“So he maltreats horses?” I repeated.
“That's the word all through this country. A man that will do what they claim Balaam does to a hawss when he's mad, ain't fit to be called human.” The Virginian told me some particulars.
“Oh!” I almost screamed at the horror of it, and again, “Oh!”
“He'd have prob'ly done that to Buck as soon as he stopped runnin' away. If I caught a man doin' that—”
We were interrupted by a sedate-looking traveller riding upon an equally sober horse.
“Mawnin', Taylor,” said the Virginian, pulling up for gossip. “Ain't you strayed off your range pretty far?”
“You're a nice one!” replied Mr. Taylor, stopping his horse and smiling amiably.
“Tell me something I don't know,” retorted the Virginian.
“Hold up a man at cards and rob him,” pursued Mr. Taylor. “Oh, the news has got ahead of you!”
“Trampas has been hyeh explainin', has he?” said the Virginian with a grin.
“Was that your victim's name?” said Mr. Taylor, facetiously. “No, it wasn't him that brought the news. Say, what did you do, anyway?”
“So that thing has got around,” murmured the Virginian. “Well, it wasn't worth such wide repawtin'.” And he gave the simple facts to Taylor, while I sat wondering at the contagious powers of Rumor. Here, through this voiceless land, this desert, this vacuum, it had spread like a change of weather. “Any news up your way?” the Virginian concluded.
Importance came into Mr. Taylor's countenance. “Bear Creek is going to build a schoolhouse,” said he.
“Goodness gracious!” drawled the Virginian. “What's that for?”
Now Mr. Taylor had been married for some years. “To educate the offspring of Bear Creek,” he answered with pride.
“Offspring of Bear Creek,” the Virginian meditatively repeated. “I don't remember noticin' much offspring. There was some white tail deer, and a right smart o' jack rabbits.”
“The Swintons have moved up from Drybone,” said Mr. Taylor, always seriously. “They found it no place for young children. And there's Uncle Carmody with six, and Ben Dow. And Westfall has become a family man, and—”
“Jim Westfall!” exclaimed the Virginian. “Him a fam'ly man! Well, if this hyeh Territory is goin' to get full o' fam'ly men and empty o' game, I believe I'll—”
“Get married yourself,” suggested Mr. Taylor.
“Me! I ain't near reached the marriageable age. No, seh! But Uncle Hughey has got there at last, yu' know.”
“Uncle Hughey!” shouted Mr. Taylor. He had not heard this. Rumor is very capricious. Therefore the Virginian told him, and the family man rocked in his saddle.
“Build your schoolhouse,” said the Virginian. “Uncle Hughey has qualified himself to subscribe to all such propositions. Got your eye on a schoolmarm?”
V
Enter the woman
“We are taking steps,” said Mr. Taylor. “Bear Creek ain't going to be hasty about a schoolmarm.”
“Sure,” assented the Virginian. “The children wouldn't want yu' to hurry.”
But Mr. Taylor was, as I have indicated, a serious family man. The problem of educating his children could appear to him in no light except a sober one. “Bear Creek,” he said, “don't want the experience they had over at Calef. We must not hire an ignoramus.”
“Sure!” assented the Virginian again.
“Nor we don't want no gad-a-way flirt,” said Mr. Taylor.
“She must keep her eyes on the blackboa'd,” said the Virginian, gently.
“Well, we can wait till we get a guaranteed article,” said Mr. Taylor. “And that's what we're going to do. It can't be this year, and it needn't to be. None of the kids is very old, and the schoolhouse has got to be built.” He now drew a letter from his pocket, and looked at me. “Are you acquainted with Miss Mary Stark Wood of Bennington, Vermont?” he inquired.
I was not acquainted with her at this time.
“She's one we are thinking of. She's a correspondent with Mrs. Balaam.” Taylor handed me the letter. “She wrote that to Mrs. Balaam, and Mrs. Balaam said the best thing was for to let me see it and judge for myself. I'm taking it back to Mrs. Balaam. Maybe you can give me your opinion how it sizes up with the letters they write back East?”
The communication was mainly of a business kind, but also personal, and freely written. I do not think that its writer expected it to be exhibited as a document. The writer wished very much that she could see the West. But she could not gratify this desire merely for pleasure, or she would long ago have accepted the kind invitation to visit Mrs. Balaam's ranch. Teaching school was something she would like to do, if she were fitted for it. “Since the mills failed” (the writer said) “we have all gone to work and done a lot of things so that mother might keep on living in the old house. Yes, the salary would be a temptation. But, my dear, isn't Wyoming bad for the complexion? And could I sue them if mine got damaged? It is still admired. I could bring one male witness AT LEAST to prove that!” Then the writer became businesslike again. Even if she came to feel that she could leave home, she did not at all know that she could teach school. Nor did she think it right to accept a position in which one had had no experience. “I do love children, boys especially,” she went on. “My small nephew and I get on famously. But imagine if a whole benchful of boys began asking me questions that I couldn't answer! What should I do? For one could not spank them all, you know! And mother says that I ought not to teach anybody spelling, because I leave the U out of HONOR.”
Altogether it was a letter which I could assure Mr. Taylor “sized up” very well with the letters written in my part of the United States. And it was signed, “Your very sincere spinster, Molly Stark Wood.”
“I never seen HONOR spelled with a U,” said Mr. Taylor, over whose not highly civilized head certain portions of the letter had lightly passed.
I told him that some old-fashioned people still wrote the word so.
“Either way would satisfy Bear Creek,” said Mr. Taylor, “if she's otherwise up to requirements.”
The Virginian was now looking over the letter musingly, and with awakened attention.
“'Your very sincere spinster,'” he read aloud slowly.
“I guess that means she's forty,” said Taylor.
“I reckon she is about twenty,” said the Virginian. And again he fell to musing over the paper that he held.
“Her handwriting ain't like any I've saw,” pursued Mr. Taylor. “But Bear Creek would not object to that, provided she knows 'rithmetic and George Washington, and them kind of things.”
“I expect she is not an awful sincere spinster,” surmised the Virginian, still looking at the letter, still holding it as if it were some token.
Has any botanist set down what the seed of love is? Has it anywhere been set down in how many ways this seed may be sown? In what various vessels of gossamer it can float across wide spaces? Or upon what different soils it can fall, and live unknown, and bide its time for blooming?
The Virginian handed back to Taylor the sheet of note paper where a girl had talked as the women he had known did not talk. If