He came upon the main street, and saw some distance off the Virginian
standing in talk with the bishop. He slunk between two houses, and
cursed both of them. The sight had been good for him, bringing some
warmth of rage back to his desperate heart. And he went into a place and
drank some whiskey.
“In your shoes,” said the barkeeper, “I’d be afraid to take so much.”
But the nerves of Trampas were almost beyond the reach of intoxication,
and he swallowed some more, and went out again. Presently he fell in
with some of his brothers in cattle stealing, and walked along with them
for a little.
“Well, it will not be long now,” they said to him. And he had never
heard words so desolate.
“No,” he made out to say; “soon now.” Their cheerfulness seemed
unearthly to him, and his heart almost broke beneath it.
“We’ll have one to your success,” they suggested.
So with them he repaired to another place; and the sight of a man
leaning against the bar made him start so that they noticed him. Then he
saw that the man was a stranger whom he had never laid eyes on till now.
“It looked like Shorty,” he said, and could have bitten his tongue off.
“Shorty is quiet up in the Tetons,” said a friend. “You don’t want to be
thinking about him. Here’s how!”
Then they clapped him on the back and he left them. He thought of his
enemy and his hate, beating his rage like a failing horse, and treading
the courage of his drink. Across a space he saw Wiggin, walking with
McLean and Scipio. They were watching the town to see that his friends
made no foul play.
“We’re giving you a clear field,” said Wiggin.
“This race will not be pulled,” said McLean.
“Be with you at the finish,” said Scipio.
And they passed on. They did not seem like real people to him.
Trampas looked at the walls and windows of the houses. Were they real?
Was he here, walking in this street? Something had changed. He looked
everywhere, and feeling it everywhere, wondered what this could be. Then
he knew: it was the sun that had gone entirely behind the mountains, and
he drew out his pistol.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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