The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  But Maggie swallowed her questions and her doubts, as she had many times before. After all, Woodrow was there; he had come to her on his return and now again, on the eve of his departure.

  He was there, not somewhere else; she did her best to push aside her worries and make the best of their time. The depth of her love for Woodrow Call gave him a power over her that was too great—and he didn’t even know he had it.

  “All right, I’ll make you a meal—there’s still two beefsteaks, if you want Gus to come,” she said. It made Maggie happy if Woodrow brought Augustus home to eat with them: it was as if he were bringing his best friend home to eat his wife’s cooking. She wasn’t really his wife yet, but they were jolly on those occasions. Sometimes she and Gus could even tempt Woodrow into playing cards, or joining them in a singsong. He was a poor cardplayer and not much of a singer, but such times were still jolly.

  “Gus went off to Madame Scull’s and stayed three hours—that’s why I’m late,” Call said. “He just went to drink tea with her—I don’t know why it took three hours. Now he’s too tired to eat. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gus too tired to eat before.”

  Maggie smiled—everyone knew that Madame Scull took young men as lovers, the younger the better. She had taken Jake Spoon for a while; everyone knew that too. Lately Jake had come mooning around, wanting to make up to Maggie for his bad behavior. He had offered to carry her groceries twice, and had generally tried to make himself useful; but Maggie remained cool. She knew his kind all too well. Jake would be nice until he had what he wanted, and then, if she denied him a favor, he would pull her hair or slap her again. There was no changing men—not much, anyway; mainly men stayed the way they were, no matter what women did. Woodrow Call was not all she wanted him to be, but he had never raised a hand to her and would not think of pulling her hair. Jake could offer to carry her groceries if he wanted, but she would not forget what he did.

  Call noticed her smile, when he mentioned Gus’s fatigue.

  “What’s that grin for? What do you know?” he asked.

  “It’s just a smile, Woodrow—I’m happy because you’re here,” Maggie said.

  “No, it was something else—something about Gus,” he said. “If you’ve a notion of why he stayed at Madame Scull’s so long I’d like to know it.”

  Maggie knew she was treading on dangerous ground. Woodrow had strict notions of what was right and what was wrong. But she was a little riled, too: riled because he was going away so soon, riled because he wouldn’t talk about the baby, riled because she had to keep swallowing down the way she felt and the things she needed to say. If he wouldn’t think about her baby, at least she could get his goat a little about their friend.

  “I know why he’s tired, that’s all,” she said, pounding the beefsteak.

  “Why, then, tell me,” Call asked.

  “Because Madame Scull took his pants down—if you’d gone she would have tried to take yours down too,” Maggie said.

  Call flinched as if he had been slapped, or jabbed with a pin.

  “Now, that’s wrong!” he said loudly, but without much confidence in his own conclusion. “How could you know that?”

  “Because that’s what she does with any man who goes home with her, when the Captain’s away,” Maggie said. “It’s the talk of all the barrooms and not just the barrooms—she don’t care who knows.”

  “Well, she ought to care,” Call said. “I expect the Captain would take the hide off her if he knew she was stirring up talk like that.”

  “Woodrow, it’s not just talk,” Maggie said. “I seen her kissing a boy myself, over behind some horses. One of the horses moved and I saw it.”

  “What boy?” Call said. “Maybe they were cousins.”

  “No, it was Jurgen, that German boy the Captain hung for stealing horses,” Maggie insisted. “He couldn’t even speak English.”

  “They could still have been cousins,” Call said—but then he gave up arguing. No wonder Gus had come down the hill looking as he sometimes looked when he had spent a day in a whorehouse.

  “If it’s true I just hope the Captain don’t find out,” Call said.

  “Don’t you think he knows?” Maggie asked. Sometimes Woodrow seemed so young to her, not young outside but young inside, that it made her fearful for him; it made her even more determined to marry him and take care of him. If she didn’t, some woman like Madame Scull would figure out how young he was and do him bad harm.

  “How could he know if she only does it when he’s gone?” Call asked.

  “You don’t have to be with somebody every minute to know things about them,” Maggie told him. “I’m not with you every minute, but I know you’re a good man. If you was a bad man I wouldn’t have to be with you every minute to know that, either.”

