I  
Many fish were still in the pool; and though luck seemed to have left me, still I stood at the end of the point, casting and casting my vain line, while the Virginian lay and watched. Noonday's extreme brightness had left the river and the plain in cooling shadow, but spread and glowed over the yet undimmed mountains. Westward¹, the Tetons lifted their peaks pale and keen as steel through the high, radiant air. Deep down between the blue gashes² of their canons the sun sank long shafts³ of light, and the glazed⁴ laps of their snow-fields shone separate and white upon their lofty vastness, like handkerchiefs laid out to dry. Opposite, above the valley, rose that other range, the Continental⁵ Divide, not sharp, but long and ample. It was bare in some high places, and below these it stretched everywhere, high and low, in brown and yellow parks, or in purple miles of pine a world of serene⁶ undulations, a great sweet country of silence.
 
A passing band of antelope⁷ stood herded⁸ suddenly together at sight of us; then a little breeze blew for a moment from us to them, and they drifted like phantoms⁹ away, and were lost in the levels of the sage-brush.
 
“If humans could do like that,” said the Virginian, watching them go.
 
“Run, you mean?” said I.
 
“Tell a foe¹⁰ by the smell of him,” explained the cow-puncher; “at fifty yards—or a mile.”
 
“Yes,” I said; “men would be hard to catch.”
 
“A woman needs it most,” he murmured. He lay down again in his lounging sprawl¹¹, with his grave eyes intently fixed¹² upon my fly-casting.
 
The gradual day mounted up the hills farther from the floor of earth. Warm airs eddied¹³ in its wake slowly, stirring the scents¹⁴ of the plain together. I looked at the Southerner; and there was no guessing what his thoughts might be at work upon behind that drowsy¹⁵ glance. Then for a moment a trout¹⁶ rose, but only to look and whip down again into the pool that wedged its calm into the riffle from below.
 
“Second thoughts,” mused¹⁷ the Virginian; and as the trout came no more, “Second thoughts,” he repeated; “and even a fish will have them sooner than folks has them in this mighty¹⁸ hasty country.” And he rolled over into a new position of ease.
 
At whom or what was he aiming these shafts of truth? Or did he moralize merely because health and the weather had steeped him in that serenity¹⁹ which lifts us among the spheres? Well, sometimes he went on from these beginnings and told me wonderful things.
 
“I reckon,” said he, presently, “that knowing when to change your mind would be pretty near knowledge enough for plain people.”
 
Since my acquaintance with him—this was the second summer of it—I had come to understand him enough to know that he was unfathomable. Still, for a moment it crossed my thoughts that perhaps now he was discoursing²² about himself. He had allowed a jealous foreman to fall out with him at Sunk Creek²³ ranch²⁴ in the spring, during Judge Henry's absence. The man, having a brief authority, parted with him. The Southerner had chosen that this should be the means of ultimately getting the foreman dismissed and himself recalled. It was strategic. As he put it to me: “When I am gone, it will be right easy for the Judge to see which of us two he wants. And I'll not have done any talking.” All of which duly befell in the autumn as he had planned: the foreman was sent off, his assistant promoted, and the Virginian again hired. But this was meanwhile. He was indulging himself in a several months' drifting, and while thus drifting he had written to me. That is how we two came to be on our way from the railroad to hunt the elk²⁵ and the mountain-sheep, and were pausing to fish where Buffalo²⁶ Fork joins its waters with Snake River. In those days the antelope still ran there in hundreds, the Yellowstone Park was a new thing, and mankind lived very far away. Since meeting me with the horses in Idaho the Virginian had been silent, even for him. So now I stood casting my fly, and trusting that he was not troubled with second thoughts over his strategy.
 
“Have yu' studded much about marriage?” he now inquired. His serious eyes met mine as he lay stretched along the ground.
 
“Not much,” I said; “not very much.”
 
“Let's swim,” he said. “They have changed their minds.”
 
Forthwith we shook off our boots and dropped our few clothes, and heedless of what fish we might now drive away, we went into the cool, slow, deep breadth of backwater which the bend makes just there. As he came up near me, shaking his head of black hair, the cowpuncher was smiling a little.
 
