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. All winter long he had been choosing the ride he would take her. He
had imagined a sunny afternoon, a hidden grove, a sheltering cleft of rock, a running
spring, and some words of his that should conquer her at last and leave his lips upon hers.
And with this controlled fire pent up within him, he had counted the days, scratching
them off his calendar with a dig each night that once or twice snapped the pen. Then,
when the trail stood open, this meeting was deferred, put off for indefinite days, or
weeks; he could not tell how long. So, gripping his pencil and tracing heavy words, he
gave himself what consolation he could by writing her.
The letter, duly stamped and addressed to Bear Creek, set forth upon its travels; and these
were devious and long. When it reached its destination, it was some twenty days old. It
had gone by private hand at the outset, taken the stagecoach at a way point, become late
in that stagecoach, reached a point of transfer, and waited there for the postmaster to
begin, continue, end, and recover from a game of poker, mingled with whiskey. Then it
once more proceeded, was dropped at the right way point, and carried by private hand to
