A Stable On The Flat

: The Virginian

When the first landmark, the lone clump of cottonwoods, came at length

in sight, dark and blurred in the gentle rain, standing out perhaps

a mile beyond the distant buildings, my whole weary body hailed the

approach of repose. Saving the noon hour, I had been in the saddle since

six, and now six was come round again. The ranch, my resting-place for

this night, was a ruin--cabin, stable, and corral. Yet after the twelve

hours of pushing on and on through silence, still to have silence, still

to eat and go to sleep in it, perfectly fitted the mood of both my flesh

and spirit. At noon, when for a while I had thrown off my long oilskin

coat, merely the sight of the newspaper half crowded into my pocket had

been a displeasing reminder of the railway, and cities, and affairs. But

for its possible help to build fires, it would have come no farther with

me. The great levels around me lay cooled and freed of dust by the

wet weather, and full of sweet airs. Far in front the foot-hills rose

through the rain, indefinite and mystic. I wanted no speech with any

one, nor to be near human beings at all. I was steeped in a revery as of

the primal earth; even thoughts themselves had almost ceased motion. To

lie down with wild animals, with elk and deer, would have made my waking

dream complete; and since such dream could not be, the cattle around the

deserted buildings, mere dots as yet across separating space, were my

proper companions for this evening.



To-morrow night I should probably be camping with the Virginian in the

foot-hills. At his letter's bidding I had come eastward across Idaho,

abandoning my hunting in the Saw Tooth Range to make this journey with

him back through the Tetons. It was a trail known to him, and not to

many other honest men. Horse Thief Pass was the name his letter gave it.

Business (he was always brief) would call him over there at this time.

Returning, he must attend to certain matters in the Wind River country.

There I could leave by stage for the railroad, or go on with him the

whole way back to Sunk Creek. He designated for our meeting the forks

of a certain little stream in the foot-hills which to-day's ride had

brought in sight. There would be no chance for him to receive an answer

from me in the intervening time. If by a certain day--which was four

days off still--I had not reached the forks, he would understand I had

other plans. To me it was like living back in ages gone, this way of

meeting my friend, this choice of a stream so far and lonely that its

very course upon the maps was wrongly traced. And to leave behind all

noise and mechanisms, and set out at ease, slowly, with one packhorse,

into the wilderness, made me feel that the ancient earth was indeed my

mother and that I had found her again after being lost among houses,

customs, and restraints. I should arrive three days early at the

forks--three days of margin seeming to me a wise precaution against

delays unforeseen. If the Virginian were not there, good; I could fish

and be happy. If he were there but not ready to start, good; I could

still fish and be happy. And remembering my Eastern helplessness in

the year when we had met first, I enjoyed thinking how I had come to be

trusted. In those days I had not been allowed to go from the ranch for

so much as an afternoon's ride unless tied to him by a string, so to

speak; now I was crossing unmapped spaces with no guidance. The man who

could do this was scarce any longer a "tenderfoot."



My vision, as I rode, took in serenely the dim foot-hills,--to-morrow's

goal,--and nearer in the vast wet plain the clump of cottonwoods, and

still nearer my lodging for to-night with the dotted cattle round it.

And now my horse neighed. I felt his gait freshen for the journey's

end, and leaning to pat his neck I noticed his ears no longer slack and

inattentive, but pointing forward to where food and rest awaited both of

us. Twice he neighed, impatiently and long; and as he quickened his gait

still more, the packhorse did the same, and I realized that there was

about me still a spice of the tenderfoot: those dots were not cattle;

they were horses.



My horse had put me in the wrong. He had known his kind from afar,

and was hastening to them. The plainsman's eye was not yet mine; and I

smiled a little as I rode. When was I going to know, as by instinct, the

different look of horses and cattle across some two or three miles of

plain?



These miles we finished soon. The buildings changed in their aspect as

they grew to my approach, showing their desolation more clearly, and in

some way bringing apprehension into my mood. And around them the horses,

too, all standing with ears erect, watching me as I came--there was

something about them; or was it the silence? For the silence which I had

liked until now seemed suddenly to be made too great by the presence of

the deserted buildings. And then the door of the stable opened, and

men came out and stood, also watching me arrive. By the time I was

dismounting more were there. It was senseless to feel as unpleasant as

I did, and I strove to give to them a greeting that should sound easy.

I told them that I hoped there was room for one more here to-night. Some

of them had answered my greeting, but none of them answered this; and

as I began to be sure that I recognized several of their strangely

imperturbable faces, the Virginian came from the stable; and at that

welcome sight my relief spoke out instantly.



"I am here, you see!"



"Yes, I do see." I looked hard at him, for in his voice was the same

strangeness that I felt in everything around me. But he was looking at

his companions. "This gentleman is all right," he told them.



