It was for several minutes, I suppose, that I stood drawing these silent
morals. No man occupied himself with me. Quiet voices, and games of
chance, and glasses lifted to drink, continued to be the peaceful order
of the night. And into my thoughts broke the voice of that card-dealer
who had already spoken so sagely. He also took his turn at moralizing.
“What did I tell you?” he remarked to the man for whom he continued to
deal, and who continued to lose money to him.
“Tell me when?”
“Didn’t I tell you he’d not shoot?” the dealer pursued with complacence.
“You got ready to dodge. You had no call to be concerned. He’s not the
kind a man need feel anxious about.”
The player looked over at the Virginian, doubtfully. “Well,” he said, “I
don’t know what you folks call a dangerous man.”
“Not him!” exclaimed the dealer with admiration. “He’s a brave man.
That’s different.”
The player seemed to follow this reasoning no better than I did.
“It’s not a brave man that’s dangerous,” continued the dealer. “It’s the
cowards that scare me.” He paused that this might sink home.
“Fello’ came in here las’ Toosday,” he went on. “He got into some
misunderstanding about the drinks. Well, sir, before we could put him
out of business, he’d hurt two perfectly innocent onlookers. They’d no
more to do with it than you have,” the dealer explained to me.
“Were they badly hurt?” I asked.
“One of ’em was. He’s died since.”
“What became of the man?”
“Why, we put him out of business, I told you. He died that night. But
there was no occasion for any of it; and that’s why I never like to
be around where there’s a coward. You can’t tell. He’ll always go to
shooting before it’s necessary, and there’s no security who he’ll
hit. But a man like that black-headed guy is (the dealer indicated the
Virginian) need never worry you. And there’s another point why there’s
no need to worry about him: IT’D BE TOO LATE.”
These good words ended the moralizing of the dealer. He had given us
a piece of his mind. He now gave the whole of it to dealing cards.
I loitered here and there, neither welcome nor unwelcome at present,
watching the cow-boys at their play. Saving Trampas, there was scarce
a face among them that had not in it something very likable. Here were
lusty horsemen ridden from the heat of the sun, and the wet of the
storm, to divert themselves awhile. Youth untamed sat here for an idle
moment, spending easily its hard-earned wages. City saloons rose into
my vision, and I instantly preferred this Rocky Mountain place. More
of death it undoubtedly saw, but less of vice, than did its New York
equivalents.
And death is a thing much cleaner than vice. Moreover, it was by no
means vice that was written upon these wild and manly faces. Even where
baseness was visible, baseness was not uppermost. Daring, laughter,
endurance--these were what I saw upon the countenances of the cow-boys.
And this very first day of my knowledge of them marks a date with me.
For something about them, and the idea of them, smote my American heart,
and I have never forgotten it, nor ever shall, as long as I live. In
their flesh our natural passions ran tumultuous; but often in their
spirit sat hidden a true nobility, and often beneath its unexpected
shining their figures took on heroic stature.
The dealer had styled the Virginian “a black-headed guy.” This did well
enough as an unflattered portrait. Judge Henry’s trustworthy man, with
whom I was to drive two hundred and sixty-three miles, certainly had a
very black head of hair. It was the first thing to notice now, if one
glanced generally at the table where he sat at cards. But the eye came
back to him--drawn by that inexpressible something which had led the
dealer to speak so much at length about him.
Still, “black-headed guy” justly fits him and his next performance. He
had made his plan for this like a true and (I must say) inspired devil.
And now the highly appreciative town of Medicine Bow was to be treated
to a manifestation of genius.
He sat playing his stud-poker. After a decent period of losing and
winning, which gave Trampas all proper time for a change of luck and
a repairing of his fortunes, he looked at Steve and said amiably: “How
does bed strike you?”
I was beside their table, learning gradually that stud-poker has in
it more of what I will call red pepper than has our Eastern game. The
Virginian followed his own question: “Bed strikes me,” he stated.
Steve feigned indifference. He was far more deeply absorbed in his bet
and the American drummer than he was in this game; but he chose to take
out a fat, florid gold watch, consult it elaborately, and remark, “It’s
only eleven.”
