“Roscoe, if you was my deputy, I’d arrest you,” she said. “What do you mean lettin’ somebody run off with July’s wife?”
“Nobody run off with her,” Roscoe said. “She just run off with herself, I guess.”
“What do you know about it?” old lady Harkness said. “I don’t guess she’d just have got on a boatful of men if she wasn’t partial to one of them. When are you going after her?”
“I ain’t,” Roscoe said, startled. It had never occurred to him to go after Elmira.
“Well, you will unless you’re good for nothing, I guess,” the old lady said. “This ain’t much of a town if things like that can happen and the deputy just sit there.”
“It never was much of a town,” Roscoe reminded her, but the point, which was obvious, merely seemed to anger her.
“If you ain’t up to getting the woman, then you better go get July,” she said. “He might want his wife back before she gets up there somewhere and gets scalped.”
She then marched off, much to Roscoe’s relief. He went in and took a drink or two from a bottle of whiskey he kept under his couch and usually only used as a remedy for toothache. He was careful not to drink too much, since the last thing he needed was for the people in Fort Smith to get the notion he was a drunk. But then, the next thing he knew, despite his care, the whiskey bottle was empty, and he seemed to have drunk it, although it did not feel to him like he was drunk. In the still heat he got drowsy and went to sleep on the couch, only to awake in a sweat to find Peach and Charlie Barnes staring down at him.
It was very upsetting, for it seemed to him the day had started out with Peach and Charlie staring down at him. In his confusion it occurred to him that he might have dreamed the whole business about Elmira running off. Only there were Peach and Charlie again; the dream might be starting over. He wanted to wake up before it got to the part about the whiskey barge, but it turned out he was awake, after all.
“Is she still gone?” he asked, hoping by some miracle that Elmira had showed up while he was sleeping.
“Of course she’s still gone,” Peach said. “And you’re drunk on the job. Get up from there and go get July.”
“But July went to Texas,” Roscoe said. “The only place I’ve ever been to is Little Rock, and it’s in the other direction.”
“Roscoe, if you can’t find Texas you’re a disgrace to your profession,” Peach said.
Peach had a habit of misunderstanding people, even when the point was most obvious.
“I can find Texas,” he said. “The point is, kin I find July?”
“He’s riding with a boy, and he’s going to San Antonio,” Peach said. “I guess if you ask around, someone will have seen them.”
“Yeah, but what if I miss ’em?” Roscoe asked.
“Then I guess you’ll end up in California,” she said.
Roscoe found that he had a headache, and listening to Peach made it worse.
“His wife’s gone,” Charlie Barnes said.
“Dern it, Charlie, shut up!” Peach said. “He knows that. I don’t think he’s forgot that.”
Roscoe had not forgotten it. Overnight it had become the dominant fact of his life. Elmira was gone and he was expected to do something about it. Moreover, his choices were limited. Either he went upriver and tried to find Elmira or he had to go to Texas and look for July. He himself was far from sure that either action was wise.
Trying to recover his wits, with a headache and Peach and Charlie Barnes staring at him for the second time that day, was not easy. Mainly Roscoe felt aggrieved that July had put him in such a position. July had been doing well enough without a wife, it seemed to Roscoe; but if he had to marry, he could have been a little more careful and at least married someone who would have the courtesy to stay around Fort Smith—about the least that one ought to be able to ask of a wife. Instead, he had made the worst possible choice and left Roscoe to suffer the consequences.
“I ain’t much of a traveler,” Roscoe said, for actually his one trip, to Little Rock, had been one of the nightmares of his life, since he had ridden the whole way in a cold rain and had run a fever for a month as a result.
Nonetheless, the next morning he found himself saddling up the big white gelding he had ridden for the last ten years, a horse named Memphis, the town of his origin. Several of the townspeople were there at the jail, watching him pack his bedroll and tie on his rifle scabbard, and none of them seemed worried that he was about to ride off and leave them unprotected. Although Roscoe said little, he felt very pettish toward the citizens of Fort Smith, and toward Peach Johnson and Charlie Barnes in particular. If Peach had just minded her own business, nobody would even have discovered that Elmira was missing until July returned, and then July would have been able to take care of the problem, which rightly was his problem anyway.
