“No. He shunned me.” “Listen,” I said. “Suppose while you were on guard he had whispered, ‘Get me off’--would you have done it?” “No, sir!” said the Virginian, hotly.

“Then what do you want?” I asked. “What did you want?” He could not answer me--but I had not answered him, I saw; so I pushed it farther. “Did you want indorsement from the man you were hanging? That’s asking a little too much.” But he had now another confusion. “Steve stood by Shorty,” he said musingly. “It was Shorty’s mistake cost him his life, but all the same he didn’t want us to catch--”

“You are mixing things,” I interrupted. “I never heard you mix things before. And it was not Shorty’s mistake.” He showed momentary interest. “Whose then?” “The mistake of whoever took a fool into their enterprise.” “That’s correct. Well, Trampas took Shorty in, and Steve would not tell on him either.” I still tried it, saying, “They were all in the same boat.” But logic was useless; he had lost his bearings in a fog of sentiment. He knew, knew passionately, that he had done right; but the silence of his old friend to him through those last hours left a sting that no reasoning could assuage. “He told good-by to the rest of the boys; but not to me.” And nothing that I could point out in common sense turned him from the thread of his own argument. He worked round the circle again to self-justification. “Was it him I was deserting? Was not the deserting done by him the day I spoke my mind about stealing calves? I have kept my ways the same. He is the one that took to new ones. The man I used to travel with is not the man back there. Same name, to be sure. And same body. But different in--and yet he had the memory! You can’t never change your memory!” He gave a sob. It was the first I had ever heard from him, and before I knew what I was doing I had reined my horse up to his and put my arm around his shoulders. I had no sooner touched him than he was utterly overcome. “I knew Steve awful well,” he said.

Thus we had actually come to change places; for early in the morning he had been firm while I was unnerved, while now it was I who attempted to steady and comfort him.

I had the sense to keep silent, and presently he shook my hand, not looking at me as he did so. He was always very shy of demonstration. And he took to patting the neck of his pony. “You Monte hawss,” said he, “you think you are wise, but there’s a lot of things you don’t savvy.” Then he made a new beginning of talk between us.

“It is kind of pitiful about Shorty.” “Very pitiful,” I said. “Do you know about him?” the Virginian asked.

“I know there’s no real harm in him, and some real good, and that he has not got the brains necessary to be a horse thief.” “That’s so. That’s very true. Trampas has led him in deeper than his stature can stand. Now back East you can be middling and get along. But if you go to try a thing on in this Western country, you’ve got to do it well. You’ve got to deal cyards well; you’ve got to steal well; and if you claim to be quick with your gun, you must be quick, for you’re a public temptation, and some man will not resist trying to prove he is the quicker. You must break all the Commandments well in this Western country, and Shorty should have stayed in Brooklyn, for he will be a novice his livelong days. You don’t know about him? He has told me his circumstances. He don’t remember his father, and it was like he could have claimed three or four. And I expect his mother was not much interested in him before or after he was born. He ran around, and when he was eighteen he got to be help to a grocery man. But a girl he ran with kept taking all his pay and teasing him for more, and so one day the grocery man caught Shorty robbing his till, and fired him. There wasn’t no one to tell good-by to, for the girl had to go to the country to see her aunt, she said. So Shorty hung around the store and kissed the grocery cat good-by. He’d been used to feeding the cat, and she’d sit in his lap and purr, he told me. He sends money back to that girl now. This hyeh country is no country for Shorty, for he will be a conspicuous novice all his days.” “Perhaps he’ll prefer honesty after his narrow shave,” I said.

But the Virginian shook his head. “Trampas has got hold of him.” The day was now all blue above, and all warm and dry beneath. We had begun to wind in and rise among the first slopes of the foot-hills, and we had talked ourselves into silence. At the first running water we made a long nooning, and I slept on the bare ground. My body was lodged so fast and deep in slumber that when the Virginian shook