere in the rear of the building, where it opened upon the tin cans and the hinder perlues of the town, came a movement, and Trampas was among them, courageous with whiskey. All the fools now made themselves conspicuous. One lay on the floor, knocked there by the Virginian, whose arm he had attempted to hold. Others struggled with Trampas, and his bullets smashed the ceiling before they could drag the pistol from him. There now, there now, they interposed. You don't want to talk like that, for he was pouring out a tide of hate and vilification. Yet the Virginian stood quiet by the bar, and many an eye of astonishment was turned upon him. I'd not stand half that language, some muttered to each other. Still the Virginian waited quietly while the fools reasoned with Trampas. But no earthly foot can step between a man and his destiny. Trampas broke suddenly free. Your friends have saved your life, he rang out with obscene epithets. I'll give you till sundown to leave town. There was total silence instantly. Trampas spoke the Virginian, I don't want trouble with you. He never has wanted it, Trampas sneered to the bystanders. He has been dodging it five years, but I've got him corralled. Some of the Trampas factions smiled. Trampas said the Virginian again, are you sure you really mean that? The whiskey bottle flew through the air hurled by Trampas, and crashed through the saloon window behind the Virginian. That was surplusage, Trampas said he, if you mean the other. Get out by sundown, that's all, said Trampas, and wheeling he went out of the saloon by the rear as he had entered. Gentlemen, said the Virginian, I know you will all oblige me. Sure exclaimed the proprietor heartily, we'll see that everybody lets this thing alone. The Virginian gave a general nod to the company, and walked out into the street. It's a terrible shame, sighed Scipio, that he couldn't have postponed it. The Virginian walked in the open air with thoughts disturbed. I am of two minds about one thing, he said to himself uneasily. Gossip ran in advance of him, that as he came by the talk fell away until he had passed. Then they looked after him, and their words again rose audibly. Thus everywhere a little eddy of silence accompanied his steps. It don't trouble him much, one said, having read nothing in the Virginian's face. It may trouble his girl some, said another. She'll not know, said a third, until it's over. He'll not tell her? I wouldn't, it's no woman's business. Maybe that's so. Well, it would have suited me to have Trampas die sooner. How would it suit you to have him live longer? Inquired a member of the opposite faction, suspected of being himself a cattle thief. I could answer your question if I had other folk's calves I wanted to brand. This raised both a laugh and a silence. Thus the town talked, filling in the time before sunset. The Virginian, still walking aloof in the open air, paused at the edge of the town. I'd sooner have a sickness than be undecided this way, he said, and he looked up and down. Then a grim smile came at his own expense. I reckon it would make me sick, but there's not time. Over there in the hotel sat his sweetheart alone, away from her mother, her friends, her home, waiting his return, knowing nothing. He looked into the west. Between the sun and the bright ridges of the mountains was still a space of sky, but the shadow from the mountain's feet had drawn halfway toward the town. About forty minutes more, he said aloud. She has been raised so different. And he sighed as he turned back. As he went slowly he did not know how great was his own unhappiness. She has been raised so different, he said again. Opposite the post office the Bishop of Wyoming met him and greeted him. His lonely heart throbbed at the warm, firm grasp of this friend's hand. The bishop saw his eyes glow suddenly, as if tears were close. But none came, and no word more opened than, I'm glad to see you. But Gossip had reached the bishop, and he was sorely troubled also. What is all this? said he, coming straight to it. The Virginian looked at the clergymen frankly. You know just as much about it as I do, he said, and I'll tell you anything you ask. Have you told Miss Wood? inquired the bishop. The eyes of the bridegroom fell, and the bishop's face grew at once more keen and more troubled. Then the bridegroom raised his eyes again, and the bishop almost loved him. He touched his arm like a brother. This is hard luck, he said. The bridegroom could scarce keep his voice steady. I want to do right today more than any day I have ever lived, said he. Then go and tell her at once. It will just do nothing but scare her. Go and tell her at once. I expected you was going to tell me to run away from Trampas. I can't do that, you know. The bishop did know. Never before in all his wilderness work had