Part 49 (1/2)
Molly now burst into a luxury of discussion. She leaned toward her cow-puncher with bright eyes searching his; with elbow on knee and hand propping chin, her lap became a slant, and from it Browning the poet slid and toppled, and lay unrescued. For the slow cow-puncher unfolded his notions of masculine courage and modesty (though he did not deal in such high-sounding names), and Molly forgot everything to listen to him, as he forgot himself and his inveterate shyness and grew talkative to her. ”I would never have supposed that!” she would exclaim as she heard him; or, presently again, ”I never had such an idea!” And her mind opened with delight to these new things which came from the man's mind so simple and direct. To Browning they did come back, but the Virginian, though interested, conceived a dislike for him. ”He is a smarty,” said he, once or twice.
”Now here is something,” said Molly. ”I have never known what to think.”
”Oh, Heavens!” murmured the sick man, smiling. ”Is it short?”
”Very short. Now please attend.” And she read him twelve lines about a lover who rowed to a beach in the dusk, crossed a field, tapped at a pane, and was admitted.
”That is the best yet,” said the Virginian. ”There's only one thing yu'
can think about that.”
”But wait,” said the girl, swiftly. ”Here is how they parted:--
”Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun looked over the mountain's rim-- And straight was a path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me.”
”That is very, very true,” murmured the Virginian, dropping his eyes from the girl's intent ones.
”Had they quarrelled?” she inquired.
”Oh, no!”
”But--”
”I reckon he loved her very much.”
”Then you're sure they hadn't quarrelled?”
”Dead sure, ma'am. He would come back afteh he had played some more of the game.”
”The game?”
”Life, ma'am. Whatever he was a-doin' in the world of men. That's a bed-rock piece, ma'am!”
”Well, I don't see why you think it's so much better than some of the others.”
”I could sca'cely explain,” answered the man. ”But that writer does know something.”
”I am glad they hadn't quarrelled,” said Molly, thoughtfully. And she began to like having her opinions refuted.
His bandages, becoming a little irksome, had to be s.h.i.+fted, and this turned their discourse from literature to Wyoming; and Molly inquired, had he ever been shot before? Only once, he told her. ”I have been lucky in having few fusses,” said he. ”I hate them. If a man has to be killed--”
”You never--” broke in Molly. She had started back a little. ”Well,” she added hastily, ”don't tell me if--”
”I shouldn't wonder if I got one of those Indians,” he said quietly.
”But I wasn't waitin' to see! But I came mighty near doing for a white man that day. He had been hurtin' a hawss.”
”Hurting?” said Molly.
”Injurin.' I will not tell yu' about that. It would hurt yu' to hear such things. But hawsses--don't they depend on us? Ain't they somethin'
like children? I did not lay up the man very bad. He was able to travel 'most right away. Why, you'd have wanted to kill him yourself!”