Lonesome Dove

  "That proves you're a deceiving man, if you think that," she said. "You've had a long ride for nothing, I guess."

  "Why, no," he said. "It's happiness to see you."

  Clara felt a sudden irritation. "Do you think you can have us both?" she said. "My husband isn't dead. I haven't seen you in sixteen years. I've mostly raised children and horses during those years. Three of the children died, and plenty of the horses. It took all the romance out of me, if romance is what you were hoping for. I read about it in my magazines but I left it behind for myself when I left Austin."

  "Don't you regret it?" Augustus asked.

  "Oh, well," Clara said, "yes and no. I'm too strong for the normal man and too jealous once my feelings get started. I'm surprised you dare bring another woman into my house."

  "I thought you liked her," he said.

  "I do like her," Clara said. "I mind you doing it, though. Don't you understand the facts of nature yet? She's younger and prettier."

  "It happened accidentally, like I mentioned," Augustus said.

  "I never noticed you having such accidents with ugly girls," Clara said. "I don't care how it happened. You've been my dream, Gus. I used to think about you two or three hours a day."

  "I wish you'd wrote, then," he said.

  "I didn't want you here," she said. "I needed the dreams. I knew you for a rake and a rambler but it was sweet to pretend you only loved me."

  "I do only love you, Clara," he said. "I've grown right fond of Lorie, but it ain't like this feeling I have for you."

  "Well, she loves you," Clara said. "It would destroy her if I was to have you. Don't you know that?"

  "Yes, I know that," Augustus said, thinking there would never again be such a woman as the one who looked at him with anger in her face.

  "Would you destroy her, then, if I said stay?" Clara asked.

  "I expect so," Augustus said.

  "That ain't an answer."

  "Yes, you know I would," he said. "I'd smother Bob for you and send Lorie to perdition."

  Clara sighed, and her anger wore out with the sigh.

  "Such talk," she said. "Bob'll die when he can manage it, and I'll see what I can do for your bride. It's just her beauty that set me off. I was always the youngest and prettiest, and now I'm not."

  "You're mighty pretty, and anyway pretty ain't everything," he said.

  "Where men like you are concerned it's ninety-nine percent," she said. "You ain't had time to look at me close. I ain't the prettiest anymore. The prettiest is downstairs."

  "I'd still like a kiss," he said.

  A tickle of amusement took her. He saw her smile and took it for encouragement. When he bent forward the result was so bland that after a moment Clara drew back her head and laughed.

  "You've ridden a long way for some pretty weak courting," she said, but she felt better. Gus looked rather hangdog at his failure — one of the few times she had ever seen him look that way.

  "You beat any woman I ever saw for taking the starch out of a man," he said, a little perplexed. Despite all the complications, he felt his old love for her returning with its old power. So much feeling flooded him, just looking at her, that he felt shaky. It was a puzzle to him that such a thing could happen, for it was true she had become rather bony and her face had thinned too much, and certainly she was as taxing as a woman could be. And yet the feeling made him shaky.

  "Think I'm rough, Gus?" she asked with a smile.

  "I ain't been scorched by lightning, but I doubt it could be hotter than being scorched by you," he said.

  "Still think you'd have been up to being married to me?"

  "I don't know," he said truthfully.

  Clara laughed and took his arm to lead him downstairs.

  "What about the young sheriff?" he asked, stopping her. He was unwilling to end their privacy so soon.

  "What sheriff?"

  "Why, July Johnson," he said. "It seems you've adopted him."

  "I mainly wanted the baby, but I guess it's only fair to keep the father too," she said.

  "Keep him and do what with him?"

  "What do you care?" Clara said. "You're engaged. You can ride all over the country with a pretty girl, I guess I can be allowed a man. I'd forgotten how jealous you were. You were jealous of Jake and I did little more than flirt with Jake."

  "To hear him talk, you did," Augustus said.

  "Neither of us will hear him talk again," Clara said. "And I won't marry again."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "I don't have enough respect for men," she said. "I've found very few who are honest, and you ain't one of the few."

