He knew, too, that the Captain must have had a hard time holding his temper, when he discovered that he would have to go after Joey Garza alone. The matter of the bandit didn’t worry Pea Eye, though. He couldn’t imagine a bandit that the Captain couldn’t subdue. That was just the order of things. It was Lorena, though, who kept pointing out that the order of things could change.
“Nothing’s permanent,” she insisted. “We’ll get old, and the children will grow up.”
“I’ll get old first—I guess I’m old now,” Pea Eye answered. “You won’t get old for a long time.”
“I don’t know about that,” Lorena said. “I’ve borne five children. It don’t make you younger.”
Now, riding beside the pale river with its wide sandy bed, occasionally catching a glimpse of the schoolhouse where his wife spent her days, Pea Eye had to admit that the order of things had changed. This was one of the days when it changed.
Lorena saw Pea Eye coming, through the glass window of the schoolroom. The glass had to be ordered from Fort Worth, and the whole of the Quitaque community was proud of it. Few were the settlers who could afford glass windows for themselves.
“Here comes your pa,” she said to Clarie. “I wonder if Captain Call lit into him?”
“He better not have. He don’t own my pa,” Clarie said. She deeply resented the Captain, a man she had never met. He had never even come to meet her and the other children, yet he loomed in her life because of the power he had to take her father away. She knew her father felt obligated to the Captain, but she didn’t know why. It wasn’t the Captain who had given her mother the money to buy the farm. Her mother resented the old man, too. Clarie knew that, from eavesdropping on her parents. Half the arguments she had overheard as she was growing up had to do with Captain Call. They were not arguments, really. Her father didn’t know how to argue, or didn’t want to, but her mother certainly knew how to argue. Her mother said many ugly things when she was mad. Mostly, her father just quietly obeyed her mother. He tried his best to do what she wanted him to do. The only times he didn’t was when the Captain needed him. Then, he just saddled up and left.
“I thought he went with the Captain,” Clarie said, surprised to see her father coming.
“No, he didn’t go,” Lorena said. “He finally stood up to the man.”
“Goodness!” Clarie said. It was a big shock, a big change. “Are you glad, Ma?”
“I will be when I know I can trust it,” Lorena said.
She had been about to test some of the older children in multiplication, but she closed her arithmetic book and went to the back door of the school. Pea Eye rode up, looking a little hangdog. He knew she didn’t really like for him to show up at the school. She didn’t like to see him looking hangdog, either, though—it made her feel that she must have been mean to him. She didn’t want to feel that she had been mean to Pea. In the years of their marriage he had never raised his voice, much less his hand, to her in anger. He knew she wasn’t an angel, and yet, year in and year out, Pea treated her like one. A man that steady was rare, and she knew it.
Still, the fact was, she was busy. She had an arithmetic class to teach, and few of her pupils were adept at arithmetic.
“Well, the Captain left without me,” Pea Eye said quietly. He felt out of place; he always did, when he visited Lorie at the schoolhouse. He wasn’t really even sure why he had come. He felt sad inside, and just wanted to be with his wife for a few minutes.
“Did he fuss at you?” Lorena asked. She was touched, that Pea had come. She lived with many doubts, but she never had to doubt that Pea Eye needed her. If he needed anything, he needed her. At the moment he looked gloomy and pale; lately he had been waking up with bad headaches.
“Are you sick, honey?” she asked, softening suddenly. Why was she so stiff with him, so often? He just seemed to bring it out in her, for no better reason than that he loved her to distraction. She liked it that he loved her, but she wished, sometimes, that he wouldn’t be so obvious about it.
“No, he just shook my hand and left,” Pea Eye said.
“Have you got one of those headaches?” she asked.
“It’s pounding,” Pea admitted. “This horse has got a stiff trot.”
It isn’t the stiff trot, it’s the stiff wife, Lorena thought to herself—no point in saying it to Pea. He usually didn’t know he was being punished, even when he was being punished severely.
“Wait a minute,” she said, turning back into the schoolhouse. Clarie was comforting a little boy who had wet his pants. The child’s mother had gone berserk that winter and had to be sent away. Two days out of three, the little boy wet his pants in the schoolroom. He missed his mother badly.
