“Are you a sheriff?” she asked, sipping the whiskey Sam had poured.
“I was,” July said. “I’m most likely going to have to give it up.”
“Why do that?” Jennie asked.
“I ain’t a good fighter,” July said. “I can crack a drunk on the head and get him to jail, but I ain’t really a good fighter. When we rode into that camp, the man with me killed six or seven men and I never killed a one. I went off and left Roscoe and the others and they got killed before I could get back. It was only Jake Spoon I went to catch, but I made a mess of it. I don’t want to be a sheriff now.”
He had not expected such words to rush out—he had suddenly lost control of his speech somehow.
Jennie had not expected it either. She sipped her whiskey and watched him.
“They say Ellie left on a whiskey boat,” July said. “I don’t know why she would have done it, but that’s what they say. Roscoe thought a bear might have got her, but they didn’t see no tracks.”
“What’s your name?” Jennie asked.
“July Johnson,” he said, glad that she was no longer looking at him quite so impatiently.
“It sounds like Ellie to me,” Jennie said. “When Ellie gets enough of a place, she jumps in the first wagon and goes. I remember when she went to Abilene I didn’t have no idea she was even thinking of leaving, and then, before it was even time to go to work, she had paid some mule skinners to take her, and she was gone.”
“I got to find her,” July said simply.
“You come to the wrong town, mister,” Jennie said. “She ain’t in Dodge.”
“Well, then I’ll have to keep looking,” July said.
He thought of the empty plains, which it seemed to him he had been lucky to get across. There seemed only the smallest chance that Ellie would have been so lucky.
“I fear she’s dead,” he said.
“She’s hunting Dee, I’d say,” Jennie said. “Did you know Dee?”
“Why, no,” July said. “I was told he died of smallpox.”
Jennie chuckled. “Dee ain’t dead,” she said. “He’s in Ogallala. There’s a gambler sitting right over there who seen him not two months ago.”
“Where?” July asked, and Jennie pointed to a pudgy man in a white shirt and black coat who sat alone at a table, shuffling cards.
“That’s Webster Witter,” Jennie said. “He keeps up with Dee Boot. I used to but I quit.”
“Why?” July asked. He sensed that it was a rather loose-tongued question, but the fact was, his tongue was out of control and behaving ever more loosely.
“It’s like trying to keep up with a tumbleweed,” Jennie said. “Dee wears out one town and then he’s off to another. I ain’t that way. I like to settle in. I been here in Dodge five years already and I guess this is where I’ll stay.”
“I don’t know why she married me,” July said. “I ain’t got any idea about it.”
Jennie looked at him for a bit. “Do you always drink like this?” she asked.
“No, I seldom drink,” July said. “Though I do like toddy in the winter.”
Jennie looked at him a while. “You ought to stop worrying about Ellie, mister,” she said. “No man’s ever been able to stop Ellie for long, not even Dee.”
“She married me,” July said. He felt he had to insist on that point.
“Well, I married Dee once, myself,” Jennie said. “I just did it because he was good-looking. That and the fact that I was mad at somebody else. Ellie and me are a lot alike,” she added.
July just looked at her sadly. Jennie sighed. She had not expected to encounter such misery in the middle of the afternoon.
“You’re right good-looking,” she said. “I expect that explains it. If I were you I’d start getting over it.”
“I got to find her,” July said. “I got to tell her about little Joe. He got killed on the Canadian.”
“She oughtn’t to had him,” Jennie said. “I told her not to. I wouldn’t have one for anything. I’ve had offers, too.”
July drank two more whiskeys but had little more to say.
“Well, the bar’s getting rich but I ain’t,” Jennie said. “Don’t you want a little fun, to take your mind off it?”
It seemed to July that he was not so much sitting in the chair as floating in it. The world seemed kind of watery to him, but it was all right because he was easily able to float.
Jennie giggled, looking at him. “You sure are drunk, Mister Johnson,” she said. “Let’s go have a little fun. I always liked stealing Ellie’s boys and here I’ve got a chance to steal her husband.”