  Her voice quavered a little, when she said she knew he was a good man. It made Call feel a touch of guilt. He was always leaving Maggie just when she had her hopes up that he’d stay. Of course he left because it was his duty, but he recognized that that didn’t really make things any easier for Maggie.

  “Now you’re risking your life because she wants somebody to go look for her husband, and she ain’t even true to him,” Maggie said bitterly.

  When she thought of Madame Scull’s dreadful behavior—kissing and fondling young men right in the street—she got incensed. No decent whore would behave as badly as Madame Scull, and yet she enjoyed high position and went to all the fanciest balls. More than that, she could send men into danger at her whim, as she was doing with Woodrow and the boys.

  “I guess if it’s true and Clara finds out about it, it’ll be the end of her and Gus,” Call said. “I expect she’ll take an axe handle to him and run him out of town.”

  Maggie was silent. She knew something else that Woodrow didn’t know—she had happened to be in the Forsythe store one day when Clara was trying on some of her wedding clothes, just the gloves and the shoes. But Clara had made no attempt to conceal the fact that she was marrying the tall man from Nebraska. The wedding was going to be in the church at the end of the street. Now that Augustus was back, surely Clara had told him; but evidently he hadn’t got around to informing Woodrow. Perhaps Gus wasn’t able. Perhaps talking about it made him too sad.

  Maggie knew it wasn’t her business to tell Woodrow this, and yet concealing things from him made her deeply uncomfortable. She knew he trusted her to tell him everything that might be important to the rangers, and the fact that Gus had lost Clara seemed pretty important to her.

  “Woodrow, Gus ain’t none of Clara’s business anymore,” she said nervously.

  “Why isn’t he?” Call asked, surprised. “He’s been her business as long as I’ve knowed him, and that’s years.”

  “She’s marrying that horse trader,” Maggie said. “The wedding’s on Sunday.”

  Woodrow Call was stunned. The news about Madame Scull’s faithless behavior was shocking and repulsive, but the news about Clara Forsythe hit him so hard that he almost lost his appetite for the juicy beefsteak Maggie had cooked him. He knew now why Augustus wanted to leave town so quickly: he wanted to be out of town when the wedding took place.

  “I never expected her to marry anybody but Gus,” he said. “This is a bad surprise. I doubt Gus expected her to marry anybody but him, either. I think he hoped his promotion would win her over.”

  To Maggie, his stunned comment was just more evidence that Woodrow was young inside. He wouldn’t realize that Clara Forsythe wouldn’t care a fig for Gus’s promotion; nor did he realize that it didn’t take a woman ten years to say yes to a man she meant to marry. She herself would have said yes to Woodrow in a matter of days, had he asked her. The fact that Clara had kept Gus waiting so long just meant that she didn’t trust him. To Maggie it seemed that simple, and she knew that Clara was right. Gus McCrae could be plenty of fun, but trusting him would be the wrong thing to do.

  Instead of saying those things to Woodrow she fed him some apple tarts she had
saved up to buy from the bakery. They were such delicious apple tarts that he ate four of them, and, after a time, went to sleep. Maggie held him in her arms a long time. She knew there was much she could say to him, and perhaps should say to him, about the ways of women; but she only had one night and decided she had just rather hold him in her arms.

  37.

  THE TROOP did not make an auspicious appearance when they gathered in the lots at dawn and began to saddle their horses and tie on their gear. Call had decided to take the two boys, Pea Eye and Jake Spoon, plus Deets to do the cooking, Long Bill in case there was a desperate fight, and of course himself and Augustus—the latter had not appeared.

  Long Bill was there, at least, dark circles under his eyes and a haggard look on his face.

  “Didn’t you sleep, Bill?” Call asked.

  “No, Pearl cried all night—she ain’t up to being consoled,” Long Bill said.

  “Women will just cry when the menfolk leave,” Call said. His own shirt was wet from Maggie’s tears.

  “Did you hear about Clara? It’s got me upset,” Long Bill said. “I was looking forward to eating her cooking, once Gus married her, but I guess that prospect’s gone.”

  “Have you seen him?” Call asked.

