The Virginian
XVII
SCIPIO MORALIZES
Into what mood was it that the Virginian now fell? Being less busy, did he
begin to "grieve" about the girl on Bear Creek? I only know that after talking
so lengthily he fell into a nine days' silence. The talking part of him deeply
and unbrokenly slept.
Official words of course came from him as we rode southward from the
railroad, gathering the Judge's stray cattle. During the many weeks since the
spring round-up, some of these animals had as usual got very far off their
range, and getting them on again became the present business of our party.
Directions and commands—whatever communications to his subordinates were
needful to the forwarding of this—he duly gave. But routine has never at any
time of the world passed for conversation. His utterances, such as, "We'll work
Willo' Creek to-morro' mawnin'," or, "I want the wagon to be at the fawks o'
Stinkin' Water by Thursday," though on some occasions numerous enough to sound
like discourse, never once broke the man's true silence. Seeming to keep easy
company with the camp, he yet kept altogether to himself. That talking part of
him—the mood which brings out for you your friend's spirit and mind as a free
gift or as an exchange—was down in some dark cave of his nature, hidden away.
Perhaps it had been dreaming; perhaps completely reposing. The Virginian was one
of those rare ones who are able to refresh themselves in sections. To have a
thing on his mind did not keep his body from resting. During our recent
journey—it felt years ago now!—while our caboose on the freight train had
trundled endlessly westward, and the men were on the ragged edge, the very
jumping-off place, of mutiny and possible murder, I had seen him sleep like a
child. He snatched the moments not necessary for vigil. I had also seen him sit
all night watching his responsibility, ready to spring on it and fasten his
teeth in it. And now that he had confounded them with their own attempted weapon
of ridicule, his powers seemed to be profoundly dormant. That final pitched
battle of wits had made the men his captives and admirers—all save Trampas. And
of him the Virginian did not seem to be aware.
But Scipio le Moyne would say to me now and then, "If I was Trampas, I'd pull
my freight." And once he added, "Pull it kind of casual, yu' know, like I wasn't
noticing myself do it."
"Yes," our friend Shorty murmured pregnantly, with his eye upon the quiet
Virginian, "he's sure studying his revenge."
"Studying your pussy-cat," said Scipio. "He knows what he'll do. The time
'ain't arrived." This was the way they felt about it; and not unnaturally this
was the way they made me, the inexperienced Easterner, feel about it. That
Trampas also felt something about it was easy to know. Like the leaven which
leavens the whole lump, one spot of sulkiness in camp will spread its dull
flavor through any company that sits near it; and we had to sit near Trampas at
meals for nine days.
His sullenness was not wonderful. To feel himself forsaken by his recent
adherents, to see them gone over to his enemy, could not have made his
reflections pleasant. Why he did not take himself off to other climes—"pull his
freight casual," as Scipio said—I can explain only thus: pay was due him—"time,"
as it was called in cow-land; if he would have this money, he must stay under
the Virginian's command until the Judge's ranch on Sunk Creek should be reached;
meanwhile, each day's work added to the wages in store for him; and finally,
once at Sunk Creek, it would be no more the Virginian who commanded him; it
would be the real ranch foreman. At the ranch he would be the Virginian's equal
again, both of them taking orders from their officially recognized superior,
this foreman. Shorty's word about "revenge" seemed to me like putting the thing
backwards. Revenge, as I told Scipio, was what I should be thinking about if I
were Trampas.
"He dassent," was Scipio's immediate view. "Not till he's got strong again.
He got laughed plumb sick by the bystanders, and whatever spirit he had was
broke in the presence of us all. He'll have to recuperate." Scipio then spoke of
the Virginian's attitude. "Maybe revenge ain't just the right word for where
this affair has got to now with him. When yu' beat another man at his own game
like he done to Trampas, why, yu've had all the revenge yu' can want, unless
you're a hog. And he's no hog. But he has got it in for Trampas. They've not
reckoned to a finish. Would you let a man try such spite-work on you and quit
thinkin' about him just because yu'd headed him off?" To this I offered his own
notion about hogs and being satisfied. "Hogs!" went on Scipio, in a way that
dashed my suggestion to pieces; "hogs ain't in the case. He's got to deal with
Trampas somehow—man to man. Trampas and him can't stay this way when they get
back and go workin' same as they worked before. No, sir; I've seen his eye
twice, and I know he's goin' to reckon to a finish."
