Then Xavier began to pull money out of his pocket. It was hard to say how much he held out to her, but it was a good deal more than fifty dollars. It might even be a hundred dollars. The sight of it made her feel tired. No matter what plans she made or how she tried to live, some man would always be looking at her and holding out money. Without giving it much thought, Mosby had started something that nothing seemed to stop. She thought Jake had stopped it, but he hadn’t. His talk about killing men was just talk. If he had cared that much he would have shot Gus, friend or no friend. It was hard to believe he would even shoot Xavier—probably he would just give her another slap and forget about it.
“Please,” Xavier said. “Please. I need you.”
At least it might calm him down, she thought, opening the door. Also, he was usually quick as a rabbit when he came to her.
“I ain’t messin’ this bed,” she said. “It’s the last sheet.”
Xavier didn’t care. He put the money on her little chest of drawers and turned to her. Lorie shut the door and leaned against it, lifting her shift. With a grateful look Xavier dropped his pants. Soon his legs were trembling so she was afraid he would collapse before he was done. But he didn’t. When he finished he put his head against her bosom for a moment, wetting her breasts with his tears even as she felt his drip on her thigh.
Then he stepped back and pulled up his pants.
“Goodbye,” he said.
“Well, I ain’t left yet,” she said. “We’re not going till afternoon.”
Xavier looked at her once more, and left. His look startled her. It was like the look in her pa’s eyes when he died in Baton Rouge. She watched him go down the stairs. He went slowly, as if feeling for each stair. He had scarcely been in her room two minutes, but her shift was wet with his tears. Men were all strange, but Xavier was stranger than many.
When he finally made it to the bottom, she turned and hid the money. It was just one more secret she had from Jake.
22.
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, as the boys were sitting around Bolivar’s cook fire getting their evening grub, Augustus looked up from his plate and saw Jake and Lorena ride into camp. They were riding two good horses and leading a pack horse. The most surprising thing was that Lorena was wearing pants. So far as he could remember, he had never seen a woman in pants, and he considered himself a man of experience. Call had his back turned and hadn’t seen them, but some of the cowboys had. The sight of a woman in pants scared them so bad they didn’t know where to put their eyes. Most of them began to concentrate heavily on the beans in their plates. Dish Boggett turned white as a sheet, got up without a word to anybody, got his night horse and started for the herd, which was strung out up the valley.
It was Dish’s departure that got Call’s attention. He looked around and saw the couple coming.
“We got you to thank for this,” he said to Gus.
“I admit I was inspired,” Augustus said. He knew his friend was in a silent fury, but he himself thought the visit might provide a little amusement. It had been in short supply lately. The only thing there had been to laugh at was Allen O’Brien getting pitched into a pile of prickly pears by a bronc. When he emerged he even had thorns in his beard.
But that was a normal hazard, the horses being unreliable and the prickly pear abundant.
A woman in pants was far more unusual. Jake rode right up to the cook fire, though Augustus could tell from his manner that he was nervous.
“Howdy, boys,” he said. “Mind if we make a meal?”
“Course not, you’re as welcome around here as money, Jake,” Augustus said. “You and Lorie too.”
Call watched the proceedings silently, unable to decide who he was more aggravated at, Gus or Jake. Surely the latter knew better than to bring a woman into a cow camp. It was difficult enough to keep men peaceful even if they didn’t have a woman to argue about.
“Woodrow, you know Lorie, I reckon,” Jake said, although he knew it wasn’t true. Call’s silence had always made him nervous.
“We’ve not met,” Call said, touching his hat but not looking at the woman. He didn’t want to get angry at Jake in front of all the hands, and all but Dish and the two Rainey boys were lounging around eating their evening meal. Or, at least, they had been lounging. Now they were sitting as stiffly as if they were in church. Some looked paralyzed. For a moment the only sound in the camp was the jingle of a bit as the woman’s horse slung its head.