he faced such a thing. He knew that Trampas was an evil in the country, and that the Virginian was a good. He knew that the cattle thieves, the rustlers, were gaining in numbers and audacity. That they led many weak young fellows to ruin. That they elected their men to office and controlled juries. That they were a staring menace to Wyoming. His heart was with the Virginian, but there was his gospel that he preached and believed and tried to live. He stood looking at the ground and drawing a finger along his eyebrow. He wished that he might have heard nothing about all this, but he was not one to blink his responsibility as a Christian server of the church militant. Am I right, he now slowly asked, in believing that you think I am a sincere man? I don't believe anything about it. I know it. I should run away from Trampas, said the bishop. That ain't quite fair, sir. We all understand you have got to do the things you tell other folks to do, and you do them, sir. You never talk like anything but a man, and you never set yourself above others. You can saddle your own horses, and I saw you walk unarmed into that white river excitement when those two other parson's was a fog and a fan and for their own safety. Damn scoundrels. The bishop instantly rebuked such language about brothers of his cloth, even though he disapproved both of them and their doctrines. Everyone may be an instrument of providence, he concluded. Well, said the Virginian, if that is so, then providence makes use of instruments I'd not touch with a ten-foot pole. Now, if you was Mesa and not a bishop, would you run away from Trampas? That's not quite fair, either, exclaimed the bishop with a smile, because you are asking me to take another man's convictions and yet remain myself. Yes, sir, I am. That's so. That don't get at it. I reckon you and I can't get at it. If the Bible, said the bishop, which I believe to be God's word, was anything to you, it is something to me, sir. I have found fine truths in it. Thou shalt not kill, quoted the bishop. That is plain. The Virginian took his turn at smiling. Mighty plain to Mesa. Make it plain to Trampas, and there'll be no killing. We can't get at it that way. Once more, the bishop quoted earnestly. Vengeance is mine. I will repay, sayeth the Lord. How about instruments of providence, sir? Why, we can't get at it that way. If you start using the Bible that way, it will mix you up mighty quick, sir. My friend, the bishop urged, and all his good, warm heart was in it. My dear fellow, go away for the one night. He'll change his mind. The Virginian shook his head. He cannot change his word, sir. Or at least I must stay around till he does. Why, I have given him the say-so. He's got the choice. Most men would not have took what I took from him in the saloon. Why don't you ask him to leave town? The good bishop was at a standstill. Of all kicking against the pricks, none is so hard as this kick of a professing Christian against the whole instinct of human man. But you have helped me some, said the Virginian. I will go and tell her. At least, if I think it will be good for her, I will tell her. The bishop thought he saw one last chance to move him. You're twenty-nine, he began. And a little over, said the Virginian. And you were fourteen when you ran away from your family. Well, I was weary, you know, of having elder brothers lay down my law night and morning. Yes, I know, so that your life has been your own for fifteen years. But it is not your own now you have given it to a woman. Yes, I have given it to her. But my life's not the whole of me. I'd give her twice my life, fifty, a thousand of them. But I can't give her, her, nor anybody in heaven or earth. I can't give my, my, we'll never get at it, sir. There's no good in words. Goodbye. The Virginian rung the bishop's hand and left him. God bless him, said the bishop. God bless him. The Virginian unlocked the room in the hotel where he kept stored his tent, his blankets, his pack-saddles, and his many accouterments for the bridal journey into the mountains. Out of the window he saw the mountains blue and shadow, but some cottonwoods distant in the flat between were still bright green in the sun. From among his possessions he took quickly a pistol, wiping and loading it. Then from its holster he removed the pistol which he had tried and made sure of in the morning. This, according to his want when going into a risk, he shoved between his trousers and his shirt in front. The untried weapon he placed in the holster, letting it hang visibly at his hip. He glanced out of the window again and saw the mountains of the same deep blue, but the cottonwoods were no longer in the sunlight. The shadow had come past them nearer the town. For fifteen of the forty minutes were gone. The bishop is wrong, he said. There is no