“Yu’ forget I’m from the country,” said the black-headed guy. “The
chickens have been roostin’ a right smart while.”
His sunny Southern accent was again strong. In that brief passage with
Trampas it had been almost wholly absent. But different moods of the
spirit bring different qualities of utterance--where a man comes by
these naturally. The Virginian cashed in his checks.
“Awhile ago,” said Steve, “you had won three months’ salary.”
“I’m still twenty dollars to the good,” said the Virginian. “That’s
better than breaking a laig.”
Again, in some voiceless, masonic way, most people in that saloon had
become aware that something was in process of happening. Several left
their games and came to the front by the bar.
“If he ain’t in bed yet--” mused the Virginian.
“I’ll find out,” said I. And I hurried across to the dim sleeping room,
happy to have a part in this.
They were all in bed; and in some beds two were sleeping. How they could
do it--but in those days I was fastidious. The American had come in
recently and was still awake.
“Thought you were to sleep at the store?” said he.
So then I invented a little lie, and explained that I was in search of
the Virginian.
“Better search the dives,” said he. “These cow-boys don’t get to town
often.”
At this point I stumbled sharply over something.
“It’s my box of Consumption Killer,” explained the drummer; “Well, I
hope that man will stay out all night.”
“Bed narrow?” I inquired.
“For two it is. And the pillows are mean. Takes both before you feel
anything’s under your head.”
He yawned, and I wished him pleasant dreams.
At my news the Virginian left the bar at once; and crossed to the
sleeping room. Steve and I followed softly, and behind us several
more strung out in an expectant line. “What is this going to be?” they
inquired curiously of each other. And upon learning the great novelty
of the event, they clustered with silence intense outside the door where
the Virginian had gone in.
We heard the voice of the drummer, cautioning his bed-fellow. “Don’t
trip over the Killer,” he was saying. “The Prince of Wales barked his
shin just now.” It seemed my English clothes had earned me this title.
The boots of the Virginian were next heard to drop.
“Can yu’ make out what he’s at?” whispered Steve.
He was plainly undressing. The rip of swift unbuttoning told us that the
black-headed guy must now be removing his overalls.
“Why, thank yu’, no,” he was replying to a question of the drummer.
“Outside or in’s all one to me.”
“Then, if you’d just as soon take the wall--”
“Why, cert’nly.” There was a sound of bedclothes, and creaking.
“This hyeh pillo’ needs a Southern climate,” was the Virginian’s next
observation.
Many listeners had now gathered at the door. The dealer and the player
were both here. The storekeeper was present, and I recognized the agent
of the Union Pacific Railroad among the crowd. We made a large company,
and I felt that trembling sensation which is common when the cap of a
camera is about to be removed upon a group.
“I should think,” said the drummer’s voice, “that you’d feel your knife
and gun clean through that pillow.”
“I do,” responded the Virginian.
“I should think you’d put them on a chair and be comfortable.”
“I’d be uncomfortable, then.”
“Used to the feel of them, I suppose?”
“That’s it. Used to the feel of them. I would miss them, and that would
make me wakeful.”
“Well, good night.”
“Good night. If I get to talkin’ and tossin’, or what not, you’ll
understand you’re to--”
“Yes, I’ll wake you.”
“No, don’t yu’, for God’s sake!”
“Not?”
“Don’t yu’ touch me.”
“What’ll I do?”
“Roll away quick to your side. It don’t last but a minute.” The
Virginian spoke with a reassuring drawl.
Upon this there fell a brief silence, and I heard the drummer clear his
throat once or twice.
“It’s merely the nightmare, I suppose?” he said after a throat clearing.
“Lord, yes. That’s all. And don’t happen twice a year. Was you thinkin’
it was fits?”
“Oh, no! I just wanted to know. I’ve been told before that it was not
safe for a person to be waked suddenly that way out of a nightmare.”
“Yes, I have heard that too. But it never harms me any. I didn’t want
you to run risks.”
“Me?”
“Oh, it’ll be all right now that yu’ know how it is.” The Virginian’s
drawl was full of assurance.