The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains. Owen Wister

quite it,” said I, as he got down on the ground.

      “Nothing's broke,” said he, after a searching examination. And he indulged in a true Virginian expletive. “Gentlemen, hush!” he murmured gently, looking at me with his grave eyes; “one time I got pretty near scared. You, Buck,” he continued, “some folks would beat you now till yu'd be uncertain whether yu' was a hawss or a railroad accident. I'd do it myself, only it wouldn't cure yu'.”

      I now told him that I supposed he had saved both our lives. But he detested words of direct praise. He made some grumbling rejoinder, and led the horses out of the thicket. Buck, he explained to me, was a good horse, and so was Muggins. Both of them generally meant well, and that was the Judge's reason for sending them to meet me. But these broncos had their off days. Off days might not come very often; but when the humor seized a bronco, he had to have his spree. Buck would now behave himself as a horse should for probably two months. “They are just like humans,” the Virginian concluded.

      Several cow-boys arrived on a gallop to find how many pieces of us were left. We returned down the hill; and when we reached my trunk, it was surprising to see the distance that our runaway had covered. My hat was also found, and we continued on our way.

      Buck and Muggins were patterns of discretion through the rest of the mountains. I thought when we camped this night that it was strange Buck should be again allowed to graze at large, instead of being tied to a rope while we slept. But this was my ignorance. With the hard work that he was gallantly doing, the horse needed more pasture than a rope's length would permit him to find. Therefore he went free, and in the morning gave us but little trouble in catching him.

      We crossed a river in the forenoon, and far to the north of us we saw the Bow Leg Mountains, pale in the bright sun. Sunk Creek flowed from their western side, and our two hundred and sixty-three miles began to grow a small thing in my eyes. Buck and Muggins, I think, knew perfectly that to-morrow would see them home. They recognized this region; and once they turned off at a fork in the road. The Virginian pulled them back rather sharply.

      “Want to go back to Balaam's?” he inquired of them. “I thought you had more sense.”

      I asked, “Who was Balaam?”

      “A maltreater of hawsses,” replied the cow-puncher. “His ranch is on Butte Creek oveh yondeh.” And he pointed to where the diverging road melted into space. “The Judge bought Buck and Muggins from him in the spring.”

      “So he maltreats horses?” I repeated.

      “That's the word all through this country. A man that will do what they claim Balaam does to a hawss when he's mad, ain't fit to be called human.” The Virginian told me some particulars.

      “Oh!” I almost screamed at the horror of it, and again, “Oh!”

      “He'd have prob'ly done that to Buck as soon as he stopped runnin' away. If I caught a man doin' that—”

      We were interrupted by a sedate-looking traveller riding upon an equally sober horse.

      “Mawnin', Taylor,” said the Virginian, pulling up for gossip. “Ain't you strayed off your range pretty far?”

      “You're a nice one!” replied Mr. Taylor, stopping his horse and smiling amiably.

      “Tell me something I don't know,” retorted the Virginian.

      “Hold up a man at cards and rob him,” pursued Mr. Taylor. “Oh, the news has got ahead of you!”

      “Trampas has been hyeh explainin', has he?” said the Virginian with a grin.

      “Was that your victim's name?” said Mr. Taylor, facetiously. “No, it wasn't him that brought the news. Say, what did you do, anyway?”

      “So that thing has got around,” murmured the Virginian. “Well, it wasn't worth such wide repawtin'.” And he gave the simple facts to Taylor, while I sat wondering at the contagious powers of Rumor. Here, through this voiceless land, this desert, this vacuum, it had spread like a change of weather. “Any news up your way?” the Virginian concluded.

      Importance came into Mr. Taylor's countenance. “Bear Creek is going to build a schoolhouse,” said he.

      “Goodness gracious!” drawled the Virginian. “What's that for?”

      Now Mr. Taylor had been married for some years. “To educate the offspring of Bear Creek,” he answered with pride.

      “Offspring of Bear Creek,” the Virginian meditatively repeated. “I don't remember noticin' much offspring. There was some white tail deer, and a right smart o' jack rabbits.”

      “The Swintons have moved up from Drybone,” said Mr. Taylor, always seriously. “They found it no place for young children. And there's Uncle Carmody with six, and Ben Dow. And Westfall has become a family man, and—”

      “Jim Westfall!” exclaimed the Virginian. “Him a fam'ly man! Well, if this hyeh Territory is goin' to get full o' fam'ly men and empty o' game, I believe I'll—”

      “Get married yourself,” suggested Mr. Taylor.

      “Me! I ain't near reached the marriageable age. No, seh! But Uncle Hughey has got there at last, yu' know.”

      “Uncle Hughey!” shouted Mr. Taylor. He had not heard this. Rumor is very capricious. Therefore the Virginian told him, and the family man rocked in his saddle.

      “Build your schoolhouse,” said the Virginian. “Uncle Hughey has qualified himself to subscribe to all such propositions. Got your eye on a schoolmarm?”

V. ENTER THE WOMAN

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      “We are taking steps,” said Mr. Taylor. “Bear Creek ain't going to be hasty about a schoolmarm.”

      “Sure,” assented the Virginian. “The children wouldn't want yu' to hurry.”

      But Mr. Taylor was, as I have indicated, a serious family man. The problem of educating his children could appear to him in no light except a sober one. “Bear Creek,” he said, “don't want the experience they had over at Calef. We must not hire an ignoramus.”

      “Sure!” assented the Virginian again.

      “Nor we don't want no gad-a-way flirt,” said Mr. Taylor.

      “She must keep her eyes on the blackboa'd,” said the Virginian, gently.

      “Well, we can wait till we get a guaranteed article,” said Mr. Taylor. “And that's what we're going to do. It can't be this year, and it needn't to be. None of the kids is very old, and the schoolhouse has got to be built.” He now drew a letter from his pocket, and looked at me. “Are you acquainted with Miss Mary Stark Wood of Bennington, Vermont?” he inquired.

      I was not acquainted with her at this time.

      “She's one we are thinking of. She's a correspondent with Mrs. Balaam.” Taylor handed me the letter. “She wrote that to Mrs. Balaam, and Mrs. Balaam said the best thing was for to let me see it and judge for myself. I'm taking it back to Mrs. Balaam. Maybe you can give me your opinion how it sizes up with the letters they write back East?”

      The communication was mainly of a business kind, but also personal, and freely written. I do not think that its writer expected it to be exhibited as a document. The writer wished very much that she could see the West. But she could not gratify this desire merely for pleasure, or she would long ago have accepted the kind invitation to visit Mrs. Balaam's ranch. Teaching school was something she would like to do, if she were fitted for it. “Since the mills failed” (the writer said) “we have all gone to work and done a lot of things so that mother might keep on living in the old house. Yes,