The way she giggled made July feel happy suddenly. He had not heard a woman giggle in a long time. Ellie never giggled. So he got up and followed Jennie up the stairs, walking carefully so as not to embarrass himself. He got upstairs all right, but before they could get to Jennie’s room he began to feel wrong. His stomach began to float higher than he was. It began to float right out of his mouth.
Jennie had kept a close eye on him, and she quickly guided him to the outside stairs. July knelt down on the little landing and vomited over the edge. The next thing he knew he was lying flat on the landing, still vomiting. From time to time he quit vomiting and just lay there, but then he would start again, his body heaving upward like a bucking horse. He held to the rail of the landing with one hand so he wouldn’t accidentally heave himself over. It was a bright day, the Kansas sun beating down, but July felt like he was in darkness. Cowboys rode up and down the street below him—once in a while one would hear him vomiting and look up and laugh. Wagons went by, and the drivers didn’t even look up. Once, while he was resting two cowboys stopped and looked at him.
“I guess we ought to rope him and drag him to the graveyard,” one said. “He looks dead to me.”
“Hell, I wish all I had to do was lay on them stairs and vomit,” the other cowboy said. “It beats loading them longhorns.”
July lay facedown for a long time. The heaves finally diminished, but from time to time he raised his head and spat over the edge, to clear his throat. It was nearly sundown before he felt like sitting up, and then it was only to sit with his back against the building. He was high enough that he could see over the main street and the cattle pens and west to where the sun was setting, far off on the plain. It was setting behind a large herd of cattle being held a mile or two from town. There were thousands of cattle, but only a few cowboys holding them—he could see the other cowboys racing for town. The dust their running horses kicked up was turned golden by the sun. No doubt they were just off the trail and couldn’t wait for a taste of Dodge—the very taste he had just vomited up. The last sunlight filtered through the settling dust behind the cowboys’ horses.
July sat where he was until the afterglow was just a pale line on the western horizon. The white moon shone on the railroad ties that snaked out of town to the east. He felt too weak to stand up, and he sat listening to the sounds of laughter that came from the saloon behind him.
When he finally stood up he was indecisive. He didn’t know if he should go in and thank Jennie, or just slip away and continue the search for Elmira. He had an urge to just ride on out into the dark country. He didn’t feel right in a town anymore. The crowds of happy cowboys just made him feel more lonesome somehow. On the plains, with nobody in sight, he wasn’t reminded so often of how cut off he felt.
He decided, though, that politeness required him to at least say goodbye to Jennie. As he stepped back in the door, a cowboy came out of her room, looking cheerful, and went clumping down the stairs. A moment later Jennie came out too. She didn’t notice July standing there. To his astonishment she stopped and lifted her skirts, so that he saw her thin legs, and more. There was a smear of something on one thigh and she hastily wet her fingers with a little spit and wiped it off. Just then she noticed July, who wished he had not bothered to come through the door. He had never seen a woman do such an intimate thing and the shock was so strong he thought
his stomach might float up again.
When Jennie saw him she was not very embarrassed. She giggled again and lowered her skirts. “Well, you got a free look but I won’t count it,” she said. “I guess you didn’t die.”
“No,” July said.
Jennie looked closely at him as if to make sure he was all right. She had a poor complexion, but he liked her frank brown eyes.
“What about the fun?” she said. “You lost out this afternoon.”
“Oh,” July said, “I’m not much fun.”
“I guess you wouldn’t be, after vomiting up your stomach,” Jennie said. “I can’t wait, though, mister. Three herds came in today, and there’s a line of cowboys waiting to fall in love with me.” She looked down the stairs; the noise from the saloon was loud.
“It’s what I did with Ellie,” July said. Meeting her friend Jennie had made his life clearer to him, suddenly. He was as simple as the cowboys—he had fallen in love with a whore.
Jennie looked at him a moment. She had come out of her room briskly, prepared for more business, but something in July’s eyes slowed her down. She had never seen eyes with so much sadness in them—to look at him made her heart drop a little.