  “No, but I heard he fought two Germans in a whorehouse last night,” Long Bill said. “I don’t know what the fight was about.”

  The two youngsters, Pea Eye and Jake, were nervous, Call saw. They kept walking around and around their horses, checking and rechecking their gear.

  “Gus is late,” Call observed. “Maybe he didn’t win the fight.”

  “I imagine he won it,” Long Bill said. “I suppose Gus could handle two Germans, even if he was heartbroken.”

  Call kept expecting to see Augustus ride up at any minute, but he didn’t. They were all saddled up and ready. It was vexing to wait.

  “His horse ain’t here, Captain,” Long Bill said. “Maybe he left without us.”

  “I can’t get used to you calling me ‘Captain,’ Bill,” Call said. It was an honest dilemma. He and Long Bill had been equal as rangers for years, and, in not a few instances, Long Bill, who was five years older than Call, had shown himself to be more than equal in judgment and skill. He was better with skittish horses than Call was, to name only one skill at which he excelled. Yet, through the whim of Captain Scull, he and Gus had been elevated, while Long Bill was still a common ranger. It was a troubling consideration that wouldn’t leave his mind.

  Long Bill, though he appreciated the comment, had no trouble with the shift in status. He was a humble man and considered himself happy in the love of his wife and the friendship of his comrades in arms.

  “No, that’s the way it ought to be,” he said. “You’re in this for the long haul, Woodrow, and with me it’s just temporary.”

  “Temporary? You’ve been at it as long as I have, Bill,” Call said.

  “Yes, but Pearl and me are having a baby,” Long Bill confided. “I expect that’s one reason she was so upset. She made me promise this would be my last trip with you and the boys—that’s a promise I have to keep. Rangering is mostly for bachelors. Married fellows oughtn’t to be taking these risks.”

  “Bill, I didn’t know,” Call said, startled by the similarity of their circumstances. Long Bill had fathered a child and now Maggie was claiming he had done the same.

  “You’re welcome to stay if you feel you need to,” he told Long Bill. “You’ve done your share of rangering. You did it long ago.”

  “Why, no, Captain. I’m here and I’ll go,” Long Bill said. “I mean to have one last jaunt before I settle down.”

  Just then they saw Augustus McCrae come around the corner by the saloon. Gus was walking slowly, leading his horse. Call saw that he was heading across the street toward the Forsythe store, which was not yet open, it being barely dawn. Call wondered if the matter of Clara’s marriage was really as settled a thing as everyone seemed to think.

  “There he is, headed for Clara’s,” Long Bill said. “Shall we wait for him?”

  Call saw Gus turn his face toward where they sat, already mounted. Gus didn’t wave, but he did see them. Though anxious to get started, Call hated to ride out without his friend.

  “I guess he’ll catch up with us—he knows which way we’re headed,” Jake Spoon said. He was anxious to get started before he grew any more apprehensive.

  “If he lives he might,” Long Bill said, looking at the man walking slowly across the street, leading his horse.

  “Well, why wouldn’t he live?” Jake asked.

  Long Bill did not reply. What he knew was that Gus McCrae was mighty fond of Clara Forsythe, and now she was gone for good. He was not stepping high or jaunty, and Gus was usually a high-stepper, in the mornings. Of course Bill didn’t feel like explaining it to a green boy such as Jake.

  Call too saw the dejection in Gus’s walk.

  “I expect he’s just going to say goodbye,” Call said. “We better wait. He might appreciate the company.”

  38.

  AUGUSTUS FELT QUEASY in his stomach and achy in his head from a long night of drinking, but he wanted one last word with Clara, even though he didn’t expect it to improve his spirits much. But, since the day he had met her, every time he rode out of Austin on patrol he had stopped by to say goodbye to Clara. She wasn’t quite a married woman yet—one more goodbye wouldn’t be improper.

  Clara was expecting him. When she saw him come round to the back of the store she went out barefoot to meet him. A wind whistled through the street, ruffling the feathers of some chickens that were pecking away on the little slope behind the store.

  “It’s cold, you’ll get goose bumps,” Gus said, when he saw that she was barefoot.

  Clara shrugged. She saw that one of his eyes was puffy.