sense in telling her. And he turned to the door just as she came to it herself. Oh! she cried out at once and rushed to him. He swore as he held her close. The fools, he said. The fools. It has been so frightful waiting for you, said she, leaning her head against him. Who had to tell you this, he demanded. I don't know. Somebody just came and said it. This is mean luck, he murmured patting her. This is mean luck. She went on. I wanted to run out and find you, but I didn't. I didn't. I stayed quiet in my room till they said you had come back. It is mean luck, mighty mean, he repeated. How could you be so long, she asked? Never mind. I've got you now. It is over. Anger and sorrow filled him. I might have known some fool would tell you, he said. It's all over. Never mind. Her arms tightened their hold of him. Then she let him go. What shall we do? she said. What now? Now, he answered. Nothing now. She looked at him without understanding. I know it is a heap worse for you, he pursued, speaking slowly. I knew it would be. But it is over, she exclaimed again. He did not understand her now. He kissed her. Did you think it was over? He said simply. There is some waiting still before us. I wish you did not have to wait alone, but it will not be long. He was looking down and did not see the happiness grow chilled upon her face and then fade into bewildered fear. I did my best, he went on. I think I did. I know I tried. I let him say to me before them all what no man has ever said or ever will again. I kept thinking hard of you, with all my might, or I reckon I'd have killed him right there. And I gave him a show to change his mind. I gave it to him twice. I spoke as quiet as I am speaking to you now, but he stood to it. And I expect he knows he went too far in the hearing of others to go back on his threat. He will have to go on to the finish now. The finish, she echoed, almost voiceless. Yes, he answered very gently. Her dilated eyes were fixed upon him, but she could scarce form utterance. But you? I have got myself ready, he said. Did you think? Why, what did you think? She recoiled a step. What are you going? She put her two hands to her head. Oh, God! she almost shrieked. You are going? He made a step and would have put his arm round her, but she backed against the wall, staring speechless at him. I am not going to let him shoot me, he said quietly. You mean? You mean? But you can come away, she cried. It's not too late yet. You can take yourself out of his reach. Everybody knows that you are brave. What is he to you? You can leave him in this place. I'll go with you anywhere, to any house, to the mountains, to anywhere away. We'll leave this horrible place together and, and, oh, won't you listen to me? She stretched her hands to him. Won't you listen? He took her hands. I must stay here. Her hands clung to his. No, no, no, there's something else. There's something better than shedding blood and cold blood. Only think what it means. Only think of having to remember such a thing. Why, it's what they hang people for. It's murder. He dropped her hands. Don't call it that name, he said sternly. When there was the choice, she exclaimed, half to herself, like a person stunned and speaking to the air, to get ready for it when you have the choice. He did the choosing, answered the Virginian. Listen to me. Are you listening? He asked for her gaze was dull. She nodded. I work here. I belong here. It's my life. If folks came to think I was a coward, who would think you were a coward? Everybody. My friends would be sorry and ashamed, and my enemies would walk around saying they had always said so. I could not hold up my head again among enemies or friends. When it was explained, there'd be nothing to explain. There'd just be the fact. He was nearly angry. There is a higher courage than fear of outside opinion, said the New England girl. Her southern lover looked at her. Certainly there is. That's what I'm showing and going against yours. But if you know that you are brave, and if I know that you are brave, oh, my dear, my dear, what difference does the world make? How much higher courage to go your own course? I am going my own course, he broke in. Can't you see how it must be about a man? It's not for their benefit, friends or enemies, that I have got this thing to do. If any man happened to say I was a thief and I heard about it, would I let him go on spreading such a thing of me? Don't I owe my own honesty something better than that? Would I sit down in a corner, rubbing my honesty and whispering to it? There, there, I know you ain't a thief. No, sir, not a little bit. What men say about my nature is not just merely an outside thing. For the fact that I let him keep on saying it is a proof I don't value my nature enough to shield it from their slander and give them their