Part 106

“Did you get all the sheep you wanted?” the proprietor continued.

“Poor luck,” said the Virginian.

“Think there’s a friend of yours in town this afternoon,” said the proprietor.

“Did he mention he was my friend?”

The proprietor laughed. The Virginian watched another nickel click down among the pegs.

Honey Wiggin now made the bridegroom a straight offer. “We’ll take this thing off your hands,” said he.

“Any or all of us,” said Lin.

But Scipio held his peace. His loyalty went every inch as far as theirs, but his understanding of his friend went deeper. “Don’t change your clothes,” was the first and the last help he would be likely to give in this matter. The rest must be as such matters must always be, between man and man. To the other two friends, however, this seemed a very special case, falling outside established precedent. Therefore they ventured offers of interference.

“A man don’t get married every day,” apologized McLean. “We’ll just run him out of town for yu’.”

“Save yu’ the trouble,” urged Wiggin. “Say the word.”

The proprietor now added his voice. “It’ll sober him up to spend his night out in the brush. He’ll quit his talk then.”

But the Virginian did not say the word, or any word. He stood playing with the nickels.

“Think of her,” muttered McLean.

“Who else would I be thinking of?” returned the Southerner. His face had become very sombre. “She has been raised so different!” he murmured. He pondered a little, while the others waited, solicitous.

A new idea came to the proprietor. “I am acting mayor of this town,” said he. “I’ll put him in the calaboose and keep him till you get married and away.”

“Say the word,” repeated Honey Wiggin.

Scipio’s eye met the proprietor’s, and he shook his head about a quarter of an inch. The proprietor shook his to the same amount. They understood each other. It had come to that point where there was no way out, save only the ancient, eternal way between man and man. It is only the great mediocrity that goes to law in these personal matters.

“So he has talked about me some?” said the Virginian.

“It’s the whiskey,” Scipio explained.

“I expect,” said McLean, “he’d run a mile if he was in a state to appreciate his insinuations.”

“Which we are careful not to mention to yu’,” said Wiggin, “unless yu’ inquire for ’em.”

Some of the fools present had drawn closer to hear this interesting conversation. In gatherings of more than six there will generally be at least one fool; and this company must have numbered twenty men.

“This country knows well enough,” said one fool, who hungered to be important, “that you don’t brand no calves that ain’t your own.”

The saturnine Virginian looked at him. “Thank yu’,” said he, gravely, “for your indorsement of my character.” The fool felt flattered. The Virginian turned to his friends. His hand slowly pushed his hat back, and he rubbed his black head in thought.

“Glad to see yu’ve got your gun with you,” continued the happy fool. “You know what Trampas claims about that affair of yours in the Tetons? He claims that if everything was known about the killing of Shorty--”

“Take one on the house,” suggested the proprietor to him, amiably. “Your news will be fresher.” And he pushed him the bottle. The fool felt less important.

“This talk had went the rounds before it got to us,” said Scipio, “or we’d have headed it off. He has got friends in town.”

Perplexity knotted the Virginian’s brows. This community knew that a man had implied he was a thief and a murderer; it also knew that he knew it. But the case was one of peculiar circumstances, assuredly. Could he avoid meeting the man? Soon the stage would be starting south for the railroad. He had already to-day proposed to his sweetheart that they should take it. Could he for her sake leave unanswered a talking enemy upon the field? His own ears had not heard the enemy.