"That may be," said one whom I now knew that I had seen before at Sunk

Creek; "but he was not due to-night."



"Nor to-morrow," said another.



"Nor yet the day after," a third added.



The Virginian fell into his drawl. "None of you was ever early for

anything, I presume."



One retorted, laughing, "Oh, we're not suspicioning you of complicity."



And another, "Not even when we remember how thick you and Steve used to

be."



Whatever jokes they meant by this he did not receive as jokes. I saw

something like a wince pass over his face, and a flush follow it. But he

now spoke to me. "We expected to be through before this," he began. "I'm

right sorry you have come to-night. I know you'd have preferred to keep

away."



"We want him to explain himself," put in one of the others. "If he

satisfies us, he's free to go away."



"Free to go away!" I now exclaimed. But at the indulgence in their

frontier smile I cooled down. "Gentlemen," I said, "I don't know why my

movements interest you so much. It's quite a compliment! May I get under

shelter while I explain?"



No request could have been more natural, for the rain had now begun to

fall in straight floods. Yet there was a pause before one of them said,

"He might as well."



The Virginian chose to say nothing more; but he walked beside me into

the stable. Two men sat there together, and a third guarded them. At

that sight I knew suddenly what I had stumbled upon; and on the impulse

I murmured to the Virginian, "You're hanging them to-morrow."



He kept his silence.



"You may have three guesses," said a man behind me.



But I did not need them. And in the recoil of my insight the clump

of cottonwoods came into my mind, black and grim. No other trees high

enough grew within ten miles. This, then, was the business that the

Virginian's letter had so curtly mentioned. My eyes went into all

corners of the stable, but no other prisoners were here. I half expected

to see Trampas, and I half feared to see Shorty; for poor stupid

Shorty's honesty had not been proof against frontier temptations, and he

had fallen away from the company of his old friends. Often of late I

had heard talk at Sunk Creek of breaking up a certain gang of horse and

cattle thieves that stole in one Territory and sold in the next, and

knew where to hide in the mountains between. And now it had come to the

point; forces had been gathered, a long expedition made, and here they

were, successful under the Virginian's lead, but a little later than

their calculations. And here was I, a little too early, and a witness in

consequence. My presence seemed a simple thing to account for; but when

I had thus accounted for it, one of them said with good nature:-- "So

you find us here, and we find you here. Which is the most surprised, I

wonder?"



"There's no telling," said I, keeping as amiable as I could; "nor any

telling which objects the most."



"Oh, there's no objection here. You're welcome to stay. But not welcome

to go, I expect. He ain't welcome to go, is he?"



By the answers that their faces gave him it was plain that I was not.

"Not till we are through," said one.



"He needn't to see anything,"' another added.



"Better sleep late to-morrow morning," a third suggested to me.



I did not wish to stay here. I could have made some sort of camp apart

from them before dark; but in the face of their needless caution I was

helpless. I made no attempt to inquire what kind of spy they imagined I

could be, what sort of rescue I could bring in this lonely country; my

too early appearance seemed to be all that they looked at. And again

my eyes sought the prisoners. Certainly there were only two. One was

chewing tobacco, and talking now and then to his guard as if nothing

were the matter. The other sat dull in silence, not moving his eyes;

but his face worked, and I noticed how he continually moistened his dry

lips. As I looked at these doomed prisoners, whose fate I was invited to

sleep through to-morrow morning, the one who was chewing quietly nodded

to me.



"You don't remember me?" he said.



It was Steve! Steve of Medicine Bow! The pleasant Steve of my first

evening in the West. Some change of beard had delayed my instant

recognition of his face. Here he sat sentenced to die. A shock, chill

and painful, deprived me of speech.



He had no such weak feelings. "Have yu' been to Medicine Bow lately?" he

inquired. "That's getting to be quite a while ago."



I assented. I should have liked to say something natural and kind,

but words stuck against my will, and I stood awkward and ill at ease,

noticing idly that the silent one wore a gray flannel shirt like mine.

Steve looked me over, and saw in my pocket the newspaper which I had

brought from the railroad and on which I had pencilled a few expenses.

He asked me, Would I mind letting him have it for a while? And I gave

it to him eagerly, begging him to keep it as long as he wanted. I was

overeager in my embarrassment. "You need not return it at all," I said;

"those notes are nothing. Do keep it."



He gave me a short glance and a smile. "Thank you," he said; "I'll not

need it beyond to-morrow morning." And he began to search through it.

"Jake's election is considered sure," he said to his companion, who

made no response. "Well, Fremont County owes it to Jake." And I left him

interested in the local news.



