A chill shot through me, and I could not help a frightened glance where we had been watching. But one of the horses began to graze and I had a wholesome thought. "He's tired of whatever he sees, then," said I, pointing.
A smile came for a moment in the Virginian's face. "Must be a poor show," he observed. All the horses were grazing now, and he added, "It ain't hurt their appetites any."
We made our own breakfast then. And what uncanny dread I may have been touched with up to this time henceforth left me in the face of a real alarm. The shock of Steve was working upon the Virginian. He was aware of it himself; he was fighting it with all his might; and he was being overcome. He was indeed like a gallant swimmer against whom both wind and tide have conspired.
And in this now foreboding solitude there was only myself to throw him ropes. His strokes for safety were as bold as was the undertow that ceaselessly annulled them.
"I reckon I made a fuss in the tent?" said he, feeling his way with me.
I threw him a rope. "Yes. Nightmare--indigestion--too much newspaper before retiring.
He caught the rope. "That's correct! I had a hell of a foolish dream for a growed-up man. You'd not think it of me."
"Oh, yes, I should. I've had them after prolonged lobster and champagne."
"Ah," he murmured, "prolonged! Prolonged is what does it." He glanced behind him. "Steve came back--"
"In your lobster dream," I put in.
But he missed this rope. "Yes," he answered, with his eyes searching me. "And he handed me the paper--"
"By the way, where is that?" I asked.
"I built the fire with it. But when I took it from him it was a six-shooter I had hold of, and pointing at my breast. And then Steve spoke. 'Do you think you're fit to live?' Steve said; and I got hot at him, and I reckon I must have told him what I thought of him. You heard me, I expect?"
"Glad I didn't. Your language sometimes is--"
He laughed out. "Oh, I account for all this that's happening just like you do. If we gave our explanations, they'd be pretty near twins."
"The horses saw a bear, then?"
"Maybe a bear. Maybe "--but here the tide caught him again--"What's your idea about dreams?"
My ropes were all out. "Liver--nerves," was the best I could do.
But now he swam strongly by himself.
"You may think I'm discreditable," he said, "but I know I am. It ought to take more than--well, men have lost their friendships before. Feuds and wars have cloven a right smart of bonds in twain. And if my haid is going to get shook by a little old piece of newspaper--I'm ashamed I burned that. I'm ashamed to have been that weak."
"Any man gets unstrung," I told him. My ropes had become straws; and I strove to frame some policy for the next hours.
We now finished breakfast and set forth to catch the horses. As we drove them in I found that the Virginian was telling me a ghost story. "At half-past three in the morning she saw her runaway daughter standing with a babe in her arms; but when she moved it was all gone. Later they found it was the very same hour the young mother died in Nogales. And she sent for the child and raised it herself. I knowed them both back home. Do you believe that?"
I said nothing.
"No more do I believe it," he asserted. "And see here! Nogales time is three hours different from Richmond. I didn't know about that point then."
Once out of these mountains, I knew he could right himself; but even I, who had no Steve to dream about, felt this silence of the peaks was preying on me.
"Her daughter and her might have been thinkin' mighty hard about each other just then," he pursued. "But Steve is dead. Finished.
You cert'nly don't believe there's anything more?"
"I wish I could," I told him.
"No, I'm satisfied. Heaven didn't never interest me much. But if there was a world of dreams after you went--" He stopped himself and turned his searching eyes away from mine. "There's a heap o' darkness wherever you try to step," he said, "and I thought I'd left off wasting thoughts on the subject. You see"--he dexterously roped a horse, and once more his splendid sanity was turned to gold by his imagination--" I expect in many "rowed-up men you'd call sensible there's a little boy sleepin'--the little kid they onced was--that still keeps his fear of the dark. You mentioned the dark yourself yesterday. Well, this experience has woke up that kid in me, and blamed if I can coax the little cuss to go to sleep again! I keep a-telling him daylight will sure come, but he keeps a-crying and holding on to me."
Somewhere far in the basin there was a faint sound, and we stood still.
"Hush!" he said.
But it was like our watching the dawn; nothing more followed.
"They have shot that bear," I remarked.
He did not answer, and we put the saddles on without talk. We made no haste, but we were not over half an hour, I suppose, in getting off with the packs. It was not a new thing to hear a shot where wild game was in plenty; yet as we rode that shot sounded already in my mind different from others. Perhaps I should not believe this to-day but for what I look back to. To make camp last night we had turned off the trail, and now followed the stream down for a while, taking next a cut through the wood. In this way we came upon the tracks of our horses where they had been galloping back to the camp after their fright. They had kicked up the damp and matted pine needles very plainly all along.
"Nothing has been here but themselves, though," said I.
"And they ain't showing signs of remembering any scare," said the Virginian.
In a little while we emerged upon an open.
