Virginian (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (29 page)

And they went on with their joking. But Trampas was out of the joking. He lay on his bed reading a newspaper, and took no pains to look pleasant. My eyes were considering him when the blithe Scipio came in.

“Don’t look so bashful,” said he. “There’s only us girls here.”

He had been helping the Virginian move his belongings from the bunk house over to the foreman’s cabin. He himself was to occupy the Virginian’s old bed here. “And I hope sleepin’ in it will bring me some of his luck,” said Scipio. “Yu’d ought to’ve seen us when he told us in his quiet way. Well,” Scipio sighed a little, “it must feel good to have your friends glad about you.”

“Especially Trampas,” said I. “The Judge knows about that,” I added.

“Knows, does he? What’s he say?” Scipio drew me quickly out of the bunk house.

“Say it’s no business of his.”

“Said nothing but that?” Scipio’s curiosity seemed strangely intense. “Made no suggestion? Not a thing?”

“Not a thing. Said he didn’t want to know and didn’t care.”

“How did he happen to hear about it?” snapped Scipio. “You told him!” he immediately guessed.
“He
never would.” And Scipio jerked his thumb at the Virginian, who appeared for a moment in the lighted window of the new quarters he was arranging. “He never would tell,” Scipio repeated. “And so the Judge never made a suggestion to him,” he muttered, nodding in the darkness. “So it’s just his own notion. Just like him, too, come to think of it. Only I didn’t expect—well, I guess he could surprise me any day he tried.”

“You’re surprising me now,” I said. “What’s it all about?”

“Oh, him and Trampas.”

“What? Nothing surely happened yet?” I was as curious as Scipio had been.

“No, not yet. But there will.”

“Great Heavens, man! when?”

“Just as soon as Trampas makes the first move,” Scipio replied easily.

I became dignified. Scipio had evidently been told things by the Virginian.

“Yes, I up and asked him plumb out,” Scipio answered. “I was liftin’ his trunk in at the door, and I couldn’t stand it no longer, and I asked him plumb out. ‘You’ve sure got Trampas where yu’ want him.’ That’s what I said. And he up and answered and told me. So I know.” At this point Scipio stopped; I was not to know.

“I had no idea,” I said, “that your system held so much meanness.”

“Oh, it ain’t meanness!” And he laughed ecstatically.

“What do you call it, then?”

“He’d call it discretion,” said Scipio. Then he became serious. “It’s too blamed grand to tell yu’. I’ll leave yu’ to see it happen. Keep around, that’s all. Keep around. I pretty near wish I didn’t know it myself.”

What with my feelings at Scipio’s discretion, and my human curiosity, I was not in that mood which best profits from a sermon. Yet even though my expectations had been cruelly left quivering in mid air, I was not sure how much I really wanted to “keep around.” You will therefore understand how Dr. MacBride was able to make a prayer and to read Scripture without my being conscious of a word that he had uttered. It was when I saw him opening the manuscript of his sermon that I suddenly remembered I was sitting, so to speak, in church, and began once more to think of the preacher and his congregation. Our chairs were in the front line, of course; but, being next the wall, I could easily see the cow-boys behind me. They were perfectly decorous. If Mrs. Ogden had looked for pistols, dare-devil attitudes, and so forth, she must have been greatly disappointed. Except for their weather-beaten cheeks and eyes, they were simply American young men with mustaches and without, and might have been sitting, say, in Danbury, Connecticut. Even Trampas merged quietly with the general placidity. The Virginian did not, to be sure, look like Danbury, and his frame and his features showed out of the mass; but his eyes were upon Dr. MacBride with a creamlike propriety.

Our missionary did not choose Miss Wood’s text. He made his selection from another of the Psalms, and when it came, I did not dare to look at anybody; I was much nearer unseemly conduct than the cow-boys. Dr. MacBride gave us his text sonorously, “‘They are altogether become filthy; There is none of them that doeth good, no, not one.’ ”
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His eye showed us plainly that present company was not excepted from this. He repeated the text once more, then, launching upon his discourse, gave none of us a ray of hope.