“Well, I hope nobody don’t rob the bank while I’m gone,” he said to the little crowd watching him. He wanted to suggest worse possibilities, such as Indian raids, but, in fact, the Indians had not molested Fort Smith in years, though the main reason he rode white horses was that he had heard somewhere that Indians were afraid of them.
The remark about the bank being robbed was aimed at Charlie Barnes, who blinked a couple of times in response. It had never been robbed, but if it had been, Charlie might have died on the spot, not out of fright but because he hated to lose a nickel.
The little jail, which had been more or less Roscoe’s home for the last few years, had never seemed more appealing to him. Indeed, he felt like crying every time he looked at it, but of course it would not do to cry in front of half the town. It was another beautiful morning, with the hint of summer—Roscoe had always loved the summer and hated the cold, and he wondered if he would get back in time to enjoy the sultry days of July and August, when it was so hot even the river hardly seemed to move. He was much given to premonitions—had had them all his life—and he had a premonition now. It seemed to him that he wouldn’t get back. It seemed to him he might be looking his last on Fort Smith, but the townspeople gave him no chance to linger or be sorry.
“Elmira’ll be to Canada before you get started,” Peach pointed out.
Reluctantly, Roscoe climbed up on Memphis, a horse so tall it was only necessary to be on him to have a view. “Well, I hate to go off and leave you without no deputy,” he said. “I doubt if July will like it. He put me in charge of this place.”
Nobody said a word to that.
“If July gets back and I ain’t with him, you tell him I went looking,” Roscoe said. “We may just circle around for a while, me and July. First I’ll look for him, then he can look for me. And if the town goes to hell in the meantime, don’t blame it on Roscoe Brown.”
“Roscoe, we got the fort over there half a mile away,” Peach said. “I guess the soldiers can look after us as good as you can.”
That was true, of course. There wouldn’t even be a Fort Smith if there hadn’t been a fort first. Still, the soldiers didn’t concern themselves much with the town.
“What if Elmira comes back?” Roscoe asked. No one had raised that possibility. “Then I’d be gone and won’t know it.”
“Why would she come back?” Peach asked. “She just left.”
Roscoe found it hard even to remember Elmira, though he had done practically nothing but think about her for the last twenty-four hours. All he really knew was that he hated to ride out of the one town he felt at home in. That everyone was eager for him to go made him feel distinctly bitter.
“Well, the soldiers ain’t gonna help you if old man Darton goes on a tear,” he said. “July told me to be sure and watch him.”
But the little group of citizens seemed not to be worried by the thought of what old man Darton might do. They watched him silently.
Unable to think of any other warnings, or any reason for his staying that might convince anyone, Roscoe gave Memphis a good kick—he was a steady horse once he hit his stride, but he did start slow—and the big-foo
ted gelding kicked a little dust on Charlie Barnes’s shiny shoes, getting under way. Roscoe took one last look at the river and headed for Texas.
30.
THE FIRST GOOD WASH Lorena got was in the Nueces River. They had had a bad day trying to fight their way through mesquite thickets, and when they came to the river she just decided to stop, particularly since she found a shady spot where there wasn’t any mesquite or prickly pear.
Jake had no part in the decision because Jake was drunk. He had been steadily drinking whiskey all day as they rode, and was so unsteady in his seat that Lorena wasn’t even sure they were still going in the right direction. But they were ahead of the cattle—from every clearing she could look back and see the dust the herd raised. It was a fair way back, but directly behind them, which made her feel reassured. It would not be pleasant to be lost, with Jake so drunk.
Of course, he only drank because his hand was paining him. Probably he hadn’t gotten all the thorn out—his thumb had turned from white to purple. She was hoping they would strike a town that had a doctor, but there seemed to be nothing in that part of the country but prickly pear and mesquite.