Dead men I have seen not a few times, even some lying pale and terrible

after violent ends, and the edge of this wears off; but I hope I shall

never again have to be in the company with men waiting to be killed.

By this time to-morrow the gray flannel shirt would be buttoned round

a corpse. Until what moment would Steve chew? Against such fancies as

these I managed presently to barricade my mind, but I made a plea to be

allowed to pass the night elsewhere, and I suggested the adjacent cabin.

By their faces I saw that my words merely helped their distrust of me.

The cabin leaked too much, they said; I would sleep drier here. One man

gave it to me more directly: "If you figured on camping in this stable,

what has changed your mind?" How could I tell them that I shrunk from

any contact with what they were doing, although I knew that only so

could justice be dealt in this country? Their wholesome frontier nerves

knew nothing of such refinements.



But the Virginian understood part of it. "I am right sorry for your

annoyance," he said. And now I noticed he was under a constraint very

different from the ease of the others.



After the twelve hours' ride my bones were hungry for rest. I spread my

blankets on some straw in a stall by myself and rolled up in them; yet

I lay growing broader awake, every inch of weariness stricken from my

excited senses. For a while they sat over their councils, whispering

cautiously, so that I was made curious to hear them by not being able;

was it the names of Trampas and Shorty that were once or twice spoken--I

could not be sure. I heard the whisperers cease and separate. I heard

their boots as they cast them off upon the ground. And I heard the

breathing of slumber begin and grow in the interior silence. To one

after one sleep came, but not to me. Outside, the dull fall of the rain

beat evenly, and in some angle dripped the spouting pulses of a leak.

Sometimes a cold air blew in, bearing with it the keen wet odor of the

sage-brush. On hundreds of other nights this perfume had been my last

waking remembrance; it had seemed to help drowsiness; and now I lay

staring, thinking of this. Twice through the hours the thieves shifted

their positions with clumsy sounds, exchanging muted words with their

guard. So, often, had I heard other companions move and mutter in the

darkness and lie down again. It was the very naturalness and usualness

of every fact of the night,--the stable straw, the rain outside, my

familiar blankets, the cool visits of the wind,--and with all this the

thought of Steve chewing and the man in the gray flannel shirt, that

made the hours unearthly and strung me tight with suspense. And at last

I heard some one get up and begin to dress. In a little while I saw

light suddenly through my closed eyelids, and then darkness shut again

abruptly upon them. They had swung in a lantern and found me by mistake.

I was the only one they did not wish to rouse. Moving and quiet talking

set up around me, and they began to go out of the stable. At the gleams

of new daylight which they let in my thoughts went to the clump of

cottonwoods, and I lay still with hands and feet growing steadily

cold. Now it was going to happen. I wondered how they would do it; one

instance had been described to me by a witness, but that was done from a

bridge, and there had been but a single victim. This morning, would one

have to wait and see the other go through with it first?



The smell of smoke reached me, and next the rattle of tin dishes.

Breakfast was something I had forgotten, and one of them was cooking it

now in the dry shelter of the stable. He was alone, because the talking

and the steps were outside the stable, and I could hear the sounds of

horses being driven into the corral and saddled. Then I perceived that

the coffee was ready, and almost immediately the cook called them. One

came in, shutting the door behind him as he reentered, which the rest as

they followed imitated; for at each opening of the door I saw the light

of day leap into the stable and heard the louder sounds of the rain.

Then the sound and the light would again be shut out, until some one at

length spoke out bluntly, bidding the door be left open on account of

the smoke. What were they hiding from? he asked. The runaways that had

escaped? A laugh followed this sally, and the door was left open. Thus

I learned that there had been more thieves than the two that were

captured. It gave a little more ground for their suspicion about me and

my anxiety to pass the night elsewhere. It cost nothing to detain me,

and they were taking no chances, however remote.



The fresh air and the light now filled the stable, and I lay listening

while their breakfast brought more talk from them. They were more at

ease now than was I, who had nothing to do but carry out my role of

slumber in the stall; they spoke in a friendly, ordinary way, as if this

were like every other morning of the week to them. They addressed the

prisoners with a sort of fraternal kindness, not bringing them pointedly

into the conversation, nor yet pointedly leaving them out. I made out

that they must all be sitting round the breakfast together, those who

had to die and those who had to kill them. The Virginian I never heard

speak. But I heard the voice of Steve; he discussed with his captors the

sundry points of his capture.



"Do you remember a haystack?" he asked. "Away up the south fork of Gros

Ventre?"



"That was Thursday afternoon," said one of the captors. "There was a

shower."



"Yes. It rained. We had you fooled that time. I was laying on the ledge

above to report your movements."



Several of them laughed. "We thought you were over on Spread Creek

then."



"I figured you thought so by the trail you left after the stack.