“Not that any number of baths,” he remarked, “would conceal²⁸ a man's objectionableness from an antelope—not even a she-one.”
 
Then he went under water, and came up again a long way off.
 
We dried before the fire, without haste. To need no clothes is better than purple and fine linen²⁹. Then he tossed the flap-jacks, and I served the trout, and after this we lay on our backs upon a buffalo-hide to smoke and watch the Tetons grow more solemn, as the large stars opened out over the sky.
 
“I don't care if I never go home,” said I.
 
The Virginian nodded. “It gives all the peace o' being asleep with all the pleasure o' feeling the widest kind of awake,” said he. “Yu' might say the whole year's strength flows hearty³⁰ in every waggle of your thumb.” We lay still for a while. “How many things surprise yu' any more?” he next asked.
 
I began considering; but his silence had at length worked round to speech.
 
“Inventions, of course,” said he, “these hyeh telephones an' truck yu' see so much about in the papers—but I ain't speaking o' such things of the brain. It is just the common things I mean. The things that a livin', noticin' man is liable to see and maybe sample for himself. How many o' them kind can surprise yu' still?”
 
I still considered.
 
“Most everything surprised me onced,” the cow-puncher continued, in his gentle Southern voice. “I must have been a mighty green boy. Till I was fourteen or fifteen I expect I was astonished by ten o'clock every morning. But a man begins to ketch on to folks and things after a while. I don't consideh that when—that afteh a man is, say twenty-five, it is creditable he should get astonished too easy. And so yu've not examined yourself that-away?”
 
I had not.
 
“Well, there's two things anyway—I know them for sure—that I expect will always get me—don't care if I live to thirty-five, or forty-five, or eighty. And one's the ways lightning can strike.” He paused. Then he got up and kicked the fire, and stood by it, staring at me. “And the other is the people that other people will marry.”
 
He stopped again; and I said nothing.
 
“The people that other people will marry,” he repeated. “That will surprise me till I die.”
 
“If my sympathy—” I began.
 
But the brief sound that he gave was answer enough, and more than enough cure for my levity³¹.
 
“No,” said he, reflectively; “not any such thing as a fam'ly for me, yet. Never, it may be. Not till I can't help it. And that woman has not come along so far. But I have been sorry for a woman lately. I keep thinking what she will do. For she will have to do something. Do yu' know Austrians? Are they quick in their feelings, like I-talians? Or are they apt to be sluggish³², same as Norwegians and them other Dutch-speakin' races?”
 
I told him what little I knew about Austrians.
 
“This woman is the first I have ever saw of 'em,” he continued. “Of course men will stampede into marriage in this hyeh Western country, where a woman is a scanty³³ thing. It ain't what Hank has done that surprises me. And it is not on him that the sorrow will fall. For she is good. She is very good. Do yu' remember little black Hank? From Texas he claims he is. He was working on the main ditch over at Sunk Creek last summer when that Em'ly hen was around. Well, seh, yu' would not have pleasured in his company. And this year Hank is placer-mining on Galena Creek, where we'll likely go for sheep. There's Honey Wiggin and a young fello' named Lin McLean, and some others along with the outfit³⁴. But Hank's woman will not look at any of them, though the McLean boy is a likely hand. I have seen that; for I have done a right smart o' business that-a-way myself, here and there. She will mend their clothes for them, and she will cook lunches for them any time o' day, and her conduct gave them hopes at the start. But I reckon Austrians have good religion.”
 
“No better than Americans,” said I.
 
But the Virginian shook his head. “Better'n what I've saw any Americans have. Of course I am not judging a whole nation by one citizen, and especially her a woman. And of course in them big Austrian towns the folks has shook their virtuous³⁶ sayin's loose from their daily doin's, same as we have. I expect selling yourself brings the quickest returns to man or woman all the world over. But I am speakin' not of towns, but of the back country, where folks don't just merely arrive on the cyars, but come into the world the natural way, and grow up slow. Onced a week anyway they see the bunch of old grave-stones that marks their fam'ly. Their blood and name are knowed about in the neighborhood, and it's not often one of such will sell themselves. But their religion ain't to them like this woman's. They can be rip-snortin' or'tn'ary in ways. Now she is getting naught³⁷ but hindrance³⁸ and temptation and meanness from her husband and every livin' thing around her—yet she keeps right along, nor does she mostly bear any signs in her face. She has cert'nly come from where they are used to believing in God and a hereafter mighty hard, and all day long. She has got one o' them crucifixes, and Hank can't make her quit prayin' to it. But what is she going to do?”
 