It was bad luck, Jake having an accident so soon after they started, but it was just a thorn. Lorena supposed the worst it could do was fester. But when he got off his horse, his legs were so unsteady he could barely wobble over to the shade. She was left to tie the horses and make the camp, while Jake lay propped up against the tree and continued to pull on his bottle.
“Dern, it’s hot,” he said, when she stopped for a minute to look at his hand. “I wonder where the boys are camped tonight. We might go over and get up a game of cards.”
“You’d lose,” she said. “You’re too drunk to shuffle.”
There was a flash of anger in Jake’s eyes. He didn’t like being criticized. But he made no retort.
“I’m going to have a wash,” Lorena said.
“Don’t drown,” he said. “Be a pity if you was to drown on your way to San Francisco.”
It was clear he was angry—he hated to be denied, or to see her take the lead over him in anything. Lorena met his anger with silence. She knew he couldn’t stay mad very long.
The river was green and the water cold underneath the surface. She waded in and stood chest-deep, letting the water wash away the layers of dust and sweat. As she was wading out, feeling clean and light, she got a scare: a big snapping turtle sat on the bank right where she had entered the river. It was big as a tub and so ugly Lorena didn’t want to get near it. She waded upstream, and just as she got out heard a shot—Jake was shooting his pistol at the turtle. He walked down to the water, probably just because he liked to see her naked.
“You are a sight,” he said, grinning. Then he shot at the turtle again and missed. He shot four times, all the bullets plopping into the mud. The turtle, unharmed, slid off into the water.
“I was never no shot with my left hand,” Jake said.
Lorena sat down on a grassy place in the sun and let the water drip off her legs. As soon as she sat down Jake came over and began to rub her back. He had a feverish look in his eye.
“I don’t know where I got such a fancy for you,” he said. “You are a sight to see.”
He stretched out beside her and pulled her back. It was odd to look up beyond his head and see the white sky above them instead of the cracked boards in the ceiling above her head in the Dry Bean. More than usual, it made her feel not there—far from Jake and what he was doing. Crowded up in a room, it was difficult for her to keep herself—on the grass, with the sky far above, it was easy.
But it was not easy for Jake to finish—he was sicker than she had suspected. His legs were trembling and his body strained at hers. She looked in his face and saw he was frightened—he groaned, trying to grip her shoulder with his sore hand. Then, despite himself, he slipped from her; he tried to push back in, but kept slipping away. Finally he gave up and collapsed on her, so tired that he seemed to pass out.
When he sat up, she eased out from under him. He looked around with no recognition. She dressed and helped him dress, then got him propped against a big shade tree. She made a little fire, thinking some coffee might help him. While she was getting the pot out of the pack she heard a splashing and looked up to see a black man ride his horse into the river from the other side. Soon the horse was swimming, but the black man didn’t seem frightened. The horse waded out, dripping, and the black man dismounted and let it shake itself.
“How do, miss,” the black man said. Jake had fallen into a drowse and didn’t even know the man was there.
“Mister Jake taking a nap?” he asked.
“He’s sick,” Lorena said.
The man walked over and squatted by Jake a moment, then gently lifted his hand. Jake woke up.
“Why, it’s old Deets,” he said. “We’re all right now, Lorie. Deets will see us through.”
“I been looking for a good place to cross the herd,” Deets said. “Captain made me the scout.”
“Well, he’s right,” Jake said. “We’d all have been lost twenty years ago if it hadn’t been for you.”
“You full of fever,” Deets said. “Let me get that sticker out of your hand.”
“I thought I got it all the other day,” Jake said. “I’d as soon have you cut my hand off as dig around in there.”
“Oh, no,” Deets said. “You got to keep your hand. Might need you to shoot a bandit if one gets after me.”
He went back and rummaged in his saddlebag, bringing out a large needle.
“I got to keep a needle,” he said to Lorena. “Got to sew my pants from time to time.”
Then, after heating the needle and letting it cool, he carefully probed the swelling at the base of Jake’s thumb. Jake yelped when he began, and then yelped again a little later, but he didn’t resist.