punishment, and that's being a poor sort of a jay. She had grown very white. Can't you see how it must be about a man? He repeated. I cannot, she answered in a voice that scarcely seemed her own. If I ought to, I cannot. To shed blood in cold blood, when I heard about that last fall, about the killing of those cattle thieves, I kept saying to myself, he had to do it. It was a public duty. And lying sleepless, I got used to Wyoming being different from Vermont. But this, she gave a shutter. When I think of tomorrow, of you and me, and of, if you do this, there can be no tomorrow for you and me. At these words, he also turned white. Do you mean, he asked, and could go no farther? Nor could she answer him, but turned her head away. This would be the end, he asked. Her head faintly moved to signify yes. He stood still, his hand shaking a little. Will you look at me and say that? He murmured at length. She did not move. Can you do it? He said. His sweetness made her turn, but could not pierce her frozen resolve. She gazed at him across the great distance of her despair. Then it is really so, he said. Her lips tried to form words, but failed. He looked out of the window and saw nothing but shadow. The blue of the mountains was now become a deep purple. Suddenly his hand closed hard. Good-bye, then, he said. At that word she was at his feet, clutching him. For my sake, she begged, for my sake. A tremble passed through his frame. She felt his legs shake as she held him, and, looking up, she saw that his eyes were closed with misery. Then he opened them, and in their steady look she read her answer. He unclasped her hands from holding him and raised her to her feet. I have no right to kiss you any more, he said. And then, before his desire could break him down from this, he was gone and she was alone. She did not fall or totter, but stood motionless, and next it seemed a moment and it seemed eternity. She heard in the distance a shot, and then two shots. Out of the window she saw people beginning to run. At that she turned and fled to her room, and flung herself face downward upon the floor. Trampas had departed into solitude from the saloon, leaving behind him his ultimatum. His loud and public threat was town knowledge already, would very likely be county knowledge tonight. Riders would take it with them to entertain distant cabins up the river and down the river, and by dark the stage would go south with the news of it and the news of its outcome. For everything would be over by dark. After five years here was the end coming, coming before dark. Trampas had got up this morning with no such thought. It seemed very strange to look back upon the morning. It lay so distant, so irrevocable. And he thought of how he had eaten his breakfast. How would he eat his supper? For supper would come afterward. Some people were eating theirs now with nothing like this before them. His heart ached and grew cold to think of them, easy and comfortable with plates and cups of coffee. He looked at the mountains and saw the sun above their ridges, and the shadow coming from their feet. And there close behind him was the morning he could never go back to. He could see it clearly. His thoughts reached out like arms to touch it once more and be in it again. The night that was coming he could not see, and his eyes and his thoughts shrank from it. He had given his enemy until sundown. He could not trace the path which had led him to this. He remembered their first meeting five years back in Medicine Bow, and the words which at once began his hate. No, it was before any words. It was the encounter of their eyes. For out of the eyes of every stranger looks either a friend or an enemy waiting to be known. But how had five years of hate come to play him such a trick suddenly today? Since last autumn he had meant some time to get even with this man who seemed to stand at every turn of his crookedness and rob him of his spoils. But how had he come to choose such a way of getting even as this, face to face? He knew many better ways, and now his own rash proclamation had trapped him. His words were like doors shutting him in to perform his threat to the letter, with witnesses at hand to see that he did so. Trampas looked at the sun in the shadow again. He had till sundown. The heart inside him was turning it round in this opposite way. It was to himself that in his rage he had given this lessening margin of grace, but he dared not leave town in all the world's sight after all the world had heard him. Even his friends would fall from him after such an act. Could he, the thought actually came to him, could he strike before the time set? But the thought was useless. Even if his friends could harbor him after such a deed, his enemies would find him and his life would be forfeit to a certainty. His own trap