Augustus walked over to help Lorena dismount. The sight of the boys all sitting like statues made him want to laugh. The sudden appearance of a Comanche would not have affected them as much.
He recognized the brown mare Lorie rode as having belonged to Mary Pumphrey, the young widow.
“I would not have thought Mary would give up her mare,” he said.
“Jake bought her,” Lorena said, grateful that Gus had come over to offer her help. Jake had not so much as looked at her since they rode into camp. She had never seen Captain Call up close before, but she could tell Jake was mighty uneasy about him.
It depressed her a little that she was left to depend on Gus’s courtesy from the very outset. He took her over to the cook fire and saw that she got a good helping of food, talking casually all the while, mainly about the qualities of the Pumphrey mare. Jake followed and got some grub but he was silent when he did it.
Still, it had felt good to ride out of Lonesome Dove. She had not seen Xavier again. The Dry Bean had been empty as they made their preparations. The pants had been Jake’s idea. He had known a woman mule skinner in Montana who had worn pants.
While Jake had been fixing the pack horse, Lippy had come out on the steps of the saloon and waved his lip at her one more time.
“I never tolt on you, Lorie,” he said. He looked like he might cry too. You’ll just have to cry, she thought. He took his bowler off and turned it around and around in his hand until it made her nervous.
“You’ll have to pardon the grub,” Augustus said. “Bol has learned to season but he forgot to learn to cook.”
Bolivar was resting comfortably against a wagon wheel and ignored the sally. He was wavering in his mind whether to stay or go. He did not like travel—the thought of it made him unhappy. And yet, when he went home to Mexico he felt unhappy too, for his wife was disappointed in him and let him know it every day. He had never been sure what she wanted—after all, their children were beautiful—but whatever it was, he had not been able to give it to her. His daughters were his delight, but they would soon all marry and be gone, leaving him no protection from his wife. Probably he would shoot his wife if he went home. He had shot an irritating horse, right out from under himself. A man’s patience sometimes simply snapped. He had shot the horse right between the ears and then found it difficult to get the saddle off, once the horse fell. Probably he would shoot his wife in the same way, if he went home. Many times he had been tempted to shoot one or another of the members of the Hat Creek outfit, but of course if he did that he would be immediately shot in return. Every day he thought he might go home, but he didn’t. It was easier to stay and cut up a few snakes into the cook pot than to listen to his wife complain.
So he stayed, day by day, paying no attention to what anyone said. That in itself was a luxury he wouldn’t have at home, for a disappointed woman was not easy to ignore.
Jake ate without tasting his food, wishing he had never come back to Lonesome Dove. It was going to be no pleasure riding north, if Call was so disapproving. He had meant to take Call aside and quietly explain it, but somehow he could not think of the best words to use. Call’s silences had a way of making him lose track of his thoughts—some of which were perfectly good thoughts, in their way.
As they ate, the dusk deepened. Sean O’Brien, on the far side of the herd, began to sing his night song, an Irish melody whose words did not carry across the long plain where the cattle stood. But in the still night the sound carried; somehow it made Newt want to cry. He was sitting stiffly on
ly a few feet from Lorena. He had been looking at her closely for the first time—hardly daring to, and yet feeling that he was safe because of the dusk. She was more beautiful than he had imagined, but she did not look happy—it gave him a painful feeling to see her unhappiness, and the song made it worse. His eyes filled up. It was no wonder Sean cried so much, Newt thought—his songs made you want to cry even when you couldn’t hear the words.
“This is a lucky herd,” Augustus said.
“And how is that?” Jake asked, a little testy. In some moods he could tolerate Gus’s talk, but at other times the very sound of Gus’s voice made him want to take out a gun and shoot the man. It was a loud voice—the sound of it made it hard to think, when it wasn’t easy to think anyway. But the most aggravating aspect to it was that Gus always sounded cheerful, as if there was no trouble in the world that could catch him. At times when life seemed all trouble, the sight of Gus, untouched by all that went on around him, was difficult to bear.