“Ellie was tired of this business,” she said. “It was the buffalo hunters made her decide to quit. I guess you just come along at the right time.”
“Yes,” July said.
They were silent, looking at one another, Jennie reluctant to go down into the well of noise, July not ready to go out the door and head for the livery stable.
“Don’t you want to quit?” he asked.
“Why, are you going to fall in love with me too?” Jennie asked, in her frank way.
July knew he could if he wasn’t careful. He was so lonely, and he didn’t have much control.
“Don’t you want to quit?” he asked again.
Jennie shook her head. “I like to see the boys coming in,” she said. “People are always coming in, here in Dodge. The cowboys are nicer than the buffalo hunters, but even the buffalo hunters was people.”
She thought a moment. “I couldn’t sit around in a house all day,” she said. “If someone was ever to marry me I expect I’d run off, too. The time I get blue is the winter—there ain’t no people coming in.”
July thought of Ellie, sitting in the cabin loft all day, dangling her legs—no people came in at all except him and Joe, and Roscoe once in a while when they caught a catfish. Hearing Jennie talk put his life with Ellie in a very different light.
“You ought to go on back home,” Jennie said. “Even if you catch her it won’t do no good.”
July feared it wouldn’t, but he didn’t want to go back. He just stood there. Something in his manner made Jennie suddenly impatient.
“I got to go,” she said. “If you ever do find Ellie, tell her I still got that blue dress she gave me. If she ever wants it back she’ll have to write.”
July nodded. Jennie gave him a final look, half pitying, half exasperated, and hurried on down the stairs.
July felt sad when she left. He had the feeling that an opportunity had been missed, though he didn’t know what kind of opportunity. The streets were full of cowboys going from one saloon to the next. There were horses tied to every hitch rail.
He went to the livery stable and saddled his new horse. The old man who ran the stable was sitting with his back against a barrel of horseshoe nails, drinking now and then from a jug he had between his legs. July paid him, but the old man didn’t stand up.
“Which outfit are you with?” the old man asked.
“I’m with myself,” July said.
“Oh,” the man said. “A small outfit. This is a funny time of night to be starting out, ain’t it?”
“I guess it is,” July said, but he started anyway.
70.
ONCE THEY GOT WEST, beyond the line of the grasshopper plague, the herd found good grass, the skies stayed clear for nearly two weeks, and the drive went the smoothest it had gone. The cattle settled down and moved north toward the Arkansas without stampedes or other incidents, except for one—a freak accident that cost Newt his favorite horse, Mouse.
Newt wasn’t even riding Mouse when the accident occurred. He had traded mounts for the day with Ben Rainey. The day’s work was over and Ben had ridden into the herd with Call’s permission to cut out a beef for the cook. He rode up to a little brindled cow, meaning to take her yearling calf, and while he was easing the calf away from her the cow turned mean suddenly and hooked Mouse right back of the girth. She was a small cow with unusually sharp horns, and her thrust was so violent that Mouse’s hindquarters were lifted off the ground. Ben Rainey was thrown, and had to scramble to keep from being hooked himself. Soupy Jones saw it happen. He loped in and soon turned the mad cow, but the damage was done. Mouse was spurting blood like a fountain from his abdomen.
“Get Deets,” Soupy said. Deets was the best horse doctor in the outfit, though Po Campo was also good. Both men came over to look at the wound and both shook their heads. Newt, on the other side of the herd, saw people waving at him, and loped over. When he saw Mouse gushing blood he felt faint, from the shock.
“I don’t know what went wrong with her,” Ben Rainey said, feeling guilty. “I wasn’t doin’ nothing to her. She just hooked the horse. Next thing I knew she was after me. She has them little sharp twisty horns.”
Mouse’s hind legs were quivering.
“Well, you better put him down,” Call said, looking at Newt. “He’s finished.”
