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?”