was closing upon him. He came upon the main street and saw, some distance off, the Virginians standing in talk with the bishop. He slunk between two houses and cursed both of them. The sight had been good for him, bringing some warmth of rage back to his desperate heart, and he went into a place and drank some whiskey. In your shoes, said the barkeeper, I'd be afraid to take so much. But the nerves of Trampas were almost beyond the reach of intoxication, and he swallowed some more and went out again. Presently he fell in with some of his brothers in cattle-stealing, and walked along with them for a little. Well, it will not be long now, they said to him, and he had never heard words so desolate. No, he made out to say, soon now. Their cheerfulness seemed unearthly to him, and his heart almost broke beneath it. We'll have one to your success, they suggested. So with them he repaired to another place, and the sight of a man leaning against the bar made him start so that they noticed him. Then he saw that the man was a stranger whom he had never laid eyes on till now. It looked like Shorty, he said, and could have bitten his tongue off. Shorty is quiet up in the Tetons, said a friend. You don't want to be thinking about him. Here's how. Then they clapped him on the back, and he left them. He thought of his enemy and his hate, beating his rage like a failing horse, and treading the courage of his drink. Across a space he saw Wigan walking with Maclean and Scipio. They were watching the town to see that his friends made no foul play. We're giving you a clear field, said Wigan. This race will not be pulled, said Maclean. Be with you at the finish, said Scipio. And they passed on. They did not seem like real people to him. Trampas looked at the walls and windows of the houses. Were they real? Was he here walking in this street? Something had changed. He looked everywhere, and feeling it everywhere, wondered what this could be. Then he knew it was the sun that had gone entirely behind the mountains, and he drew out his pistol. The Virginian, for precaution, did not walk out of the front door of the hotel. He went through back ways, and paused once. Against his breast he felt the wedding ring where he had it suspended by a chain from his neck. His hand went up to it, and he drew it out and looked at it. He took it off the chain, and his arm went back to hurl it from him as far as he could. But he stopped and kissed it with one sob, and thrust it in his pocket. Then he walked out into the open, watching. He saw men here and there, and they let him pass as before without speaking. He saw his three friends, and they said no word to him. But they turned and followed in his rear at a little distance, because it was known that Shorty had been found shot from behind. The Virginian gained a position soon where no one could come at him except from in front, and the side of the mountains was almost more than he could endure, because it was there that he had been going tomorrow. It is quite a while after sunset, he heard himself say. A wind seemed to blow his sleeve off his arm, and he replied to it, and saw Trampas pitch forward. He saw Trampas raise his arm from the ground and fall again, and lie there this time still. A little smoke was rising from the pistol on the ground, and he looked at his own and saw the smoke flowing upward out of it. I expect that's all, he said aloud. But as he came nearer, Trampas, he covered him with his weapon. He stopped a moment, seeing the hand on the ground move. Two fingers twitched, and then ceased, for it was all. The Virginian stood, looking down at Trampas. Both of mine hit, he said, once more aloud. His must have gone mighty close to my arm. I told her it would not be me. He had scarcely noticed that he was being surrounded and congratulated. His hand was being shaken, and he saw it with Scipio in tears. Scipio's joy made his heart like lead within him. He was near telling his friend everything, but he did not. If anybody wants me about this, he said, I will be at the hotel. Who will want you, said Scipio? Three of us saw his gun out, and he vented his admiration. You were that cool, that quick. I'll see you boys again, said the Virginian, heavily, and he walked away. Scipio looked after him, astonished. You might suppose he was in poor luck, he said to McLean. The Virginian walked to the hotel, and stood on the threshold of his sweetheart's room. She had heard his step, and was upon her feet. Her lips were parted, and her eyes fixed on him. Nor did she move or speak. You have to know it, said he. I have killed Trampas. Oh, thank God, she said, and he found her in his arms. Long they embraced without speaking, and what they whispered then with their kisses matters not. 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. End of chapter 35