Saturday we watched you turn your back on us up Spread Creek. We were

snug among the trees the other side of Snake River. That was another

time we had you fooled."



They laughed again at their own expense. I have heard men pick to pieces

a hand of whist with more antagonism.



Steve continued: "Would we head for Idaho? Would we swing back over the

Divide? You didn't know which! And when we generalled you on to that

band of horses you thought was the band you were hunting--ah, we were a

strong combination!" He broke off with the first touch of bitterness I

had felt in his words.



"Nothing is any stronger than its weakest point." It was the Virginian

who said this, and it was the first word he had spoken.



"Naturally," said Steve. His tone in addressing the Virginian was so

different, so curt, that I supposed he took the weakest point to

mean himself. But the others now showed me that I was wrong in this

explanation.



"That's so," one said. "Its weakest point is where a rope or a gang of

men is going to break when the strain comes. And you was linked with a

poor partner, Steve."



"You're right I was," said the prisoner, back in his easy, casual voice.



"You ought to have got yourself separated from him, Steve."



There was a pause. "Yes," said the prisoner, moodily. "I'm sitting here

because one of us blundered." He cursed the blunderer. "Lighting his

fool fire queered the whole deal," he added. As he again heavily cursed

the blunderer, the others murmured to each other various I told you

so's.



"You'd never have built that fire, Steve," said one.



"I said that when we spied the smoke," said another. "I said, 'That's

none of Steve's work, lighting fires and revealing to us their

whereabouts.'"



It struck me that they were plying Steve with compliments.



"Pretty hard to have the fool get away and you get caught," a third

suggested. At this they seemed to wait. I felt something curious in all

this last talk.



"Oh, did he get away?" said the prisoner, then.



Again they waited; and a new voice spoke huskily:-- "I built that fire,

boys." It was the prisoner in the gray flannel shirt.



"Too late, Ed," they told him kindly. "You ain't a good liar."



"What makes you laugh, Steve?" said some one.



"Oh, the things I notice."



"Meaning Ed was pretty slow in backing up your play? The joke is really

on you, Steve. You'd ought never to have cursed the fire-builder if

you wanted us to believe he was present. But we'd not have done much to

Shorty, even if we had caught him. All he wants is to be scared good and

hard, and he'll go back into virtuousness, which is his nature when not

travelling with Trampas."



Steve's voice sounded hard now. "You have caught Ed and me. That should

satisfy you for one gather."



"Well, we think different, Steve. Trampas escaping leaves this thing

unfinished."



"So Trampas escaped too, did he?" said the prisoner.



"Yes, Steve, Trampas escaped--this time; and Shorty with him--this time.

We know it most as well as if we'd seen them go. And we're glad Shorty

is loose, for he'll build another fire or do some other foolishness next

time, and that's the time we'll get Trampas."



Their talk drifted to other points, and I lay thinking of the skirmish

that had played beneath the surface of their banter. Yes, the joke, as

they put it, was on Steve. He had lost one point in the game to them.

They were playing for names. He, being a chivalrous thief, was playing

to hide names. They could only, among several likely confederates, guess

Trampas and Shorty. So it had been a slip for him to curse the man

who built the fire. At least, they so held it. For, they with subtlety

reasoned, one curses the absent. And I agreed with them that Ed did not

know how to lie well; he should have at once claimed the disgrace

of having spoiled the expedition. If Shorty was the blunderer, then

certainly Trampas was the other man; for the two were as inseparable as

don and master. Trampas had enticed Shorty away from good, and trained

him in evil. It now struck me that after his single remark the Virginian

had been silent throughout their shrewd discussion.



It was the other prisoner that I heard them next address. "You don't eat

any breakfast, Ed."



"Brace up, Ed. Look at Steve, how hardy he eats!"



But Ed, it seemed, wanted no breakfast. And the tin dishes rattled as

they were gathered and taken to be packed.



"Drink this coffee, anyway," another urged; "you'll feel warmer."



These words almost made it seem like my own execution. My whole body

turned cold in company with the prisoner's, and as if with a clank the

situation tightened throughout my senses.



"I reckon if every one's ready we'll start." It was the Virginian's

voice once more, and different from the rest. I heard them rise at his

bidding, and I put the blanket over my head. I felt their tread as they

walked out, passing my stall. The straw that was half under me and half

out in the stable was stirred as by something heavy dragged or half

lifted along over it. "Look out, you're hurting Ed's arm," one said to

another, as the steps with tangled sounds passed slowly out. I heard

another among those who followed say, "Poor Ed couldn't swallow his

coffee." Outside they began getting on their horses; and next their

hoofs grew distant, until all was silence round the stable except the

dull, even falling of the rain.