“He will probably leave her,” I said.
 
“Yes,” said the Virginian—“leave her. Alone; her money all spent; knowin' maybe twenty words of English; and thousands of miles away from everything she can understand. For our words and ways is all alike strange to her.”
 
“Then why did he want such a person?” I exclaimed.
 
There was surprise in the grave glance which the cow-puncher gave me. “Why, any man would,” he answered. “I wanted her myself, till I found she was good.”
 
I looked at this son of the wilderness³⁹, standing⁴⁰ thoughtful and splendid by the fire, and unconscious of his own religion that had unexpectedly shone forth²⁷ in these last words. But I said nothing; for words too intimate, especially words of esteem⁴¹, put him invariably to silence.
 
“I had forgot to mention her looks to yu'.” he pursued, simply. “She is fit for a man.” He stopped again.
 
“Then there was her wages that Hank saw paid to her,” he resumed. “And so marriage was but a little thing to Hank—agaynst such a heap of advantages. As for her idea in takin' such as him—maybe it was that he was small and she was big; tall and big. Or maybe it was just his white teeth. Them ridiculous reasons will bring a woman to a man, haven't yu' noticed? But maybe it was just her sorrowful, helpless state, left stranded⁴² as she was, and him keeping himself near her and sober for a week.
 
“I had been seein' this hyeh Yellowstone Park, takin' in its geysers, and this and that, for my enjoyment⁴³; and when I found what they claimed about its strange sights to be pretty near so, I landed up at Galena Creek to watch the boys prospectin'. Honey Wiggin, yu' know, and McLean, and the rest. And so they got me to go down with Hank to Gardner for flour and sugar and truck, which we had to wait for. We lay around the Mammoth⁴⁴ Springs and Gardner for three days, playin' cyards with friends. And I got plumb⁴⁵ interested in them tourists. For I had partly forgot about Eastern people. And hyeh they came fresh every day to remind a man of the great size of his country. Most always they would talk to yu' if yu' gave 'em the chance; and I did. I have come mighty nigh regrettin' that I did not keep a tally⁴⁶ of the questions them folks asked me. And as they seemed genu-winely anxious to believe anything at all, and the worser the thing the believinger they'd grow, why I—well, there's times when I have got to lie to keep in good health.
 
“So I fooled and I fooled. And one noon I was on the front poach of the big hotel they have opened at the Mammoth Springs for tourists, and the hotel kid, bein' on the watchout, he sees the dust comin' up the hill, and he yells out, 'Stage!'
 
“Yu've not saw that hotel yet, seh? Well, when the kid says 'Stage,' the consequences is most sudden. About as conspicuous⁴⁷, yu' may say, as when Old Faithful Geyser lets loose. Yu' see, one batch⁴⁸ o' tourists pulls out right after breakfast for Norris Basin, leavin' things empty and yawnin'. By noon the whole hotel outfit has been slumberin' in its chairs steady for three hours. Maybe yu' might hear a fly buzz, but maybe not. Everything's liable to be restin', barrin' the kid. He's a-watchin' out. Then he sees the dust, and he says 'Stage!' and it touches the folks off like a hot pokeh. The Syndicate manager he lopes to a lookin'glass, and then organizes himself behind the book; and the young photograph chap bounces out o' his private door like one o' them cuckoo clocks; and the fossil man claws his specimens⁴⁹ and curiosities into shape, and the porters line up same as parade, and away goes the piano and fiddles⁵⁰ up-stairs. It is mighty conspicuous. So Hank he come rennin' out from somewheres too, and the stage drives up.
 
