The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains, Owen Wister [best e books to read txt] 📗
- Author: Owen Wister
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“There she goes with Taylor,” said Lin, presently.
“Another married man!” the Southerner commented. They prowled round to the store-room, and passed through the kitchen to where the dancers were robustly tramping. Miss Wood was still the partner of Mr. Taylor. “Let's have some whiskey,” said the Virginian. They had it, and returned, and the Virginian's disgust and sense of injury grew deeper. “Old Carmody has got her now,” he drawled. “He polkas like a landslide. She learns his monkey-faced kid to spell dog and cow all the mawnin'. He'd ought to be tucked up cosey in his bed right now, old Carmody ought.”
They were standing in that place set apart for the sleeping children; and just at this moment one of two babies that were stowed beneath a chair uttered a drowsy note. A much louder cry, indeed a chorus of lament, would have been needed to reach the ears of the parents in the room beyond, such was the noisy volume of the dance. But in this quiet place the light sound caught Mr. McLean's attention, and he turned to see if anything were wrong. But both babies were sleeping peacefully.
“Them's Uncle Hughey's twins,” he said.
“How do you happen to know that?” inquired the Virginian, suddenly interested.
“Saw his wife put 'em under the chair so she could find 'em right off when she come to go home.”
“Oh,” said the Virginian, thoughtfully. “Oh, find 'em right off. Yes. Uncle Hughey's twins.” He walked to a spot from which he could view the dance. “Well,” he continued, returning, “the schoolmarm must have taken quite a notion to Uncle Hughey. He has got her for this quadrille.” The Virginian was now speaking without rancor; but his words came with a slightly augmented drawl, and this with him was often a bad omen. He now turned his eyes upon the collected babies wrapped in various colored shawls and knitted work. “Nine, ten, eleven, beautiful sleepin' strangers,” he counted, in a sweet voice. “Any of 'em your'n, Lin?”
“Not that I know of,” grinned Mr. McLean.
“Eleven, twelve. This hyeh is little Christopher in the blue-stripe quilt—or maybe that other yello'-head is him. The angels have commenced to drop in on us right smart along Bear Creek, Lin.”
“What trash are yu' talkin' anyway?”
“If they look so awful alike in the heavenly gyarden,” the gentle Southerner continued, “I'd just hate to be the folks that has the cuttin' of 'em out o' the general herd. And that's a right quaint notion too,” he added softly. “Them under the chair are Uncle Hughey's, didn't you tell me?” And stooping, he lifted the torpid babies and placed them beneath a table. “No, that ain't thorough,” he murmured. With wonderful dexterity and solicitude for their wellfare, he removed the loose wrap which was around them, and this soon led to an intricate process of exchange. For a moment Mr. McLean had been staring at the Virginian, puzzled. Then, with a joyful yelp of enlightenment, he sprang to abet him.
And while both busied themselves with the shawls and quilts, the unconscious parents went dancing vigorously on, and the small, occasional cries of their progeny did not reach them.
XI. “YOU'RE GOING TO LOVE ME BEFORE WE GET THROUGH”
The Swinton barbecue was over. The fiddles were silent, the steer was eaten, the barrel emptied, or largely so, and the tapers extinguished; round the house and sunken fire all movement of guests was quiet; the families were long departed homeward, and after their hospitable turbulence, the Swintons slept.
Mr. and Mrs. Westfall drove through the night, and as they neared their cabin there came from among the bundled wraps a still, small voice.
“Jim,” said his wife, “I said Alfred would catch cold.”
“Bosh! Lizzie, don't you fret. He's a little more than a yearlin', and of course he'll snuffle.” And young James took a kiss from his love.
“Well, how you can speak of Alfred that way, calling him a yearling, as if he was a calf, and he just as much your child as mine, I don't see, James Westfall!”
“Why, what under the sun do you mean?”
“There he goes again! Do hurry up home, Jim. He's got a real strange cough.”
So they hurried home. Soon the nine miles were finished, and good James was unhitching by his stable lantern, while his wife in the house hastened to commit their offspring to bed. The traces had dropped, and each horse marched forward for further unbuckling, when James heard himself called. Indeed, there was that in his wife's voice which made him jerk out his pistol as he ran. But it was no bear or Indian—only two strange children on the bed. His wife was glaring at them.
He sighed with relief and laid down the pistol.
“Put that on again, James Westfall. You'll need it. Look here!”
“Well, they won't bite. Whose are they? Where have you stowed ourn?”
“Where have I—” Utterance forsook this mother for a moment. “And you ask me!” she continued. “Ask Lin McLean. Ask him that sets bulls on folks and steals slippers, what he's done with our innocent lambs, mixing them up with other people's coughing, unhealthy brats. That's Charlie Taylor in Alfred's clothes, and I know Alfred didn't cough like that, and I said to you it was strange; and the other one that's been put in Christopher's new quilts is not even a bub—bub—boy!”
As this crime against society loomed clear to James Westfall's understanding, he sat down on the nearest piece of furniture, and heedless of his wife's tears and his exchanged children, broke into unregenerate laughter. Doubtless after his sharp alarm about the bear, he was unstrung. His lady, however, promptly restrung him; and by the time they had repacked the now clamorous changelings, and were rattling on their way to the Taylors', he began to share her outraged feelings properly, as a husband and a father should; but when he reached the Taylors' and learned from Miss Wood that at this house a child had been unwrapped whom nobody could at all identify, and that Mr. and Mrs. Taylor were already far on the road to the Swintons', James Westfall whipped up his horses and grew almost as thirsty for revenge as was his wife.
Where the steer had been roasted, the powdered ashes were now cold white, and Mr. McLean, feeling through his dreams the change of dawn come over the air, sat up cautiously among the outdoor slumberers and waked his neighbor.
“Day will be soon,” he whispered, “and we must light out of this. I never suspicioned yu' had that much of the devil in you before.”
“I reckon some of the fellows will act haidstrong,” the Virginian murmured luxuriously, among the warmth of his blankets.
“I tell yu' we must skip,” said Lin, for the second time; and he rubbed the Virginian's black head, which alone was visible.
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