The letter which the Virginian wrote to Molly Wood was, as has been
stated, the first that he had ever addressed to her. I think, perhaps,
he may have been a little shy as to his skill in the epistolary art, a
little anxious lest any sustained production from his pen might contain
blunders that would too staringly remind her of his scant learning. He
could turn off a business communication about steers or stock cars, or
any other of the subjects involved in his profession, with a brevity
and a clearness that led the Judge to confide three-quarters of such
correspondence to his foreman. “Write to the 76 outfit,” the Judge would
say, “and tell them that my wagon cannot start for the round-up until,”
etc.; or “Write to Cheyenne and say that if they will hold a meeting
next Monday week, I will,” etc. And then the Virginian would write such
communications with ease.
But his first message to his lady was scarcely written with ease. It
must be classed, I think, among those productions which are styled
literary EFFORTS. It was completed in pencil before it was copied in
ink; and that first draft of it in pencil was well-nigh illegible with
erasures and amendments. The state of mind of the writer during its
composition may be gathered without further description on my part from
a slight interruption which occurred in the middle.
The door opened, and Scipio put his head in. “You coming to dinner?” he
inquired.
“You go to hell,” replied the Virginian.
“My jinks!” said Scipio, quietly, and he shut the door without further
observation.
To tell the truth, I doubt if this letter would ever have been
undertaken, far less completed and despatched, had not the lover’s heart
been wrung with disappointment. All winter long he had looked to that
day when he should knock at the girl’s door, and hear her voice bid him
come in. All winter long he had been choosing the ride he would take
her. He had imagined a sunny afternoon, a hidden grove, a sheltering
cleft of rock, a running spring, and some words of his that should
conquer her at last and leave his lips upon hers. And with this
controlled fire pent up within him, he had counted the days, scratching
them off his calendar with a dig each night that once or twice snapped
the pen. Then, when the trail stood open, this meeting was deferred,
put off for indefinite days, or weeks; he could not tell how long.
So, gripping his pencil and tracing heavy words, he gave himself what
consolation he could by writing her.
The letter, duly stamped and addressed to Bear Creek, set forth upon
its travels; and these were devious and long. When it reached its
destination, it was some twenty days old. It had gone by private hand
at the outset, taken the stagecoach at a way point, become late in
that stagecoach, reached a point of transfer, and waited there for the
postmaster to begin, continue, end, and recover from a game of poker,
mingled with whiskey. Then it once more proceeded, was dropped at
the right way point, and carried by private hand to Bear Creek. The
experience of this letter, however, was not at all a remarkable one at
that time in Wyoming.
Molly Wood looked at the envelope. She had never before seen the
Virginian’s handwriting. She knew it instantly. She closed her door and
sat down to read it with a beating heart.