“Then out gets a tall woman, and I noticed her yello' hair. She was kind o' dumb-eyed, yet fine to see. I reckon Hank noticed her too, right away. And right away her trouble begins. For she was a lady's maid, and her lady was out of the stage and roundin' her up quick. And it's 'Where have you put the keys, Willomene?' The lady was rich and stinkin' lookin', and had come from New Yawk in her husband's private cyar.
 
“Well, Willomene fussed around in her pockets, and them keys was not there. So she started explaining in tanglefoot English to her lady how her lady must have took them from her before leavin' the cyar. But the lady seemed to relish⁵¹ hustlin' herself into a rage. She got tolerable conspicuous, too. And after a heap o' words, 'You are discharged,' she says; and off she struts⁵². Soon her husband came out to Willomene, still standin' like statuary, and he pays her a good sum of cash, and he goes away, and she keeps a standing yet for a spell. Then all of a sudden she says something I reckon was 'O, Jesus,' and sits down and starts a cryin'.
 
“I would like to have given her comfort. But we all stood around on the hotel poach, and the right thing would not come into my haid. Then the baggage-wagon came in from Cinnabar, and they had picked the keys up on the road between Cinnabar and Gardner. So the lady and her toilet was rescued, but that did no good to Willomene. They stood her trunk down along with the rest—a brass⁵³-nailed little old concern—and there was Willomene out of a job and afoot a long, long ways from her own range; and so she kept sitting, and onced in a while she'd cry some more. We got her a room in the cheap hotel where the Park drivers sleeps when they're in at the Springs, and she acted grateful like, thanking the boys in her tanglefoot English. Next mawnin' her folks druv off in a private team to Norris Basin, and she seemed dazed. For I talked with her then, and questioned her as to her wishes, but she could not say what she wished, nor if it was East or West she would go; and I reckon she was too stricken to have wishes.
 
“Our stuff for Galena Creek delayed on the railroad, and I got to know her, and then I quit givin' Hank cause for jealousy⁵⁴. I kept myself with the boys, and I played more cyards, while Hank he sca'cely played at all. One night I came on them—Hank and Willomene—walkin' among the pines where the road goes down the hill. Yu' should have saw that pair o' lovers. Her big shape was plain and kind o' steadfast⁵⁵ in the moon, and alongside of her little black Hank! And there it was. Of course it ain't nothing to be surprised at that a mean and triflin' man tries to seem what he is not when he wants to please a good woman. But why does she get fooled, when it's so plain to other folks that are not givin' it any special thought? All the rest of the men and women at the Mammoth understood Hank. They knowed he was a worthless proposition. And I cert'nly relied on his gettin' back to his whiskey and openin' her eyes that way. But he did not. I met them next evening again by the Liberty Cap. Supposin' I'd been her brother or her mother, what use was it me warning her? Brothers and mothers don't get believed.
 
“The railroad brought the stuff for Galena Creek, and Hank would not look at it on account of his courtin'. I took it alone myself by Yancey's and the second bridge and Miller⁵⁷ Creek to the camp, nor I didn't tell Willomene good-bye, for I had got disgusted at her blindness.”
 
The Virginian shifted his position, and jerked his overalls⁵⁸ to a more comfortable fit. Then he continued:
 
“They was married the Tuesday after at Livingston, and Hank must have been pow'ful pleased at himself. For he gave Willomene a wedding present, with the balance of his cash, spending his last nickel on buying her a red-tailed parrot they had for sale at the First National Bank. The son-of-a-gun hollad so freely at the bank, the president awde'd the cashier to get shed of the out-ragious bird, or he would wring⁵⁹ its neck.
 
“So Hank and Willomene stayed a week up in Livingston on her money, and then he fetched her back to Gardner, and bought their grub, and bride and groom⁶⁰ came up to the camp we had on Galena Creek.
 