  “Who’d you fight?” she asked.

  “Didn’t get their names,” Gus said. “But they were rude. I won’t tolerate rude behavior.”

  To his surprise he saw tears shining on Clara’s cheeks.

  “Why, now, what’s the matter?” he asked, concerned. “I ain’t hurt. It wasn’t much of a fight.”

  “I’m not crying about the fight,” Clara said.

  “Then why are you crying?” he asked. He hitched his horse and sat down by her for a moment on the step. He cautiously put his arm around her, not knowing if that was still proper—Clara not only accepted it, she moved closer and clasped his hand, tight.

  “It’s hard to say goodbye to old boyfriends—especially you,” she said. “That’s why.”

  “If it’s so dern hard, then why are you?” Gus asked her. “Where’s the sense?”

  Clara shrugged again, as she had when he told her she had goose bumps.

  Then she put her head in her arms and cried harder, for a minute or two. Gus didn’t know what to think, or what to say.

  When Clara finished crying she wiped her eyes on her skirt and turned to him once more.

  “Give me a kiss, now, Gus,” she said.

  “Well, that’s always been easy to manage,” he said. When they kissed he felt a salty wetness, from the tears on her cheeks.

  As soon as the kiss was over, Clara stood up.

  “Go along now,” she said. “I hope to see you in Nebraska in about ten years.”

  “You will see me,” Gus said. He looked up at her again. He had never seen her look lovelier. He had never loved her more. Unable to manage his feelings, he jumped on his horse, waved once, and trotted away. He looked back but didn’t wave.

  Clara stood up and dried her cheeks—despite herself, tears kept spilling out. Her father and mother would be up soon, she knew, but she didn’t feel like facing them, just yet. She walked slowly around the store to the street in front of it. The six departing rangers were just passing. Call and Gus, both silent, were in the lead. Clara stood back in the shadows—she didn’t want them to see her, and they didn’t.

  Along the street, also hidden in the shadow of buildings, two
other women watched the rangers leave: Maggie Tilton and Pearl Coleman. Maggie, like Clara, had tears on her cheeks; but Pearl Coleman was entirely convulsed with grief. Before the rangers were even well out of town she began to wail aloud.

  Maggie and Clara both heard Pearl’s loud wailing and knew what caused it. Maggie knew Pearl from the old days, when she had been married to a bartender named Dan Leary, the victim of a random gunshot that killed him stone dead one night when he stepped outside to empty an overflowing spittoon. Some cowboys had been shooting off guns outside a bordello—one of the bullets evidently fell from the sky and killed Dan Leary instantly.

  Clara too knew Pearl—she was a frequent customer at the store. She started up the street, meaning to try and comfort her, and was almost there when Maggie came out of the alley, bent on the same errand.

  “Why, hello,” Clara said. “I guess Pearl’s mighty sad, because Bill’s run off again, so soon.”

  “I expect so,” Maggie said. She started to stop and leave the comforting to Clara, but Clara motioned for her to come along.

  ”Don’t you be hanging back,” Clara said. “This job is big enough for both of us.”

  Maggie, ever aware of her position, glanced down the street but saw only one man, an old farmer who was urinating beside a small wagon.

  When they reached Pearl she was so upset she couldn’t talk. She was a large woman wearing an old blue nightdress; her back shook, as she cried, and her ample bosom heaved.

  “He’s gone and he won’t be back,” Pearl said. “He’s gone and this baby inside me will never have a father—I know it!”

  “Now you shush, Pearl, that ain’t true,” Maggie said. “This trip they’re taking is just a short trip. They’ll all be back.”

  She said it, but in her own mind were fears for her own child, whose father also might never return.

  Clara put her arm around Pearl Coleman, but didn’t speak. People were always leaving, men mostly. The cold wind burned her wet cheeks. Soon she herself would be leaving with Bob Allen, her chosen husband, to start the great adventure of marriage. She was excited by the thought. She expected to be happy. Soon she would be living away from her parents, and Gus McCrae would not be riding in, dusty, every few weeks, to kiss her. A part of her life was gone. And there stood Maggie, crying for Call, and Pearl Coleman, wailing, bereft at the departure of her Bill.