“That was last year,” McDonald said.
“Well, what could go wrong in one year? In just one year?”
“You remember what happened to beaver?” McDonald asked. “You trapped beaver once, didn’t you? When they stopped wearing beaver hats you couldn’t give the skins away. Well, it looks like everybody that wants one has a buffalo robe; and nobody wants any more. Why they wanted them in the first place, I don’t know; you never can really get the stink out of them.”
“But in just a year,” Miller said.
McDonald shrugged. “It was coming. If I’d been back east, I would have knowed it....If you can wait four or five years, maybe they’ll find some way to use the leather. Then your prime hides will be just about as good as easy summer skins. You might get thirty, forty cents apiece for them.”
Miller shook his head, as if he had been dazed by a blow. “What about the land you own around here?” he asked. “By God, you can sell off some of that and pay us.”
“You don’t listen to me, do you?” McDonald said. Then his hands started shaking again. “You want the land? You can have that too.” He turned and began scrabbling in a box that lay under his bed. He drew out a sheet of paper and laid it on the table and started scribbling on it with the stub of a pen. “Here. I turn it over to you. You can have it all. But you better set yourself to be a dry-land farmer; because you’ll have to keep it; or give it away, like I’m giving it to you.”
“The railroad,” Miller said. “You used to say when the railroad came through, the land would be like gold.”
“Ah, yes,” McDonald said. “The railroad. Well, it’s coming through. They’re laying the tracks now. It’ll come through about fifty miles north of here.” McDonald laughed again. “You want to hear a funny thing? The hunters are selling buffalo meat to the railroad company—and they’re letting the hides lay where they skin them, to rot in the sun. Think of all the buffalo you killed. You could have got maybe five cents a pound for all that meat you let lay for the flies and the timber wolves.”
There was a silence.
“I killed the timber wolves,” Charley Hoge said. “I killed them with strychnine poison.”
As if drugged, Miller looked at McDonald, and then at Andrews, and back to McDonald again.
“So you’ve got nothing now,” Miller said.
“Nothing,” McDonald said. “I can see it gives you some satisfaction.”
“By God, it does,” Miller said. “Except that when you ruin yourself, you ruin us too. You sit back here, and we work our guts out, and you say you’ll give us money, like that means anything. And then you ruin yourself and take us down with you. But by God, it’s almost worth it. Almost.”
“Me ruin you?” McDonald laughed. “You ruin yourself, you and your kind. Every day of your life, everything you do. Nobody can tell you what to do. No. You go your own way, stinking the land up with what you kill. You flood the market with hides and ruin the market, and then you come crying to me that I’ve ruined you.” McDonald’s voice became anguished. “If you’d just listened—all of you. You’re no better than the things you kill.”
“Go back,” Miller said. “Get out of this country. It doesn’t want you.”
Breathing heavily, McDonald stood slouched tiredly beneath the lantern; his face was cast in a deep shadow. Miller got up from the bed and pulled Charley Hoge up with him. He walked a few steps away from McDonald, pulling Charley Hoge beside him.
“I’m not through with you yet,” he said to McDonald. “I’ll see you again.”
“All right,” McDonald said wearily, “if you think it’ll do any good.”
Andrews cleared his throat. He said to Miller, “I think I’ll stay here and talk to Mr. McDonald for a while.”
Miller looked at him impassively for a moment; his black hair blended into the darkness behind him, and his heavy pale face was thrust broodingly out of it.
“Do whatever you want,” he said. “It makes no difference to me. Our business is finished.” And he turned and walked into the darkness, out the door.
After Miller and Charley Hoge had gone, there were several minutes of silence. McDonald reached up to the lantern and raised the wick so that the light about the two men sharpened and made their features more distinct. Andrews moved the bed on which he had been sitting a little closer to the one upon which McDonald slumped.
“Well,” McDonald said, “you had your hunt.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you lost your tail, just like I said you would.”
Andrews did not speak.
“That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?” McDonald asked.
“Maybe it was, in the beginning,” Andrews said. “Part of it, at least.”
“Young people,” McDonald said. “Always wanting to start from scratch. I know. You never figured that someone else knew what you was trying to do, did you?”
“I never thought about it,” Andrews said. “Maybe because I didn’t know what I was trying to do myself.”
“Do you know now?”
Andrews moved restlessly.
“Young people,” McDonald said contemptuously. “You always think there’s something to find out.”
“Yes, sir,” Andrews said.
“Well, there’s nothing,” McDonald said. “You get born, and you nurse on lies, and you get weaned on lies, and you learn fancier lies in school. You live all your life on lies, and then maybe when you’re ready to die, it comes to you—that there’s nothing, nothing but yourself and what you could have done. Only you ain’t done it, because the lies told you there was something else. Then you know you could of had the world, because you’re the only one that knows the secret; only then it’s too late. You’re too old.”
“No,” Andrews said. A vague terror crept from the darkness that surrounded them, and tightened his voice. “That’s not the way it is.”
