Resigned to wait for the Judge’s horses, Balaam went into his office this dry, bright morning and read nine accumulated newspapers; for he was behindhand. Then he rode out on the ditches, and met his man returning with the troublesome animals at last. He hastened home and sent for the Virginian. He had made a decision.
“See here,” he said; “those horses are coming. What trail would you take over to the Judge’s?”
“Shortest trail’s right through the Bow Laig Mountains,” said the foreman, in his gentle voice.
“Guess you’re right. It’s dinner-time. We’ll start right afterward. We’ll make Little Muddy Crossing by sundown, and Sunk Creek to-morrow, and the next day’ll see us through. Can a wagon get through Sunk Creek Canyon?”
The Virginian smiled. “I reckon it can’t, seh, and stay resembling a wagon.”
Balaam told them to saddle Pedro and one packhorse, and drive the bunch of horses into a corral, roping the Judge’s two, who proved extremely wild. He had decided to take this journey himself on remembering certain politics soon to be rife in Cheyenne. For Judge Henry was indeed a greater man than Balaam. This personally conducted return of the horses would temper its tardiness, and, moreover, the sight of some New York visitors would be a good thing after seven months of no warmer touch with that metropolis than the Sunday HERALD, always eight days old when it reached the Butte Creek Ranch.
They forded Butte Creek, and, crossing the well-travelled trail which follows down to Drybone, turned their faces toward the uninhabited country that began immediately, as the ocean begins off a sandy shore. And as a single mast on which no sail is shining stands at the horizon and seems to add a loneliness to the surrounding sea, so the long gray line of fence, almost a mile away, that ended Balaam’s land on this side the creek, stretched along the waste ground and added desolation to the plain. No solitary watercourse with margin of cottonwoods or willow thickets flowed here to stripe the dingy, yellow world with interrupting green, nor were cattle to be seen dotting the distance, nor moving objects at all, nor any bird in the soundless air. The last gate was shut by the Virginian, who looked back at the pleasant trees of the ranch, and then followed on in single file across the alkali of No Man’s Land.
No cloud was in the sky. The desert’s grim noon shone sombrely on flat and hill. The sagebrush was dull like zinc. Thick heat rose near at hand from the caked alkali, and pale heat shrouded the distant peaks.
There were five horses. Balaam led on Pedro, his squat figure stiff in the saddle, but solid as a rock, and tilted a little forward, as his habit was. One of the Judge’s horses came next, a sorrel, dragging back continually on the rope by which he was led. After him ambled Balaam’s wise pack-animal, carrying the light burden of two days’ food and lodging. She was an old mare who could still go when she chose, but had been schooled by the years, and kept the trail, giving no trouble to the Virginian who came behind her. He also sat solid as a rock, yet subtly bending to the struggles of the wild horse he led, as a steel spring bends and balances and resumes its poise.
Thus they made but slow time, and when they topped the last dull rise of ground and looked down on the long slant of ragged, caked earth to the crossing of Little Muddy, with its single tree and few mean bushes, the final distance where eyesight ends had deepened to violet from the thin, steady blue they had stared at for so many hours, and all heat was gone from the universal dryness. The horses drank a long time from the sluggish yellow water, and its alkaline taste and warmth were equally welcome to the men. They built a little fire, and when supper was ended, smoked but a short while and in silence, before they got in the blankets that were spread in a smooth place beside the water.
They had picketed the two horses of the Judge in the best grass they could find, letting the rest go free to find pasture where they could. When the first light came, the Virginian attended to breakfast, while Balaam rode away on the sorrel to bring in the loose horses. They had gone far out of sight, and when he returned with them, after some two hours, he was on Pedro. Pedro was soaking with sweat, and red froth creamed from his mouth. The Virginian saw the horses must have been hard to drive in, especially after Balaam brought them the wild sorrel as a leader.
“If you’d kep’ ridin’ him, ’stead of changin’ off on your hawss, they’d have behaved quieter,” said the foreman.
“That’s good seasonable advice,” said Balaam, sarcastically. “I could have told you that now.”
“I could have told you when you started,” said the Virginian, heating the coffee for Balaam.
Balaam was eloquent on the outrageous conduct of the horses. He had come up with them evidently striking back for Butte Creek, with the old mare in the lead.
“But I soon showed her the road she was to go,” he said, as he drove them now to the water.
The Virginian noticed the slight limp of the mare, and how her pastern was cut as if with a stone or the sharp heel of a boot.