“Clarie, you better go home with your pa,” Lorena said. “He’s feeling poorly.”
“But Ma, Roy and I were going to study together,” Clarie protested, looking across the room at Roy Benson. Roy was the tallest boy in the school, by several inches, and he was also the nicest. He was nearly as tall as her pa—maybe that was why she liked him so.
“You can study with Roy tomorrow—your pa needs you today,” Lorena said.
“But who’ll help you with Laurie and the boys, on the way home?” Clarie asked, trying hard to come up with a good reason why she should stay. Roy’s folks were thinking of taking him out of school, since he couldn’t be spared from the ranch work much longer. She hated to miss even one day with Roy. The Benson ranch was fifteen miles from their farm. Clarie felt she would never get to see him, once he left school.
“Since when have I not been able to get home with my own children?” Lorena asked, a little impatiently. She was anxious to get Clarie and Pea Eye gone. The children were beginning to act up, as they always did when her attention wavered for more than a minute or two. Roy Benson was usually the instigator, too. He was a bright boy, but full of the devil.
“Well, you can take care of them, but Laurie is my sister and I like to help with her,” Clarie said.
“You do help, but now I need you to help your father,” Lorena said. “I wouldn’t ask it, if I didn’t need it.”
Clarie gave up. The look in her mother’s eye was a look you didn’t argue with, if you were smart.
“Can I just go tell Roy I can’t study with him today?” she asked.
“I’ll tell him,” Lorena said. “He ain’t made of air, Clarie. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Ma, you said ‘ain’t,’ ” Clarie told her, startled. Her mother’s grammar only slipped when she was angry, or in a hurry.
“Yes, because you’re vexing me,” Lorena said. “You know I slip up, when you vex me.”
“Roy might not be here tomorrow,” Clarie said, returning to the original point at issue. “His folks might make him work, and then I’ll never get to see him.”
She felt bitter. Roy was the only nice boy she knew, and now his folks might make him leave her, in order to help with the cow work.
But, bitter or not, she knew it was unwise to provoke her mother past a certain point, and that point was not far away. With another futile glance at Roy—he was teasing a little kid and did not see her—she went outside and obediently climbed up behind her father. Windmill, her father’s big gray horse, grunted, but at least didn’t break wind. For some reason, hearing horses break wind embarrassed her keenly; at least it did when there was a man around, even if the man was her father.
“Pa, do you like Roy Benson?” she asked, as they were trotting homeward.
“Roy? He’s gangly, but then so am I,” Pea Eye said.
5.
BILLY WILLIAMS HAD to walk the last five miles into Ojinaga because he lost his horse. It was a ridiculous accident. It was sure to hurt his reputation as the last of the great scouts, and his reputation had been slipping badly, anyway.
The horse became misplaced as a result of the fact that Billy had to answer a call of nature. He had been riding at a sharp clip, all the way from Piedras Negras—the news he had was so urgent t
hat it prompted him to neglect the call until disgrace was at hand. Then, he failed to tether his mount properly and the horse wandered off. Perhaps because of the sharp clip he had maintained, or the tequila he had drunk while maintaining it, Billy relaxed so much in the course of his call of nature that he dozed off for a few minutes, still squatting. That in itself was nothing new, since he often nodded off for a few minutes while squatting in response to nature’s call. Squatting was a position he found completely comfortable; in fact, it was one of the few that he did find comfortable. When he stood up straight, he coughed too much. His diagnosis was that a couple of his ribs were poking into a lung, the result of an encounter a few years back with a buffalo cow that looked dead but wasn’t.
Lying flat on his back was not a good position, either. A headache usually accompanied that position, probably because Billy never lay flat on his back unless he was dead drunk.
The fact was, his horse wasn’t very far away; Billy just couldn’t see him. His vision had once been so sharp that he could see a small green worm on a small green leaf, at a distance of thirty yards. Now, he couldn’t even see his own horse if the horse was thirty yards away. It was a sad state for a great scout to have come to.
“Willie, you best retire,” his friend Judge Roy Bean told him the last time the two of them visited. “A man as blind as you are ought not to be riding this river. You could fall in a hole and be swallowed up and that would be that.”