“You ain’t learned, then,” McDonald said. “You ain’t learned yet....Look. You spend nearly a year of your life and sweat, because you have faith in the dream of a fool. And what have you got? Nothing. You kill three, four thousand buffalo, and stack their skins neat; and the buffalo will rot wherever you left them, and the rats will nest in the skins. What have you got to show? A year gone out of your life, a busted wagon that a beaver might use to make a dam with, some calluses on your hands, and the memory of a dead man.”
“No,” Andrews said. “That’s not all. That’s not all I have.”
“Then what? What have you got?”
Andrews was silent.
“You can’t answer. Look at Miller. Knows the country he was in as well as any man alive, and had faith in what he believed was true. What good did it do him? And Charley Hoge with his Bible and his whisky. Did that make your winter any easier, or save your hides? And Schneider. What about Schneider? Was that his name?”
“That was his name,” Andrews said.
“And that’s all that’s left of him,” McDonald said. “His name. And he didn’t even come out of it with that for himself.” McDonald nodded, not looking at Andrews. “Sure, I know. I came out of it with nothing, too. Because I forgot what I learned a long time ago. I let the lies come back. I had a dream, too, and because it was different from yours and Miller’s, I let myself think it wasn’t a dream. But now I know, boy. And you don’t. And that makes all the difference.”
“What will you do now, Mr. McDonald?” Andrews asked; his voice was soft.
“Do?” McDonald straightened on the bed. “Why, I’m going to do what Miller said I should do; I’m going to get out of this country. I’m going back to St. Louis, maybe back to Boston, maybe even to New York. You can’t deal with this country as long as you’re in it; it’s too big, and empty, and it lets the lies come into you. You have to get away from it before you can handle it. And no more dreams; I take what I can get when I can get it, and worry about nothing else.”
“I wish you good luck,” Andrews said. “I’m sorry it turned out for you the
way it did.”
“And you?” McDonald asked. “What about you?”
“I don’t know yet,” Andrews said. “I still don’t know.”
“You don’t have to,” McDonald said. “You come back with me. We could do all right together; we both know the country now; away from it, we could do something with it.”
Andrews smiled. “Mr. McDonald, you talk like you’re putting your faith in me, now.”
“No,” McDonald said. “It’s not that at all. It’s just that I hate paper work, and you could take some of it off my hands.”
Andrews got up from the bed. “I’ll let you know when I’ve had a little more time,” he said. “But thanks for asking me.” He gave his hand to McDonald; McDonald shook it limply. “I’ll be staying at the hotel; don’t leave without looking me up.”
“All right, boy.” McDonald looked up at him; the lids came down slowly over his bulging eyes, and raised. “I’m pleased you came through it alive.”
Andrews turned quickly away from him, and went away from the thinning circle of light into the darkness of the room and into the wide darkness that waited outside. A thin new moon hung high in the west, giving the dry grass that rustled under his feet a faint, almost invisible glow. He walked slowly over the uneven ground toward the low dark bulk of Jackson’s Saloon; the yellow blob of a lighted lamp still showed in a high window near the center of the building.
He had walked past the long upward angling sweep of the stairs, had stepped upon the board sidewalk, had turned, had even made a few steps down the sidewalk beyond the opening of the stairs, before he knew that he was going to walk up them. He stopped on the sidewalk and turned slowly to walk back to where the stairs began. A weakness came into his legs and rose to his upper body, so that his arms hung loosely at his sides. For several moments he did not move. Then, as if beyond his volition, one of his feet rose to find the first step. Slowly, his hands not touching the bannister on his left nor the wall on his right, he went up the stairs. Again, at the landing at the top of the stairs, he paused. He breathed deeply of the warm, smoky air that hung about the town, until the weakness of his body was gathered into his lungs and breathed out upon the air. He fumbled for the door latch, lifted it, and pushed the door inward. He walked through the doorway and closed the door behind him. A hot still air enclosed him and pressed upon his flesh; he blinked his eyes and breathed more heavily. It was several moments before he realized the depth of the darkness in which he stood; he could see nothing; he took a blind step forward to keep his balance.
He found the wall on his left, and let his hand slide lightly over it as he groped his way forward. His hand went over the recesses of two doorways before he came to a door beneath the sill of which a thin line of yellow light seeped. He stood for a moment close to the door, listening; he heard a rustle of movement from within the room, and then silence. He waited for a moment more, and then stood back from the door and closed his loose hand into a fist and rapped upon it, twice. He heard another rustle of clothing and the light bare pad of feet. The door opened a few inches; he could see nothing but the yellow light, which he felt upon his face. Very slowly, the door opened wider, and he saw Francine, a shape against the glow of the lamp behind her, one hand upon the edge of the door and the other clasped at the collar of a loose wrapper that hung nearly to her ankles. He stood stiff and unmoving and waited for her to speak.
“Is it you?” she asked after a long moment. “Is it Will Andrews?”
“Yes,” he said, still stiff and unmoving.
“I thought you were dead,” she whispered. “Everybody thought you were dead.” Still she did not move from the doorway. Andrews stood awkwardly before her and shifted his weight. “Come in,” she said. “I didn’t mean to keep you standing outside.”
He walked into the room, past Francine, and stood near the edge of the thin carpet; he heard the door close behind him. He turned but he did not look directly at her.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you,” he said. “I know it’s late, but we only got in a few hours ago and I wanted to see you.”