  "I'm about half honest," Augustus said.

  "That's right," she said, and led him on downstairs.

  To his surprise, Clara simply walked into the kitchen and invited Lorena to stay with them while the herd went on to Montana.

  "We could use your help and you'd be more than welcome," she said. "Montana's no place for a lady."

  Lorena blushed when she said it — no one had ever applied the word "lady" to her before. She knew she didn't deserve it. She wasn't a lady like Clara. She had never even met a lady like Clara, and in the space of a day had come to admire her more than she had ever admired anyone excepting Gus. Clara had shown her nothing but courtesy and had made her welcome in her house, whereas other respectable women had always shunned her because of the way she lived.

  Sitting in the kitchen with the girls and the baby, Lorena felt happy in a way that was new to her. It stirred in her distant memories of the days she had spent in her grandmother's house in Mobile when she was four. Her grandmother's house had been like Clara's — she had gone there only once that she could remember. Her grandmother had put her in a soft bed, the softest she had ever slept in, and sung songs to her while she went to sleep. It was her happiest memory, one she treasured so, that in her years of traveling she grew almost afraid to remember it — someday she might try to remember it and find it gone. She was very afraid of losing her one good, warm memory. If she lost that, she felt she might be too sad to go on.

  But in Clara's house she wasn't afraid to remember her grandmother, and the softness of the bed. Clara's house was the kind of house she thought she might live in someday — at least she had hoped to when she was little. But when her parents sickened and died, she lost hope of living in such a house. Mosby's home had been nothing like it, and then she had started living in hotels or little rooms. She slowly stopped thinking of nice houses and the things that went with them, such as little girls and babies.

  So when Clara came downstairs and asked her to stay, it felt like being given back something — something that had been lost so long that she had ceased to think about it. Just before Clara and Gus came in, the girls had been nagging her to teach them how to sew. Lorena could sew fairly well. The girls complained that their mother never took the time to teach them. Their mother, about whom they were full of gripes, was more interested in horses than in sewing.

  The girls were not at all surprised when Clara asked Lorena to stay.

  "Oh, do," Sally said. "We could learn to sew if you would."

  "We could sew new dresses, we never get any," Betsey said.

  Lorena looked at Gus. He seemed flustered, and he seldom was flustered. She thought he might be bothered by the thought of her staying.

  "Would you come back, Gus?" she asked. It seemed all right to ask him in front of Clara and the girls. Clara, after issuing the invitation, had started making coffee.

  Augustus saw that she wanted to stay. If asked that morning if such a thing could occur, he would have said it was impossible. Lorena had clung to him since the rescue. But being at Clara's, even for so short a space, had changed her. She had refused to go to Ogallala, and was frightened of the thought of going into a store, but she wasn't frightened of Clara.

  "I sure will come back," he said, smiling. "A ladies' man like me could hardly be expected to resist such a passel of ladies."

&nbsp
; "Good, that's settled, but I warn you, Lorie, these girls will wear you down," Clara said. "You may wish you were back in a cow camp before it's all over. I'm going to turn them over to you, you know. All they want to do is quarrel with me, and I'm tired of it. You can argue with them, and I'll break horses."

  After the coffee, Clara made the girls go to bed, and tactfully went up herself, so that Augustus and Lorena could have a moment alone. She saw that Augustus was a little shocked that she had so easily persuaded the girl away from his side.

  Lorena felt embarrassed — she had not expected to be asked to stay, or to want to, and yet both things had happened. She was afraid at first that Gus might have his feelings hurt. She looked at him a little fearfully, hard put to explain the strange desire she had to stay at Clara's. Only that morning she had been resolved to stay with Gus at all costs.

  "I'll go if you want, Gus," she said. "But it's so nice here, and they're friendly."

  "I'm happy for you to stay," Augustus said. "You'll be a help to Clara, and you'll enjoy those girls. You've spent time enough in that dirty tent of Wilbarger's. Winter's said to be hard in Montana, too."

