“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?”