“I guess she’ll not be in a hurry to travel except when she’s wanted to,” continued Balaam. He sat down, and sullenly poured himself some coffee. “We’ll be in luck if we make any Sunk Creek this night.”
He went on with his breakfast, thinking aloud for the benefit of his companion, who made no comments, preferring silence to the discomfort of talking with a man whose vindictive humor was so thoroughly uppermost. He did not even listen very attentively, but continued his preparations for departure, washing the dishes, rolling the blankets, and moving about in his usual way of easy and visible good nature.
“Six o’clock, already,” said Balaam, saddling the horses. “And we’ll not get started for ten minutes more.” Then he came to Pedro. “So you haven’t quit fooling yet, haven’t you?” he exclaimed, for the pony shrank as he lifted the bridle. “Take that for your sore mouth!” and he rammed the bit in, at which Pedro flung back and reared.
“Well, I never saw Pedro act that way yet,” said the Virginian.
“Ah, rubbish!” said Balaam. “They’re all the same. Not a bastard one but’s laying for his chance to do for you. Some’ll buck you off, and some’ll roll with you, and some’ll fight you with their fore feet. They may play good for a year, but the Western pony’s man’s enemy, and when he judges he’s got his chance, he’s going to do his best. And if you come out alive it won’t be his fault.” Balaam paused for a while, packing. “You’ve got to keep them afraid of you,” he said next; “that’s what you’ve got to do if you don’t want trouble. That Pedro horse there has been fed, hand-fed, and fooled with like a damn pet, and what’s that policy done? Why, he goes ugly when he thinks it’s time, and decides he’ll not drive any horses into camp this morning. He knows better now.”
“Mr. Balaam,” said the Virginian, “I’ll buy that hawss off yu’ right now.”
Balaam shook his head. “You’ll not do that right now or any other time,” said he. “I happen to want him.”
The Virginian could do no more. He had heard cow-punchers say to refractory ponies, “You keep still, or I’ll Balaam you!” and he now understood the aptness of the expression.
Meanwhile Balaam began to lead Pedro to the creek for a last drink before starting across the torrid drought. The horse held back on the rein a little, and Balaam turned and cut the whip across his forehead. A delay of forcing and backing followed, while the Virginian, already in the saddle, waited. The minutes passed, and no immediate prospect, apparently, of getting nearer Sunk Creek.
“He ain’ goin’ to follow you while you’re beatin’ his haid,” the Southerner at length remarked.
“Do you think you can teach me anything about horses?” retorted Balaam.
“Well, it don’t look like I could,” said the Virginian, lazily.
“Then don’t try it, so long as it’s not your horse, my friend.”
Again the Southerner levelled his eye on Balaam. “All right,” he said, in the same gentle voice. “And don’t you call me your friend. You’ve made that mistake twiced.”
The road was shadeless, as it had been from the start, and they could not travel fast. During the first few hours all coolness was driven out of the glassy morning, and another day of illimitable sun invested the world with its blaze. The pale Bow Leg Range was coming nearer, but its hard hot slants and rifts suggested no sort of freshness, and even the pines that spread for wide miles along near the summit counted for nothing in the distance and the glare, but seemed mere patches of dull dry discoloration. No talk was exchanged between the two travellers, for the cow-puncher had nothing to say and Balaam was sulky, so they moved along in silent endurance of each other’s company and the tedium of the journey.
But the slow succession of rise and fall in the plain changed and shortened. The earth’s surface became lumpy, rising into mounds and knotted systems of steep small hills cut apart by staring gashes of sand, where water poured in the spring from the melting snow. After a time they ascended through the foot-hills till the plain below was for a while concealed, but came again into view in its entirety, distant and a thing of the past, while some magpies sailed down to meet them from the new country they were entering. They passed up through a small transparent forest of dead trees standing stark and white, and a little higher came on a line of narrow moisture that crossed the way and formed a stale pool among some willow thickets. They turned aside to water their horses, and found near the pool a circular spot of ashes and some poles lying, and beside these a cage-like edifice of willow wands built in the ground.
“Indian camp,” observed the Virginian.
There were the tracks of five or six horses on the farther side of the pool, and they did not come into the trail, but led off among the rocks on some system of their own.
“They’re about a week old,” said Balaam. “It’s part of that outfit that’s been hunting.”
“They’ve gone on to visit their friends,” added the cow-puncher.
“Yes, on the Southern Reservation. How far do you call Sunk Creek now?”