“Why, it’s the only herd on the trail that’s got two Irish baritones to sing to it,” Augustus said.
“He sings too sad,” Needle Nelson said, for the sound of Sean’s voice affected him as it had Newt. It brought to mind his mother, who had died when he was eight, and also a little sister he had been fond of, who had succumbed to a fever when only four.
“It’s the Irish nature,” Augustus said.
“No, it’s just Sean,” Allen O’Brien said. “He’s just a crybaby.”
Call came walking over. He felt he had to know what Jake meant to do.
“Well, Jake, have you made your plans?” he asked, being as formal as possible.
“Oh, we’ve decided to try our luck in Denver for the time being,” Jake said. “I believe we’d both enjoy the cool weather.”
“It’s a hard trip,” Call observed.
“Why tell that to Jake?” Augustus asked. “He’s a traveled man and ain’t put off by hardship. Feather beds ain’t his style.”
He had meant it as blatant irony, since of course feather beds were exactly Jake’s style, but the discussion was so solemn that his flourish went unnoticed.
“We had hoped to sort of ease along with the bunch of you,” Jake said, his eyes down. “We’ll make our own camp, so as not to be in the way. Might could help out a little if things get tight. The water might be a little chancy, once we hit the plains.”
“If I’d liked water better I guess I’d have stayed a riverboater, and you boys would have missed out on some choice conversation over the years,” Augustus said.
“Hell, it’s taken ten years off my life, listening to you talk,” Jake said.
“Jake, you are surly tonight,” Augustus said mildly. “I guess leaving the easy pickings around here has put you out of sorts.”
Pea Eye was carefully whetting his bowie knife on the sole of one boot. Though they were still perfectly safe, as far as he knew, Pea had already begun to have bad dreams about the big Indian whose ferocity had haunted his sleep for years. The dreams had been so bad that he had already started sleeping with the unsheathed bowie knife in his hand, so he would be in the habit of it by the time they hit Indian country. This precaution caused certain problems for the young hands whose duty it was to wake him for his shift at night herding. It put them in danger of getting stabbed, a fact which troubled Jasper Fant particularly. Jasper was sensitive to danger. Usually he chose to wake Pea by kicking him in one foot, although even that wasn’t really safe—Pea was tall and who knew when he might snap up and make a lunge. Jasper had concluded that the best way would be to pelt him with small rocks, although such caution would only earn him the scorn of the rest of the hands.
“I wouldn’t have wanted to miss hearing you talk, Gus,” Pea said, though he could not offhand remember a single thing Gus had said over the years. But he could remember, night after night, drowsing off to the sound of Gus’s voice.
“I’m ready to start, if we got to start,” Augustus said. “We got enough cattle now to stock five ranches.”
Call knew that was true, but he found it difficult to resist running over to Mexico every few nights to add more cattle. They were easy to get, without Pedro Flores to contend with.
“It does seem a pity you’re so independent, Jake,” Augustus said. “If you come in with us you could be a cattle baron yet.”
“Nope, I’d rather be pore than chew the dust,” Jake said, standing up. Lorie stood up too. She felt her silence coming back. It was men watching her while trying to pretend they weren’t watching her that brought it on. Few of them were bold enough just to look straight at her. They had to be sneaky about it. Being among them in the camp was worse than the saloon, where at least she had her room. In the camp there was nothing she could do but sit and listen to the talk pass her by.
“I guess we’ll try to find a ridge to camp on,” Jake said. “It would be nice to be upwind from these smelly beasts.”
“Good God, Jake, if you’re that finicky you ought to have been a barber,” Augustus said. “Then you could smell hair oil and toilet water all day and never be offended.” He walked over and helped Lorena mount. The brown mare was restless and kept slinging her head.
“I may take to barbering yet,” Jake said, annoyed that Gus had seen fit to help Lorie again. She was going to have to learn to mount sometime, with over a thousand miles of riding ahead.