  "I didn't think I'd want to stay," Lorena admitted. "I never thought about it till she asked. Don't you still want to marry her, Gus?"

  "No," Augustus lied.

  "I don't see why you wouldn't," she said. Now that she knew Clara a little, it seemed perfectly natural that Gus would want to marry her.

  "Well, time's changed us," he said, feeling very uneasy in the conversation. Lorena was looking at him solemnly. He had had women look at him solemnly before and it always made him uncomfortable — it meant they were primed to detect any lies.

  "I don't think nobody could change you, Gus," she said. "Maybe you'll want to marry her when you come back."

  "Why, I'll be coming back to you, Lorie," Augustus said. "Of course, by then you might change, too. You might not want me."

  "Why wouldn't I?"

  "Because you'll have discovered there's more to the world than me," he said. "You'll find that there are others that treat you decent."

  What he said caused Lorena to feel confused. Since the rescue, life had been simple: it had been just Gus. With him gone it might change, and when he came back it might have changed so much that it would never be simple again.

  Yet when it had been simple, she had always worried that Gus didn't want it. Maybe he was just being kind. She didn't know — didn't know what things meant, or didn't mean. She had never expected to find, in the whole world, a place where someone would ask her to stay — even in her dreams of San Francisco no one had ever asked her to stay. She had seldom even spoken to a woman in her years in Lonesome Dove, and had no expectation that one would speak to her. The fact that Clara had volunteered made everything seem different.

  "Can't you wait till morning to leave?" she asked.

  "No, I'm going as soon as I can saddle up," Augustus said. "It takes willpower to leave a houseful of ladies just to ride along with some scraggly cowhands. I better do it now, if I'm going to."

  Clara came downstairs to see him off; she held the baby, who was colicky and wakeful. They went outside with Augustus, Lorena feeling trembly, not sure of what she was doing. Cholo was going with him to Ogallala to bring back all the clothes he had bought her.

  Clara devoted five minutes to trying to persuade him to settle somewhere on the Platte. "There's cheap land not three days' ride from here," she pointed out. "You could have the whole north part of this state if you wanted it. Why go to Montana?"

  "Well, that's where we started for," he said. "Me and Call have always liked to get where we started for, even if it don't make a damn bit of sense."

  "It don't, and I wish I knew of some way to divorce you from that man," Clara said. "He ain't worth it, Gus. Besides, the Montana Indians can outfight you."

  "You bought these here Indians off with horses," he said. "Maybe we can buy those in Montana off with beef."

  "It bothers me," Clara said. "You ain't a cattleman. Why do you want to be so stubborn? You've come far enough. You could settle around here and be some use to me and Lorie."

  It amused Augustus that his Lorie had been adopted as an ally by his old love. The old love and the new stood by his horse's head, neither of them looking quite calm. Clara, in fact, was getting angry; Lorena looked sad. He hugged them both and gave them each a kiss.

  "We've heard Montana's the last place that ain't settled," Augustus said. "I'd like to see one more place that ain't settled before I get decrepit and have to take up the rocking chair."

  "You call Nebraska settled?" Clara asked.

  "Well, you're here," he said. "It won't last long. Pretty soon it'll be nothing but schoolhouses."

  With that he mounted, tipped his hat to them and turned toward the Platte.

  The two women stood where they were until the sound of hoofbeats faded. Lorena felt wrong. Part of her felt she should have gone with him, to look after him. But she knew that was foolish: Gus, if anyone, could look after himself.

  She was dry-eyed and felt blank, but Clara cried, tears born of vexation, long affection and regret.

  "He was always stubborn like that," she said, attempting to control herself.

  "He left so quick," Lorena said. "Do you think I should have gone? I don't know what's best."

  "No. I'm glad you stayed," Clara said. "You've had enough rough living — not that it can't be rough around here. But it won't be as rough as Montana."

  She put her arm around the girl as they turned toward the house.

  "Come on in," she said. "I'll show you where to sleep. We've got a nice little room that might suit you."