I had heard it all often before; but preached to cow-boys it took on a new glare of untimeliness, of grotesque obsoleteness—as if some one should say, “Let me persuade you to admire woman,” and forthwith hold out her bleached bones to you. The cow-boys were told that not only they could do no good, but that if they did contrive to, it would not help them. Nay, more, not only honest deeds availed them nothing, but even if they accepted this especial creed which was being explained to them as necessary for salvation, still it might not save them. Their sin was indeed the cause of their damnation, yet, keeping from sin, they might nevertheless be lost. It had all been settled for them not only before they were born, but before Adam was shaped. Having told them this, he invited them to glorify the Creator of the scheme. Even if damned; they must praise the person who had made them expressly for damnation. That is what I heard him prove by logic to these cow-boys. Stone upon stone he built the black cellar of his theology, leaving out its beautiful park and the sunshine of its garden. He did not tell them the splendor of its past, the noble fortress for good that it had been, how its tonic had strengthened generations of their fathers. No; wrath he spoke of, and never once of love. It was the bishop’s way, I knew well, to hold cow-boys by homely talk of their special hardships and temptations. And when they fell he spoke to them of forgiveness and brought them encouragement. But Dr. MacBride never thought once of the lives of these waifs. Like himself, like all mankind, they were invisible dots in creation; like him, they were to feel as nothing, to be swept up in the potent heat of his faith. So he thrust out to them none of the sweet but all the bitter of his creed, naked and stern as iron. Dogma was his all in all, and poor humanity was nothing but flesh for its canons.

Thus to kill what chance he had for being of use seemed to me more deplorable than it did evidently to them. Their attention merely wandered. Three hundred years ago they would have been frightened; but not in this electric day. I saw Scipio stifling a smile when it came to the doctrine of original sin.
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“We know of its truth,” said Dr. MacBride, “from the severe troubles and distresses to which infants are liable, and from death passing upon them before they are capable of sinning.” Yet I knew he was a good man, and I also knew that if a missionary is to be tactless, he might almost as well be bad.

I said their attention wandered, but I forgot the Virginian. At first his attitude might have been mere propriety. One can look respectfully at a preacher and be internally breaking all the commandments. But even with the text I saw real attention light in the Virginian’s eye. And keeping track of the concentration that grew on him with each minute made the sermon short for me. He missed nothing. Before the end his gaze at the preacher had become swerveless. Was he convert or critic? Convert was incredible. Thus was an hour passed before I had thought of time.

When it was over we took it variously. The preacher was genial and spoke of having now broken ground for the lessons that he hoped to instil. He discoursed for a while about trout-fishing and about the rumored uneasiness of the Indians northward where he was going. It was plain that his personal safety never gave him a thought. He soon bade us good night. The Ogdens shrugged their shoulders and were amused. That was their way of taking it. Dr. MacBride sat too heavily on the Judge’s shoulders for him to shrug them. As a leading citizen in the Territory he kept open house for all comers. Policy and good nature made him bid welcome a wide variety of travellers. The cow-boy out of employment found bed and a meal for himself and his horse, and missionaries had before now been well received at Sunk Creek Ranch.

“I suppose I’ll have to take him fishing,” said the Judge, ruefully.

“Yes, my dear,” said his wife, “you will. And I shall have to make his tea for six days.”

“Otherwise,” Ogden suggested, “it might be reported that you were enemies of religion.”

“That’s about it,” said the Judge. “I can get on with most people. But elephants depress me.”

So we named the Doctor “Jumbo,” and I departed to my quarters.

At the bunk house, the comments were similar but more highly salted. The men were going to bed. In spite of their outward decorum at the service, they had not liked to be told that they were “altogether become filthy.” It was easy to call names; they could do that themselves. And they appealed to me, several speaking at once, like a concerted piece at the opera: “Say, do you believe babies go to hell?”—“Ah, of course he don’t.”—“There ain’t no hereafter, anyway.”—“Ain’t there?”—“Who told yu’?”—“Same man as told the preacher we were all a sifted set of sons-of-guns.”—“Well, I’m going to stay a Mormon.”—“Well, I’m going to quit fleeing from temptation.”—“That’s so! Better get it in the neck after a good time than a poor one.” And so forth. Their wit was not extreme, yet I should like Dr. MacBride to have heard it. One fellow put his natural soul pretty well into words, “If I happened to learn what they had predestinated me to do, I’d do the other thing, just to show ’em!”