“I hope you’ll come back for breakfast,” Augustus said. “We eat about an hour before sunrise. Woodrow Call likes to put in a full day, as you may remember.”
“For that matter we intend to have our breakfast sent out by the hotel,” Jake said sarcastically, spurring his horse.
Call watched them go, annoyed. Augustus noticed, and chuckled.
“Even you can’t stop inconvenient things from happening, Call,” he said. “Jake can only be controlled up to a point, and Lorie’s a woman. She can’t be controlled at all.”
Call didn’t want to argue about it. He picked up his Henry and walked out of the circle of firelight, meaning to have a few minutes to himself. Passing behind the wagon, he bumped into Newt, who had evidently been holding his water while the woman was in camp and had just slipped off to relieve himself.
“Sorry, Captain,” he said.
“You ought to go get Dish,” Call said. “I don’t know why he rode off. It ain’t his shift. I guess we’ll start tomorrow. We can’t take all the cattle in Mexico.”
He stood silently a moment. The mood to walk had left him.
Newt was surprised. The Captain never shared his decisions with him, and yet it seemed that the decision to leave had just been made, right there behind the wagon.
“Captain,” he asked, “how far is it, up north?” It was something he couldn’t stop wondering about, and since the Captain hadn’t walked away, the question just popped out.
Then he immediately felt silly for asking it. “I guess it’s a mighty far piece, up north,” he said, as if to relieve the Captain of the need to answer.
It struck Call that they should have educated the boy a little better. He seemed to think north was a place, not just a direction. It was another of Gus’s failings—he considered himself a great educator, and yet he rarely told anyone anything they needed to know.
“It’s a ways farther than you’ve been,” Call said, not sure the boy had ever been anywhere. Probably they had at least taken him to Pickles Gap at some point.
“Oh, I been north,” Newt said, not wanting the Captain to think him completely untraveled. “I been north clear to San Antone—remember?”
Call remembered then—Deets had taken him once.
“Where we’re going is a sight farther,” he said.
23.
“WELL, I’M GOING TO MISS WANZ,” Augustus said, as he and Call were eating their bacon in the faint morning light. “Plus I already miss my Dutch ovens. You would want to move just as my sourdough got right at its prime.”
“I’d like to think there’s a better reason for living in
a place than you being able to cook biscuits,” Call said. “Though I admit they’re good biscuits.”
“You ought to admit it, you’ve et enough of them,” Augustus said. “I still think we ought to just hire the town and take it with us. Then we’d have a good barkeep and someone to play the pianer.”
With Call suddenly determined to leave that very day, Augustus found himself regretful, nostalgic already for things he hadn’t particularly cared for but hated to think of losing.
“What about the well?” he asked. “Another month and we’d have it dug.”
“We?” Call asked. “When did you hit a lick on that well?”
He looked around and saw to his astonishment that Augustus’s two pigs were laying under the wagon, snuffling. In the half dark he had thought it was Bolivar snoring.
“Who asked them dern pigs?” he said.
“I guess they tracked us,” Augustus said. “They’re enterprising pigs.”
“I guess you’re planning to take them too?”
“It’s still a free country,” Augustus said. “They can come if they want the inconvenience. Wonder where Jake camped.”
At that point the late shift came riding in—Newt, Pea, Dish Boggett and Jasper Fant, plus a fifth man, who hadn’t been part of the shift.
“Why, it’s Soupy Jones,” Call said.
“Godamighty,” Augustus said. “The man must of have lost his wits, what few he had.”
Soupy had rangered with them a few months, before they quit. He was brave but lazy, a fine cardplayer, and by all odds the best horseman any of them had ever known. His love of being horseback was so strong that he could seldom be induced to dismount, except to sleep or eat.
“I thought Soupy married,” Call said, as the boys unsaddled their night horses.
“That was the gossip,” Augustus said. “Married a rich woman and became a sheriff, I heard. Well, maybe she run off with a preacher. If she didn’t, I don’t know why he’s out this time of night.”
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 150
