Part 25 (1/2)

”Fresh eggs, too,” said the third.

”Well, my gracious!” said the fourth, beating his knee.

”Why, yes,” observed the Virginian, unexpectedly; ”they tell me that aiggs there ain't liable to be so rotten as yu'll strike 'em in this country.”

None of them had a reply for this, and New York was abandoned. For some reason I felt much better.

It was a new line they adopted next, led off by Trampas.

”Going to the excitement?” he inquired, selecting Shorty.

”Excitement?” said Shorty, looking up.

”Going to Rawhide?” Trampas repeated. And all watched Shorty.

”Why, I'm all adrift missin' that express,” said Shorty.

”Maybe I can give you employment,” suggested the Virginian. ”I am taking an outfit across the basin.”

”You'll find most folks going to Rawhide, if you're looking for company,” pursued Trampas, fis.h.i.+ng for a recruit.

”How about Rawhide, anyway?” said Scipio, skillfully deflecting this missionary work. ”Are they taking much mineral out? Have yu' seen any of the rock?”

”Rock?” broke in the enthusiast who had beaten his knee. ”There!” And he brought some from his pocket.

”You're always showing your rock,” said Trampas, sulkily; for Scipio now held the conversation, and Shorty returned safely to his dozing.

”H'm!” went Scipio at the rock. He turned it back and forth in his hand, looking it over; he chucked and caught it slightingly in the air, and handed it back. ”Porphyry, I see.” That was his only word about it. He said it cheerily. He left no room for discussion. You could not d.a.m.n a thing worse. ”Ever been in Santa Rita?” pursued Scipio, while the enthusiast slowly pushed his rock back into his pocket. ”That's down in New Mexico. Ever been to Globe, Arizona?” And Scipio talked away about the mines he had known. There was no getting at Shorty any more that evening. Trampas was foiled of his fish, or of learning how the fish's heart lay. And by morning Shorty had been carefully instructed to change his mind about once an hour. This is apt to discourage all but very superior missionaries. And I too escaped for the rest of this night. At Glendive we had a dim supper, and I bought some blankets; and after that it was late, and sleep occupied the attention of us all.

We lay along the shelves of the caboose, a peaceful sight I should think, in that smoothly trundling cradle. I slept almost immediately, so tired that not even our stops or anything else waked me, save once, when the air I was breathing grew suddenly pure, and I roused. Sitting in the door was the lonely figure of the Virginian. He leaned in silent contemplation of the occasional moon, and beneath it the Yellowstone's swift ripples. On the caboose shelves the others slept sound and still, each stretched or coiled as he had first put himself. They were not untrustworthy to look at, it seemed to me--except Trampas. You would have said the rest of that young humanity was average rough male blood, merely needing to be told the proper things at the right time; and one big bunchy stocking of the enthusiast stuck out of his blanket, solemn and innocent, and I laughed at it. There was a light sound by the door, and I found the Virginian's eye on me. Finding who it was, he nodded and motioned with his hand to go to sleep. And this I did with him in my sight, still leaning in the open door, through which came the interrupted moon and the swimming reaches of the Yellowstone.

XVI. THE GAME AND THE NATION--LAST ACT

It has happened to you, has it not, to wake in the morning and wonder for a while where on earth you are? Thus I came half to life in the caboose, hearing voices, but not the actual words at first.

But presently, ”Hathaway!” said some one more clearly. ”Portland 1291!”

This made no special stir in my intelligence, and I drowsed off again to the pleasant rhythm of the wheels. The little shock of stopping next brought me to, somewhat, with the voices still round me; and when we were again in motion, I heard: ”Rosebud! Portland 1279!” These figures jarred me awake, and I said, ”It was 1291 before,” and sat up in my blankets.

The greeting they vouchsafed and the sight of them cl.u.s.tering expressionless in the caboose brought last evening's uncomfortable memory back to me. Our next stop revealed how things were going to-day.

”Forsythe,” one of them read on the station. ”Portland 1266.”

They were counting the lessening distance westward. This was the undercurrent of war. It broke on me as I procured fresh water at Forsythe and made some toilet in their stolid presence. We were drawing nearer the Rawhide station--the point, I mean, where you left the railway for the new mines. Now Rawhide station lay this side of Billings. The broad path of desertion would open ready for their feet when the narrow path to duty and Sunk Creek was still some fifty miles more to wait. Here was Trampas's great strength; he need make no move meanwhile, but lie low for the immediate temptation to front and waylay them and win his battle over the deputy foreman. But the Virginian seemed to find nothing save enjoyment in this sunny September morning, and ate his breakfast at Forsythe serenely.

That meal done and that station gone, our caboose took up again its easy trundle by the banks of the Yellowstone. The mutineers sat for a while digesting in idleness.

”What's your scar?” inquired one at length inspecting casually the neck of his neighbor.