docile Shorty rode away upon his horse
Pedro.

Love now was not any longer snowbound. The mountain trails were open
enough for the sure feet of love's steed--that horse called Monte.
But duty blocked the path of love. Instead of turning his face to Bear
Creek, the foreman had other journeys to make, full of heavy work,
and watchfulness, and councils with the Judge. The cattle thieves were
growing bold, and winter had scattered the cattle widely over the range.
Therefore the Virginian, instead of going to see her, wrote a letter to
his sweetheart. It was his first.

XXIV. A LETTER WITH A MORAL

The letter which the Virginian wrote to Molly Wood was, as has been
stated, the first that he had ever addressed to her. I think, perhaps,
he may have been a little shy as to his skill in the epistolary art, a
little anxious lest any sustained production from his pen might contain
blunders that would too staringly remind her of his scant learning. He
could turn off a business communication about steers or stock cars, or
any other of the subjects involved in his profession, with a brevity
and a clearness that led the Judge to confide three-quarters of such
correspondence to his foreman. "Write to the 76 outfit," the Judge would
say, "and tell them that my wagon cannot start for the round-up until,"
etc.; or "Write to Cheyenne and say that if they will hold a meeting
next Monday week, I will," etc. And then the Virginian would write such
communications with ease.

But his first message to his lady was scarcely written with ease. It
must be classed, I think, among those productions which are styled
literary EFFORTS. It was completed in pencil before it was copied in
ink; and that first draft of it in pencil was well-nigh illegible with
erasures and amendments. The state of mind of the writer during its
composition may be gathered without further description on my part from
a slight interruption which occurred in the middle.

The door opened, and Scipio put his head in. "You coming to dinner?" he
inquired.

"You go to hell," replied the Virginian.

"My links!" said Scipio, quietly, and he shut the door without further
observation.

To tell the truth, I doubt if this letter would ever have been
undertaken, far less completed and despatched, had not the lover's heart
been wrung with disappointment. All winter long he had looked to that
day when he should knock at the girl's door, and hear her voice bid him
come in. Al