“Goddamn the dern thorns,” he said weakly.
Then, with a wide grin, Deets held up the needle. The tiny yellow tip of the thorn was on it. “Now you be cuttin’ the cards agin,” he said.
Jake looked relieved, though still flushed with fever.
“I’ll play you right now, Deets,” he said. “You’re the only one in the whole dern outfit with any money.”
The black man just grinned and returned the needle to the little packet in his saddlebag. Then he accepted the cup of coffee which Lorie offered.
“Miss, you oughta get him on across the river,” he said, when he handed back the coffee cup.
“Why?” Lorena asked. “We done made camp. He’ll want to rest.”
“Rest on the other side,” Deets said. “Gonna come a storm tonight. The river be up tomorrow.”
It seemed hard to believe. There was not a cloud in the sky. But the man had spoken in a tone that indicated he knew what he was talking about.
The girl looked sad, Deets thought. He glanced at the sun, which was dropping.
“I can help,” he said. “I’ll get you settled.” The black man had them packed in no time, tying their bedrolls high so as to keep them out of the river.
“Dern, we didn’t use this camp much,” Jake said, when he realized they were moving. But when Deets mentioned the storm, he simply mounted and rode into the river. He was soon across.
It was a good thing Deets had offered to help. Lorena’s mare balked and wouldn’t take the water. She would go in chest-deep and then whirl and climb back up the bank, showing the whites of her eyes and trying to run. Despite herself, Lorena felt her fear rising. Once, already, the mare had nearly fallen. She might really fall, trapping Lorena beneath the green water. She tried to control her fear—she would have to get across many rivers if she was to get to San Francisco—but the mare kept flouncing and trying to turn and Lorena couldn’t help being afraid. She could see Jake on the other bank. He didn’t look very concerned.
The third time the mare turned, the black man was suddenly beside her. “Let me have her,” he said.
When he took the reins Lorena felt a
deeper fright than she had ever known. She gripped the horse’s mane so tightly the horsehairs cut into her hands. Then she shut her eyes—she couldn’t bear to see the water coming over her. The mare took a leap, and there was a different feeling. They were swimming. She heard the black man’s voice talking soothingly to the mare. The water lapped at her waist, but it came no higher; after a moment she opened her eyes. They were nearly across the river. The black man was looking back watchfully, lifting her reins a bit so as to keep the horse’s head out of the water. Then there was the suck of the water against her legs as they started to climb out of the river. With a smile, the black man handed her back her wet reins. She was gripping the mane so tightly it took an act of will to turn her hands loose.
“Why, she’s a fine swimmer,” Deets said. “You be fine on this horse, Miss.”
Lorena had clenched her teeth so tightly she couldn’t even speak to thank the man, though she felt a flush of gratitude. Had it not been for him she felt sure she would have drowned. Jake by this time had untied his bedroll and thrown it down under a big mesquite. It had been nothing to him, her having to cross the river. Though the fright had begun to relax its grip, Lorena still didn’t feel that she had control of her limbs so that she could simply step off the horse and walk as she had always walked. She felt angry at Jake for taking it all so lightly.
Deets smiled at Lorena tolerantly and turned his own horse back toward the river.
“Make your fire and do your cooking now,” he said. “Then blow out the fire. It’s gonna come a bad wind. If the fire gets loose you might have trouble.”
He glanced south, at the sky.
“The wind’s gonna come about sundown,” he said. “First it will be sand and then lightning. Don’t tie the horses to no big trees.”
Despite herself, Lorena felt her spirits sinking. She had always feared lightning above all things, and here she was without even a house to hide in. She saw it was going to be harder than she had imagined. Here it was only the second day and she had already had a fright like death. Now lightning was coming. For a moment it all felt hopeless—better she had just sat in the Dry Bean for life, or married Xavier. She had gone over to Jake in a minute, and yet, the truth was Xavier would probably have taken care of her better. It was all foolish, her dream of San Francisco.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 156