“Well,” said the Virginian, calculating, “it’s mighty nigh fo’ty miles from Muddy Crossin’, an’ I reckon we’ve come eighteen.”
“Just about. It’s noon.” Balaam snapped his watch shut. “We’ll rest here till 12:30.”
When it was time to go, the Virginian looked musingly at the mountains. “We’ll need to travel right smart to get through the canyon to-night,” he said.
“Tell you what,” said Balaam; “we’ll rope the Judge’s horses together and drive ’em in front of us. That’ll make speed.”
“Mightn’t they get away on us?” objected the Virginian. “They’re pow’ful wild.”
“They can’t get away from me, I guess,” said Balaam, and the arrangement was adopted. “We’re the first this season over this piece of the trail,” he observed presently.
His companion had noticed the ground already, and assented. There were no tracks anywhere to be seen over which winter had not come and gone since they had been made. Presently the trail wound into a sultry gulch that hemmed in the heat and seemed to draw down the sun’s rays more vertically. The sorrel horse chose this place to make a try for liberty. He suddenly whirled from the trail, dragging with him his less inventive fellow. Leaving the Virginian with the old mare, Balaam headed them off, for Pedro was quick, and they came jumping down the bank together, but swiftly crossed up on the other side, getting much higher before they could be reached. It was no place for this sort of game, as the sides of the ravine were ploughed with steep channels, broken with jutting knobs of rock, and impeded by short twisted pines that swung out from their roots horizontally over the pitch of the hill. The Virginian helped, but used his horse with more judgment, keeping as much on the level as possible, and endeavoring to anticipate the next turn of the runaways before they made it, while Balaam attempted to follow them close, wheeling short when they doubled, heavily beating up the face of the slope, veering again to come down to the point he had left, and whenever he felt Pedro begin to flag, driving his spurs into the horse and forcing him to keep up the pace. He had set out to overtake and capture on the side of the mountain these two animals who had been running wild for many weeks, and now carried no weight but themselves, and the futility of such work could not penetrate his obstinate and rising temper. He had made up his mind not to give in. The Virginian soon decided to move slowly along for the present, preventing the wild horses from passing down the gulch again, but otherwise saving his own animal from useless fatigue. He saw that Pedro was reeking wet, with mouth open, and constantly stumbling, though he galloped on. The cow-puncher kept the group in sight, driving the packhorse in front of him, and watching the tactics of the sorrel, who had now undoubtedly become the leader of the expedition, and was at the top of the gulch, in vain trying to find an outlet through its rocky rim to the levels above. He soon judged this to be no thoroughfare, and changing his plan, trotted down to the bottom and up the other side, gaining more and more; for in this new descent Pedro had fallen twice. Then the sorrel showed the cleverness of a genuinely vicious horse. The Virginian saw him stop and fall to kicking his companion with all the energy that a short rope would permit. The rope slipped, and both, unencumbered, reached the top and disappeared. Leaving the packhorse for Balaam, the Virginian started after them and came into a high tableland, beyond which the mountains began in earnest. The runaways were moving across toward these at an easy rate. He followed for a moment, then looking back, and seeing no sign of Balaam, waited, for the horses were sure not to go fast when they reached good pasture or water.
He got out of the saddle and sat on the ground, watching, till the mare came up slowly into sight, and Balaam behind her. When they were near, Balaam dismounted and struck Pedro fearfully, until the stick broke, and he raised the splintered half to continue.
Seeing the pony’s condition, the Virginian spoke, and said, “I’d let that hawss alone.”
Balaam turned to him, but wholly possessed by passion did not seem to hear, and the Southerner noticed how white and like that of a maniac his face was. The stick slid to the ground.
“He played he was tired,” said Balaam, looking at the Virginian with glazed eyes. The violence of his rage affected him physically, like some stroke of illness. “He played out on me on purpose.” The man’s voice was dry and light. “He’s perfectly fresh now,” he continued, and turned again to the coughing, swaying horse, whose eyes were closed. Not having the stick, he seized the animal’s unresisting head and shook it. The Virginian watched him a moment, and rose to stop such a spectacle. Then, as if conscious he was doing no real hurt, Balaam ceased, and turning again in slow fashion looked across the level, where the runaways were still visible.
“I’ll have to take your horse,” he said, “mine’s played out on me.”
“You ain’ goin’ to touch my hawss.”