Newt was about to take the reins when Dish Boggett intervened. “Oh, now, Captain,” he said quietly, “a feller oughtn’t to have to shoot his own horse when there’s others around that can do it as well.” And without another word he led the bleeding horse a hundred yards away and shot him. He came back, carrying the saddle. Newt was very grateful—he knew he would have had a hard time shooting Mouse.
“I wish now we’d never traded,” Ben Rainey said. “I never thought anything would happen.”
That night there was much discussion of the dangers of handling cattle. Everyone agreed there were dangers, but no one had ever heard of a small cow hooking a horse under the girth before and killing it. Newt traded shifts with the Irishman and then traded again with his replacement, four hours later. He wanted to be in the dark, where people couldn’t see him cry. Mouse had never behaved like other horses, and now he had even found a unique way to die. Newt had had him for eight years and felt his loss so keenly that for the first time on the drive he wished it wouldn’t get light so soon.
But the sun came up beautifully, and he knew he would have to go in to breakfast. He rubbed the tear streaks off his face as best he could and was about to head for the wagon when he saw Mr. Gus standing outside his little tent, waving at him. Newt rode over. As he passed the open flap of the tent he saw Lorena sitting on a pallet just inside. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and she looked very beautiful.
Augustus had made a fire of buffalo chips and was complaining about it. “Dern, I hate to cook with shit,” he said. “I hear you lost your pony.”
“Yes. Ben was riding him. It wasn’t his fault, though,” Newt said.
“Get down and drink a cup of coffee to cut the grief,” Augustus said.
As he was drinking the coffee, Lorena came out of the tent. To Newt’s surprise, she smiled at him—she didn’t say anything, but she smiled. It was such a joy that he immediately started feeling better. All the way from Texas he had been worrying secretly that Lorena would blame him for her kidnap. After all, he had been supposed to watch her the night she got taken. But she obviously bore him no grudge. She stood in front of the tent, looking at the beautiful morning.
“I’ve got so I like this looking far,” she said. Augustus handed her a cup of coffee and she held it in both hands, the smoke drifting in front of her face. Newt was sure he had never seen anyone as beautiful as her—that he was getting to share breakfast with her was like a miracle. Dish or any o
f the other boys would give their spurs and saddles to be doing what he was doing.
She sat down in front of the tent and blew on her coffee until it was cool enough to drink. Newt drank his and felt a lot better. Poor Mouse was lost, but it was a wonderful day, and he was enjoying the rare privilege of having breakfast with Mr. Gus and Lorena. Across the plain they could see the herd, strung out to the north. The wagon and the remuda were a mile behind them. Po Campo, a tiny dot on the plain, walked well behind the wagon.
“That old cook is a sight,” Augustus said. “I guess he plans to walk all the way to Canada.”
“He likes to watch the grass,” Newt explained. “He’s always finding stuff. He’ll cook most anything he picks up.”
“Does he cook grass?” Lorena asked, interested. She had never seen Po Campo close up but was intrigued by the sight of the tiny figure walking day after day across the great plain.
“No, but he cooks things like grasshoppers once in a while,” Newt said.
Lorena laughed—a delightful sound to Newt.
As she blew on her coffee, she looked at Gus. She had spent many hours looking at him since he had rescued her. It was comfortable traveling with him, for he never got angry or scolded her, as other men had. In the weeks when she trembled and cried, he had expressed no impatience and made no demands. She had become so used to him that she had begun to hope the trip would last longer. It had become simple and even pleasant for her. No one bothered her at all, and it was nice to ride along in the early summer sun, looking at the miles and miles of waving grass. Gus talked and talked. Some of what he said was interesting and some of it wasn’t, but it was reassuring that he liked to talk to her.
It was enough of a life, and better than any she had had before. But she could not forget the other woman Gus had mentioned. The other woman was the one thing he didn’t talk about. She didn’t ask, of course, but she couldn’t forget, either. She dreaded the day when they would come to the town where the other woman lived, for then the simple life might end. It wouldn’t if she could help it, though. She meant to fight for it. She had decided to tell Gus she would marry him before they got to the town.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 192