  89

  WHEN AUGUSTUS RETURNED without Lorena, Dish Boggett felt deeply unhappy. It shocked him that Gus would leave her. Though he had been constantly jealous while she was traveling with Gus, at least she was there. In the evening he would often see her sitting outside the tent. He dreamed about her often — once had even dreamed that she was sleeping near him. In the dream she was so beautiful that he ached when he woke up. That Gus had seen fit to leave her on the Platte made him terribly irritable.

  Newt was happy with his new horse, which he named Candy. It was the first real gift he had ever been given in his life, and he talked to anyone who would listen of the wonderful woman on the Platte who knew how to break horses and conduct picnics too. His enthusiasm soon caused the other hands to be jealous, for they had accomplished nothing except a drunk in Ogallala, and had missed the nice picnic and the girls.

  Though confident that he had done the right thing in leaving Lorena, Augustus soon found that he missed her more than he had expected to. He missed Clara, too, and for a few days was in a surly mood. He had grown accustomed to sleeping late and sitting outside the tent with Lorena in the mornings. Alone on the long plain, with no cowboys to disturb her, she was a beautiful companion, whereas the cowboys who gathered around Po Campo's cookfire every morning were far from beautiful, in his view.

  It was high summer, the days blazing hot almost until the sun touched the horizon. The cattle were mulish and hard to move, stopping whenever possible to graze, Or simply to stand. For several days they trailed west along the Platte, but when the river curved south, toward Colorado, Call pointed the herd northwest.

  Po Campo hated to leave the river. The morning they left it he lingered behind so long with the wagon that the herd was completely out of sight. Lippy, who rode on the wagon, found this fact alarming. After all, they were in Indian country, and there was nothing to keep a few Indians from nipping in and taking their scalps.

  "What are we waiting on?" Lippy asked. "We're three miles behind already."

  Po Campo stood by the water's edge, looking across the Platte to the south. He was thinking of his dead sons, killed by Blue Duck on the Canadian. He didn't think often of his sons, but when he did, a feeling of sadness filled him, a feeling so heavy that it was an effort for him to move. Thinking of them in their graves in New
Mexico made him feel disloyal, made him feel that he should have shot himself and been buried with them, for was it not the duty of a parent to stay with the children? But he had left, first to go south and kill his faithless wife, and now to the north, while Blue Duck, the killer, still rode free on the llano — unless someone had killed him, which Po Campo doubted. Lippy's fears about Indians did not move him — the sight of flowing water moved him, stirring feelings in him which, though sad, were deep feelings. They made him want to sing his saddest songs.

  He finally turned and plodded after the herd, Lippy following at a slow walk in the wagon. But Po Campo felt they were wrong to leave the river. He became moody and ceased to have pride in his cooking, and if the cowboys complained he said nothing. Also, he grew stingy with water, which irritated the cowboys, who came in parched and dusty, dying for a drink. Po Campo would only give them a dipperful each.

  "You will wish you had this water when you drink your own piss," he said to Jasper one evening.

  "I ain't planning on drinking my own piss or anybody else's, either," Jasper said.

  "You have not been very thirsty then," Po said. "I once drank the urine of a mule. It kept me alive."

  "Well, it couldn't taste much worse than that Ogallala beer," Needle observed. "My tongue's been peeling ever since we was there."

  "It ain't what you drink that causes your tongue to peel," Augustus said. "That's the result of who you bedded down with."

  The remark caused much apprehension among the men, and they were apprehensive anyway, mainly because everyone they met in Ogallala assured them they were dead men if they tried to go to Montana. As they edged into Wyoming the country grew bleaker — the grass was no longer as luxuriant as it had been in Kansas and Nebraska. To the north were sandy slopes where the grass only grew in tufts. Deets ranged far ahead during the day, looking for water. He always found it, but the streams grew smaller and the water more alkaline. "Near as bad as the Pecos," Augustus said.

  Call seemed only mildly concerned about the increasing dryness. Indeed, Call was cheerful, easier on the men than was his wont. He seemed relaxed and almost at ease with himself.