Again the words seemed not entirely to reach Balaam’s understanding, so dulled by rage were his senses. He made no answer, but mounted Pedro; and the failing pony walked mechanically forward, while the Virginian, puzzled, stood looking after him. Balaam seemed without purpose of going anywhere, and stopped in a moment. Suddenly he was at work at something. This sight was odd and new to look at. For a few seconds it had no meaning to the Virginian as he watched. Then his mind grasped the horror, too late. Even with his cry of execration and the tiger spring that he gave to stop Balaam, the monstrosity was wrought. Pedro sank motionless, his head rolling flat on the earth. Balaam was jammed beneath him. The man had struggled to his feet before the Virginian reached the spot, and the horse then lifted his head and turned it piteously round.
Then vengeance like a blast struck Balaam. The Virginian hurled him to the ground, lifted and hurled him again, lifted him and beat his face and struck his jaw. The man’s strong ox-like fighting availed nothing. He fended his eyes as best he could against these sledge-hammer blows of justice. He felt blindly for his pistol. That arm was caught and wrenched backward, and crushed and doubled. He seemed to hear his own bones, and set up a hideous screaming of hate and pain. Then the pistol at last came out, and together with the hand that grasped it was instantly stamped into the dust. Once again the creature was lifted and slung so that he lay across Pedro’s saddle a blurred, dingy, wet pulp.
Vengeance had come and gone. The man and the horse were motionless. Around them, silence seemed to gather like a witness.
“If you are dead,” said the Virginian, “I am glad of it.” He stood looking down at Balaam and Pedro, prone in the middle of the open tableland. Then he saw Balaam looking at him. It was the quiet stare of sight without thought or feeling, the mere visual sense alone, almost frightful in its separation from any self. But as he watched those eyes, the self came back into them. “I have not killed you,” said the Virginian. “Well, I ain’t goin’ to do any more to yu’--if that’s a satisfaction to know.”
Then he began to attend to Balaam with impersonal skill, like some one hired for the purpose. “He ain’t hurt bad,” he asserted aloud, as if the man were some nameless patient; and then to Balaam he remarked, “I reckon it might have put a less tough man than you out of business for quite a while. I’m goin’ to get some water now.” When he returned with the water, Balsam was sitting up, looking about him. He had not yet spoken, nor did he now speak. The sunlight flashed on the six-shooter where it lay, and the Virginian secured it. “She ain’t so pretty as she was,” he remarked, as he examined the weapon. “But she’ll go right handy yet.”
Strength was in a measure returning to Pedro. He was a young horse, and the exhaustion neither of anguish nor of over-riding was enough to affect him long or seriously. He got himself on his feet and walked waveringly over to the old mare, and stood by her for comfort. The cow-puncher came up to him, and Pedro, after starting back slightly, seemed to comprehend that he was in friendly hands. It was plain that he would soon be able to travel slowly if no weight was on him, and that he would be a very good horse again. Whether they abandoned the runaways or not, there was no staying here for night to overtake them without food or water. The day was still high, and what its next few hours had in store the Virginian could not say, and he left them to take care of themselves, determining meanwhile that he would take command of the minutes and maintain the position he had assumed both as to Balaam and Pedro. He took Pedro’s saddle off, threw the mare’s pack to the ground, put Balaam’s saddle on her, and on that stowed or tied her original pack, which he could do, since it was so light. Then he went to Balaam, who was sitting up.
“I reckon you can travel,” said the Virginian. “And your hawss can. If you’re comin’ with me, you’ll ride your mare. I’m goin’ to trail them hawsses. If you’re not comin’ with me, your hawss comes with me, and you’ll take fifty dollars for him.”
Balaam was indifferent to this good bargain. He did not look at the other or speak, but rose and searched about him on the ground. The Virginian was also indifferent as to whether Balaam chose to answer or not. Seeing Balaam searching the ground, he finished what he had to say.
“I have your six-shooter, and you’ll have it when I’m ready for you to. Now, I’m goin’,” he concluded.
Balaam’s intellect was clear enough now, and he saw that though the rest of this journey would be nearly intolerable, it must go on. He looked at the impassive cow-puncher getting ready to go and tying a rope on Pedro’s neck to lead him, then he looked at the mountains where the runaways had vanished, and it did not seem credible to him that he had come into such straits. He was helped stiffly on the mare, and the three horses in single file took up their journey once more, and came slowly among the mountains. The perpetual desert was ended, and they crossed a small brook, where they missed the trail. The Virginian dismounted to find where the horses had turned off, and discovered that they had gone straight up the ridge by the watercourse.