“She had never slep' out before. She had never been on a hawss, neither. And she mighty near rolled off down into Pitchstone Canyon⁶¹, comin' up by the cut-off trail. Why, seh, I would not willingly take you through that place, except yu' promised me yu' would lead your hawss when I said to. But Hank takes the woman he had married, and he takes heavy-loaded pack-hawsses. 'Tis the first time such a thing has been known of in the country. Yu' remember them big tall grass-topped mountains over in the Hoodoo country, and how they descends⁶² slam down through the cross-timber that yu' can't scatcely work through afoot, till they pitches over into lots an' lots o' little canyons⁶³, with maybe two inches of water runnin' in the bottom? All that is East Fork water, and over the divide is Clark's Fork, or Stinkin' Water, if yu' take the country yondeh to the southeast. But any place yu' go is them undesirable⁶⁴ steep slopes, and the cut-off trail takes along about the worst in the business.
 
“Well, Hank he got his outfit over it somehow, and, gentlemen, hush⁶⁵! but yu'd ought t've seen him and that poor girl pull into our camp. Yu'd cert'nly never have conjectured⁶⁶ them two was a weddin' journey. He was leadin', but skewed around in his saddle to jaw⁶⁷ back at Willomene for riding so ignorant. Suppose it was a thing she was responsible for, yu'd not have talked to her that-a-way even in private; and hyeh was the camp a-lookin', and a-listenin', and some of us ashamed. She was setting straddleways like a mountain, and between him and her went the three packanimals, plumb shiverin' played out, and the flour—they had two hundred pounds—tilted over hellwards, with the red-tailed parrot shoutin' landslides⁶⁸ in his cage tied on top o' the leanin' sacks.
 
“It was that mean to see, that shameless and unkind, that even a thoughtless kid like the McLean boy felt offended, and favorable to some sort of remonstrance⁶⁹. 'The son-of-a—!' he said to me. 'The son-of-a—! If he don't stop, let's stop him.' And I reckon we might have.
 
“But Hank he quit. 'Twas plain to see he'd got a genu-wine scare comin' through Pitchstone Canyon, and it turned him sour, so he'd hardly talk to us, but just mumbled⁷⁰ 'How!' kind o' gruff, when the boys come up to congratulate him as to his marriage.
 
“But Willomene, she says when she saw me, 'Oh, I am so glad!' and we shook hands right friendly. And I wished I'd told her good-bye that day at the Mammoth. For she bore no spite, and maybe I had forgot her feelings in thinkin' of my own. I had talked to her down at the Mammoth at first, yu' know, and she said a word about old friends. Our friendship was three weeks old that day, but I expect her new experiences looked like years to her. And she told me how near she come to gettin' killed.
 
“Yu' ain't ever been over that trail, seh? Yu' cert'nly must see Pitchstone Canyon. But we'll not go there with packs. And we will get off our hawsses a good ways back. For many animals feels that there's something the matter with that place, and they act very strange about it.
 
“The Grand Canyon is grand, and makes yu' feel good to look at it, and a geyser is grand and all right, too. But this hyeh Pitchstone hole, if Willomene had went down into that—well, I'll tell yu', that you may judge.
 
“She seen the trail a-drawin' nearer and nearer the aidge, between the timber and the jumpin'-off place, and she seen how them little loose stones and the crumble⁷¹ stuff would slide and slide away under the hawss's feet. She could hear the stuff rattlin' continually from his steps, and when she turned her haid to look, she seen it goin' down close beside her, but into what it went she could not see. Only, there was a queer steam would come up now and agayn, and her hawss trembled. So she tried to get off and walk without sayin' nothin' to Hank. He kep' on ahaid, and her hawss she had pulled up started to follo' as she was half off him, and that gave her a tumble, but there was an old crooked⁷² dead tree. It growed right out o' the aidge. There she hung.
 
“Down below is a little green water tricklin', green as the stuff that gets on brass, and tricklin' along over soft cream-colored formation, like pie. And it ain't so far to fall but what a man might not be too much hurt for crawlin' out. But there ain't no crawlin' out o' Pitchstone Canyon, they say. Down in there is caves that yu' cannot see. 'Tis them that coughs up the stream now and agayn. With the wind yu' can smell 'em a mile away, and in the night I have been layin' quiet and heard 'em. Not that it's a big noise, even when a man is close up. It's a fluffy⁷³ kind of a s............