And Trampas? And the Virginian? They were out of it. The Virginian had gone straight to his new abode. Trampas lay in his bed, not asleep, and sullen as ever.

“He ain’t got religion this trip,” said Scipio to me.

“Did his new foreman get it?” I asked.

“Huh! It would spoil him. You keep around, that’s all. Keep around.”

Scipio was not to be probed; and I went, still baffled, to my repose.

No light burned in the cabin as I approached its door.

The Virginian’s room was quiet and dark; and that Dr. MacBride slumbered was plainly audible to me, even before I entered. Go fishing with him! I thought, as I undressed. And I selfishly decided that the Judge might have this privilege entirely to himself. Sleep came to me fairly soon, in spite of the Doctor. I was wakened from it by my bed’s being jolted—not a pleasant thing that night. I must have started. And it was the quiet voice of the Virginian that told me he was sorry to have accidentally disturbed me. This disturbed me a good deal more. But his steps did not go to the bunk house, as my sensational mind had suggested. He was not wearing much, and in the dimness he seemed taller than common. I next made out that he was bending over Dr. MacBride. The divine at last sprang upright.

“I am armed,” he said. “Take care. Who are you?”

“You can lay down your gun, seh. I feel like my spirit was going to bear witness. I feel like I might get an enlightening.”

He was using some of the missionary’s own language. The baffling I had been treated to by Scipio melted to nothing in this. Did living men petrify, I should have changed to mineral between the sheets. The Doctor got out of bed, lighted his lamp, and found a book; and the two retired into the Virginian’s room, where I could hear the exhortations as I lay amazed. In time the Doctor returned, blew out his lamp, and settled himself. I had been very awake, but was nearly gone to sleep again, when the door creaked and the Virginian stood by the Doctor’s side.

“Are you awake, seh?”

“What? What’s that? What is it?”

“Excuse me, seh. The enemy is winning on me. I’m feeling less inward opposition to sin.”

The lamp was lighted, and I listened to some further exhortations. They must have taken half an hour. When the Doctor was in bed again, I thought that I heard him sigh. This upset my composure in the dark, but I lay face downward in the pillow, and the Doctor was soon again snoring. I envied him for a while his faculty of easy sleep. But I must have dropped off myself; for it was the lamp in my eyes that now waked me as he came back for the third time from the Virginian’s room. Before blowing the light out he looked at his watch, and thereupon I inquired the hour of him.

“Three,” said he.

I could not sleep any more now, and I lay watching the darkness.

“I’m afeared to be alone!” said the Virginian’s voice presently in the next room. “I’m afeared.” There was a short pause, and then he shouted very loud, “I’m losin’ my desire afteh the sincere milk of the Word!”

“What? What’s that? What?” The Doctor’s cot gave a great crack as he started up listening, and I put my face deep in the pillow.

“I’m afeared! I’m afeared! Sin has quit being bitter in my belly.”

“Courage, my good man.” The Doctor was out of bed with his lamp again, and the door shut behind him. Between them they made it long this time. I saw the window become gray; then the corners of the furniture grow visible; and outside, the dry chorus of the black-birds began to fill the dawn. To these the sounds of chickens and impatient hoofs in the stable were added, and some cow wandered by loudly calling for her calf. Next, some one whistling passed near and grew distant. But although the cold hue that I lay staring at through the window warmed and changed, the Doctor continued working hard over his patient in the next room. Only a word here and there was distinct; but it was plain from the Virginian’s fewer remarks that the sin in his belly was alarming him less. Yes, they made this time long. But it proved, indeed, the last one. And though some sort of catastrophe was bound to fall upon us, it was myself who precipitated the thing that did happen.

Day was wholly come. I looked at my own watch, and it was six. I had been about seven hours in my bed, and the Doctor had been about seven hours out of his. The door opened, and he came in with his book and lamp. He seemed to be shivering a little, and I saw him cast a longing eye at his couch. But the Virginian followed him even as he blew out the now quite superfluous light. They made a noticeable couple in their underclothes: the Virginian with his lean racehorse shanks running to a point at his ankle, and the Doctor with his stomach and his fat sedentary calves.