“There’s been a man camped in hyeh inside a month,” he said, kicking up a rag of red flannel. “White man and two hawsses. Ours have went up his old tracks.”
It was not easy for Balaam to speak yet, and he kept his silence. But he remembered that Shorty had spoken of a trapper who had started for Sunk Creek.
For three hours they followed the runaways’ course over softer ground, and steadily ascending, passed one or two springs, at length, where the mud was not yet settled in the hoofprints. Then they came through a corner of pine forest and down a sudden bank among quaking-asps to a green park. Here the runaways beside a stream were grazing at ease, but saw them coming, and started on again, following down the stream. For the present all to be done was to keep them in sight. This creek received tributaries and widened, making a valley for itself. Above the bottom, lining the first terrace of the ridge, began the pines, and stretched back, unbroken over intervening summit and basin, to cease at last where the higher peaks presided.
“This hyeh’s the middle fork of Sunk Creek,” said the Virginian. “We’ll get on to our right road again where they join.”
Soon a game trail marked itself along the stream. If this would only continue, the runaways would be nearly sure to follow it down into the canyon. Then there would be no way for them but to go on and come out into their own country, where they would make for the Judge’s ranch of their own accord. The great point was to reach the canyon before dark. They passed into permanent shadow; for though the other side of the creek shone in full day, the sun had departed behind the ridges immediately above them. Coolness filled the air, and the silence, which in this deep valley of invading shadow seemed too silent, was relieved by the birds. Not birds of song, but a freakish band of gray talkative observers, who came calling and croaking along through the pines, and inspected the cavalcade, keeping it company for a while, and then flying up into the woods again. The travellers came round a corner on a little spread of marsh, and from somewhere in the middle of it rose a buzzard and sailed on its black pinions into the air above them, wheeling and wheeling, but did not grow distant. As it swept over the trail, something fell from its claw, a rag of red flannel; and each man in turn looked at it as his horse went by.
“I wonder if there’s plenty elk and deer hyeh?” said the Virginian.
“I guess there is,” Balaam replied, speaking at last. The travellers had become strangely reconciled.
“There’s game ’most all over these mountains,” the Virginian continued; “country not been settled long enough to scare them out.” So they fell into casual conversation, and for the first time were glad of each other’s company.
The sound of a new bird came from the pines above--the hoot of an owl--and was answered from some other part of the wood. This they did not particularly notice at first, but soon they heard the same note, unexpectedly distant, like an echo. The game trail, now quite a defined path beside the river, showed no sign of changing its course or fading out into blank ground, as these uncertain guides do so often. It led consistently in the desired direction, and the two men were relieved to see it continue. Not only were the runaways easier to keep track of, but better speed was made along this valley. The pervading imminence of night more and more dispelled the lingering afternoon, though there was yet no twilight in the open, and the high peaks opposite shone yellow in the invisible sun. But now the owls hooted again. Their music had something in it that caused both the Virginian and Balaam to look up at the pines and wish that this valley would end. Perhaps it was early for night-birds to begin; or perhaps it was that the sound never seemed to fall behind, but moved abreast of them among the trees above, as they rode on without pause down below; some influence made the faces of the travellers grave. The spell of evil which the sight of the wheeling buzzard had begun, deepened as evening grew, while ever and again along the creek the singular call and answer of the owls wandered among the darkness of the trees not far away.
The sun was gone from the peaks when at length the other side of the stream opened into a long wide meadow. The trail they followed, after crossing a flat willow thicket by the water, ran into dense pines, that here for the first time reached all the way down to the water’s edge. The two men came out of the willows, and saw ahead the capricious runaways leave the bottom and go up the hill and enter the wood.
“We must hinder that,” said the Virginian; and he dropped Pedro’s rope. “There’s your six-shooter. You keep the trail, and camp down there”--he pointed to where the trees came to the water--“till I head them hawsses off. I may not get back right away.” He galloped up the open hill and went into the pine, choosing a place above where the vagrants had disappeared.