I still must, in Scipio's opinion, have been slow to understand, when on the
afternoon following this talk I invited him to tell me what sort of "finish" he
wanted, after such a finishing as had been dealt Trampas already. Getting
"laughed plumb sick by the bystanders" (I borrowed his own not overstated
expression) seemed to me a highly final finishing. While I was running my
notions off to him, Scipio rose, and, with the frying-pan he had been washing,
walked slowly at me.
"I do believe you'd oughtn't to be let travel alone the way you do." He put
his face close to mine. His long nose grew eloquent in its shrewdness, while the
fire in his bleached blue eye burned with amiable satire. "What has come and
gone between them two has only settled the one point he was aimin' to make. He
was appointed boss of this outfit in the absence of the regular foreman. Since
then all he has been playin' for is to hand back his men to the ranch in as good
shape as they'd been handed to him, and without losing any on the road through
desertion or shooting or what not. He had to kick his cook off the train that
day, and the loss made him sorrowful, I could see. But I'd happened to come
along, and he jumped me into the vacancy, and I expect he is pretty near
consoled. And as boss of the outfit he beat Trampas, who was settin' up for
opposition boss. And the outfit is better than satisfied it come out that way,
and they're stayin' with him; and he'll hand them all back in good condition,
barrin' that lost cook. So for the present his point is made, yu' see. But look
ahead a little. It may not be so very far ahead yu'll have to look. We get back
to the ranch. He's not boss there any more. His responsibility is over. He is
just one of us again, taking orders from a foreman they tell me has showed
partiality to Trampas more'n a few times. Partiality! That's what Trampas is
plainly trusting to. Trusting it will fix him all right and fix his enemy all
wrong. He'd not otherwise dare to keep sour like he's doing. Partiality! D' yu'
think it'll scare off the enemy?" Scipio looked across a little creek to where
the Virginian was helping throw the gathered cattle on the bedground. "What
odds"—he pointed the frying-pan at the Southerner—"d' yu' figure Trampas's being
under any foreman's wing will make to a man like him? He's going to remember Mr.
Trampas and his spite-work if he's got to tear him out from under the wing, and
maybe tear off the wing in the operation. And I am goin' to advise your folks,"
ended the complete Scipio, "not to leave you travel so much alone—not till
you've learned more life."
He had made me feel my inexperience, convinced me of innocence, undoubtedly;
and during the final days of our journey I no longer invoked his aid to my
reflections upon this especial topic: What would the Virginian do to Trampas?
Would it be another intellectual crushing of him, like the frog story, or would
there be something this time more material—say muscle, or possibly gunpowder—in
it? And was Scipio, after all, infallible? I didn't pretend to understand the
Virginian; after several years' knowledge of him he remained utterly beyond me.
Scipio's experience was not yet three weeks long. So I let him alone as to all
this, discussing with him most other things good and evil in the world, and
being convinced of much further innocence; for Scipio's twenty odd years were
indeed a library of life. I have never met a better heart, a shrewder wit, and
looser morals, with yet a native sense of decency and duty somewhere hard and
fast enshrined.
But all the while I was wondering about the Virginian: eating with him,
sleeping with him (only not so sound as he did), and riding beside him often for
many hours.
Experiments in conversation I did make—and failed. One day particularly
while, after a sudden storm of hail had chilled the earth numb and white like
winter in fifteen minutes, we sat drying and warming ourselves by a fire that we
built, I touched upon that theme of equality on which I knew him to hold
opinions as strong as mine. "Oh," he would reply, and "Cert'nly"; and when I
asked him what it was in a man that made him a leader of men, he shook his head
and puffed his pipe. So then, noticing how the sun had brought the earth in half
an hour back from winter to summer again, I spoke of our American climate.
It was a potent drug, I said, for millions to be swallowing every day.
"Yes," said he, wiping the damp from his Winchester rifle.
Our American climate, I said, had worked remarkable changes, at least.
"Yes," he said; and did not ask what they were.
So I had to tell him. "It has made successful politicians of the Irish.
That's one. And it has given our whole race the habit of poker."
Bang went his Winchester. The bullet struck close to my left. I sat up
angrily.
"That's the first foolish thing I ever saw you do!" I said.
"Yes," he drawled slowly, "I'd ought to have done it sooner. He was pretty
near lively again." And then he picked up a rattlesnake six feet behind me. It
had been numbed by the hail, part revived by the sun, and he had shot its head
off.