“You’re all right?” Francine asked, coming closer and looking at him in the light. “What happened to you?”
“I’m all right,” he said. “We got snowed in; we had to stay in the mountains all winter.”
“And the others?” Francine asked.
“Yes,” Andrews said. “All except Schneider. He got killed on the way back, while we were crossing a river.”
Almost reluctantly, he raised his eyes and looked at her. Her long yellow hair was pulled in a tight braid so that it lay flat against her head; a few thin lines of tiredness ran from the corners of her eyes; her pale lips were parted over her rather large teeth.
“Schneider,” she said. “He was the big man that spoke German to me.”
“Yes,” Andrews said. “That was Schneider.”
Francine shivered in the heat of the room. “I didn’t like him,” she said. “But it’s not good to think that he’s dead.”
“No,” Andrews said.
She moved about the room, her fingers trailing along the carved wood that framed the back of the sofa and restlessly rearranging the knickknacks on the table beside it. Every now and then she looked up at Andrews and gave him a quick, puzzled smile. Andrews watched her movements closely, not speaking, hardly breathing.
She laughed low in her throat, and came across the room to him, where he stood near the door. She touched his sleeve.
“Come over in the light so I can see you better,” she said, and pulled gently on the cloth of his shirt sleeve.
Andrews let himself be led near to the table beside the red couch. Francine looked at him closely.
“You haven’t changed much,” she said. “Your face is browner. You’re older.” She caught his forearms in both her hands, and lifted them, turning his palms upward. “Your hands,” she said sadly, and ran her fingers lightly over one of his palms. “They’re hard now. I remember, they were so soft.”
Andrews swallowed. “You said they would be hard when I got back. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” she said. “I remember.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Yes,” Francine said. “All winter I’ve thought you were dead.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Francine—” He paused, and looked down at her face. Her pale blue eyes, wide and transparent, waited for whatever he had to say. He closed his fingers around her hand. “I’ve wanted to tell you—All winter, while we were snowed in, I thought about it.”
She did not speak.
“The way I left you that night,” he continued. “I wanted you to know—it wasn’t you, it was me. I wanted you to understand about it.”
“I know,” Francine said. “You were ashamed. But you shouldn’t have been. It wasn’t as important as you thought. It is—” She shrugged. “It is the way some men are with love, at first.”
“Young men,” Andrews said. “You said I was very young.”
“Yes,” Francine said, “and you became angry. It is the way young men are with love....But you should have come back. It would have been all right.”
“I know,” Andrews said. “But I thought I couldn’t. And then I was too far away.”
She looked at him closely; she nodded. “You are older,” she said again; there was a trace of sadness in her voice. “And I was wrong; you have changed. You have changed so that you can come back.”
“Yes,” he said. “I have changed that much, at least.”
She moved away from him, and turned so that her back was to him, her body outlined sharply by the lamplight. For a long moment there was silence between them.
“Well,” Andrews said. “I wanted to see you again, to tell you—” He paused, and did not finish. He started to turn away from her, toward the door.
“Don’t go,” Francine said. She did not move. “Don’t go away again.”
“No,” Andrews said; he stood still where he had turned. ??
?I won’t go away again. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you ask me. I want to stay. I should have—”
“It doesn’t matter. I want you to stay. When I thought you were dead, I—” She paused, and shook her head sharply. “You will stay with me for a while.” She turned, and shook her head sharply; and the reddish-gold light from the lamp trembled about her hair. “You will stay with me for a while. And you must understand. It’s not like it is with the others.”
“I know,” Andrews said. “Don’t talk about it.”
They looked at each other without speaking for several moments, making no move toward each other. Then Andrews said: “I’m sorry. It’s not the same as it was, is it?”
“No,” Francine said. “But it’s all right. I’m glad you came back.”
She turned away from him and leaned over the lamp. She lowered the wick; still leaning, she looked back over her shoulder at Andrews, and for a long moment studied his face; she did not smile. Then she blew sharply into the lamp chimney and darkness cut across the room. He heard the rustle of Francine’s clothing and caught a glimpse of her dim shape as she walked before the window. He heard the rustle of bedclothing being turned back and heard the heavier sound of a body sliding upon sheets. For a while he did not move. Then he fumbled at the buttons of his shirt as he moved across the room to where Francine waited in the darkness.
II
He turned in the darkness, and felt beneath him the bed sheets dampened by his own sweat. He had awakened suddenly from a deep sleep, and for a moment he did not know where he was. A slow, regular rasp of breath came from beside him; he reached out his hand; it touched warm flesh, and rested there, and moved slightly as the flesh was moved by its breathing.
For five days and nights Will Andrews had stayed in the small close room with Francine, emerging from it only when he took food or drink or purchased some articles of clothing from the depleted stock of Bradley’s Dry Goods store. After the first night with Francine he lost all consciousness of time, much as he had lost it back in the mountains, during the storm, under his shelter of snow and buffalo hide. In the dim room, with its single window that remained always curtained, morning became indistinguishable from afternoon; and so long as the lamp was kept burning, it was difficult for him to tell day from night.