Balaam dismounted, and picking up his six-shooter, took the rope off Pedro’s neck and drove him slowly down toward where the wood began. Its interior was already dim, and Balaam saw that here must be their stopping-place to-night, since there was no telling how wide this pine strip might extend along the trail before they could come out of it and reach another suitable camping-ground. Pedro had recovered his strength, and he now showed signs of restlessness. He shied where there was not even a stone in the trail, and finally turned sharply round. Balaam expected he was going to rush back on the way they had come; but the horse stood still, breathing excitedly. He was urged forward again, though he turned more than once. But when they were a few paces from the wood, and Balaam had got off preparatory to camping, the horse snorted and dashed into the water, and stood still there. The astonished Balaam followed to turn him; but Pedro seemed to lose control of himself, and plunged to the middle of the river, and was evidently intending to cross. Fearing that he would escape to the opposite meadow and add to their difficulties, Balaam, with the idea of turning him round, drew his six-shooter and fired in front of the horse, divining, even as the flash cut the dusk, the secret of all this--the Indians; but too late. His bruised hand had stiffened, marring his aim, and he saw Pedro fall over in the water then rise and struggle up the bank on the farther shore, where he now hurried also, to find that he had broken the pony’s leg.
He needed no interpreter for the voices of the seeming owls that had haunted the latter hour of their journey, and he knew that his beast’s keener instinct had perceived the destruction that lurked in the interior of the wood. The history of the trapper whose horse had returned without him might have been--might still be--his own; and he thought of the rag that had fallen from the buzzard’s talons when he had been disturbed at his meal in the marsh. “Peaceable” Indians were still in these mountains, and some few of them had for the past hour been skirting his journey unseen, and now waited for him in the wood which they expected him to enter. They had been too wary to use their rifles or show themselves, lest these travellers should be only part of a larger company following, who would hear the noise of a shot, and catch them in the act of murder. So, safe under the cover of the pines, they had planned to sling their silent noose, and drag the white man from his horse as he passed through the trees.
Balaam looked over the river at the ominous wood, and then he looked at Pedro, the horse that he had first maimed and now ruined, to whom he probably owed his life. He was lying on the ground, quietly looking over the green meadow, where dusk was gathering. Perhaps he was not suffering from his wound yet, as he rested on the ground; and into his animal intelligence there probably came no knowledge of this final stroke of his fate. At any rate, no sound of pain came from Pedro, whose friendly and gentle face remained turned toward the meadow. Once more Balaam fired his pistol, and this time the aim was true, and the horse rolled over, with a ball through his brain. It was the best reward that remained for him.
Then Balaam rejoined the old mare, and turned from the middle fork of Sunk Creek. He dashed across the wide field, and went over a ridge, and found his way along in the night till he came to the old trail--the road which they would never have left but for him and his obstinacy. He unsaddled the weary mare by Sunk Creek, where the canyon begins, letting her drag a rope and find pasture and water, while he, lighting no fire to betray him, crouched close under a tree till the light came. He thought of the Virginian in the wood. But what could either have done for the other had he stayed to look for him among the pines? If the cow-puncher came back to the corner, he would follow Balaam’s tracks or not. They would meet, at any rate, where the creeks joined.
But they did not meet. And then to Balaam the prospect of going onward to the Sunk Creek Ranch became more than he could bear. To come without the horses, to meet Judge Henry, to meet the guests of the Judge’s, looking as he did now after his punishment by the Virginian, to give the news about the Judge’s favorite man--no, how could he tell such a story as this? Balaam went no farther than a certain cabin, where he slept, and wrote a letter to the Judge. This the owner of the cabin delivered. And so, having spread news which would at once cause a search for the Virginian, and having constructed such sentences to the Judge as would most smoothly explain how, being overtaken by illness, he had not wished to be a burden at Sunk Creek, Balaam turned homeward by himself. By the time he was once more at Butte Creek, his general appearance was a thing less to be noticed. And there was Shorty, waiting!
One way and another, the lost dog had been able to gather some ready money. He was cheerful because of this momentary purseful of prosperity.
“And so I come back, yu’ see,” he said. “For I figured on getting Pedro back as soon as I could when I sold him to yu’.”
“You’re behind the times, Shorty,” said Balaam.
Shorty looked blank. “You’ve sure not sold Pedro?” he exclaimed.
“Them Indians,” said Balaam, “got after me on the Bow Leg trail. Got after me and that Virginia man. But they didn’t get me.”
Balaam wagged his bullet head to imply that this escape was due to his own superior intelligence. The Virginian had been stupid, and so the Indians had got him. “And they shot your horse,” Balaam finished. “Stop and get some dinner with the boys.”
Having eaten, Shorty rode away in mournful spirits. For he had made so sure of once more riding and talking with Pedro, his friend whom he had taught to shake hands.