Roy Bean didn’t deliver that opinion with much concern in his voice. Like most of Roy Bean’s pronouncements, this one got said mainly because the man was vain and arrogant. He had never been able to get enough of the sound of his own voice, though it held no particular charm for anyone but himself.
“You’re blind drunk nine days out of ten—what keeps you from falling in a hole and being swallowed up?” Billy asked.
“The fact is, I sit here in this chair in this saloon, not nine days out of ten but ten days out of ten,” Roy Bean said. “If I could sit here in this chair eleven days out of ten, I would. I don’t go wandering off where there might be a hole that could swallow me up.”
That point was hard to dispute. Roy Bean seldom left his chair; even seldomer did he leave his saloon; and never, so far as anyone living knew, had he been outside the town of Langtry, Texas, a town that consisted mainly of Roy Bean’s saloon.
“But then I ain’t the last of the great scouts,” Roy Bean said. “I don’t have to go traipsing through the gullies. I got no reputation to maintain.”
“I won’t fall in no hole,” Billy assured him. “I won’t get swallowed up, neither.
“I would have to be a lot blinder than this, before I quit tracking,” Billy added, though that claim was bravado. Traveling was becoming more and more worrisome, and as for tracking, he probably could track an elephant if he could stay in hearing distance of it. But tracking anything smaller, including his own horse, was a hopeless matter.
“Well, if you do avoid holes, there’s the problem of killers,” Roy Bean reminded him. “You can’t see in front of you, or behind you, or to the side. The dumbest killer in the West could sneak up on you and cut your throat.”
Billy refrained from comment. The two of them were sitting in Roy’s dirty, flyblown saloon while they were having the discussion. The saloon was hot as well as filthy, and the liquor cost too much, but it was the only saloon around and contained the only liquor to be had along that stretch of the border.
Roy Bean, out of a combination of boredom, greed, and vanity, had recently appointed himself judge of a vast jurisdiction—the trans-Pecos West—and nowadays hung people freely, often over differences amounting to no more than fifty cents. It was an ominous practice, in Billy’s view; he had often found himself having differences with Roy Bean amounting to considerably more than fifty cents. Roy had been told by many of his constituents that he shouldn’t hang people over such paltry sums, and of course, he had a ready reply.
“A man that will steal fifty cents would just as soon steal a million dollars, and he would, if the opportunity presented itself,” Roy said.
“Roy, the opportunity ain’t going to present itself, not around here,” Billy pointed out. “Nobody around here has a million dollars to steal. Not many of them has fifty cents, not in cash money.”
“Well, I have fifty cents,” Roy said. “I mean to keep it, too.”
“If I was to steal it, would you hang me?” Billy asked. He didn’t suppose Roy to be a man of much tolerance, but he thought he’d ask the question anyway.
“I’d hang you as soon as I could find my rope,” Roy said amiably.
“We’ve known one another a long time,” Billy reminded him. “I’ve nursed you through several fevers and I once killed a Mexican who had it in for you. I expect he would have cut your throat, later in life, if I hadn’t laid him out.”
“What’d you shoot this Mexican fellow with?” Roy asked. He was a master of the diversionary question.
Billy had to stop and think. Several years had passed since the encounter, and his memory had grown almost as cloudy as his eyesight.
“It wasn’t no Colt,” he said, finally. “I don’t remember what it was. A gun of some kind. What difference does it make? He’s dead, which is one reason you’re alive. Now you’re telling me you’d hang me for fifty cents. I consider that harsh.”
“Well, I don’t know that I could put my hands on my hanging rope, in a hurry,” Roy said. “You might escape, if you were agile.”
“Who said you could be a judge, anyway?” Billy inquired. “I’d want to see some papers on it, before I let you hang me.”
“Since when can you read law papers?” Roy asked. “I’ve known you for too long and I’ve never seen you read anything, unless you count a pack of cards.”
“I could read if it was that or be hung,” Billy said. “You can’t just say you’re a judge and have it be true. There has to be some papers on it, somewhere.”
“Out here west of the Pecos you can be a judge if you want to bad enough,” Roy said. “I want to bad enough.”
“Suppose I only stole a dime?” Billy asked. “What would happen then?”
“Same sentence, if you stole it from me,” Roy said. “I need my dimes. If you stole ten cents from a Mexican I might let you off.
“The loss of any sum is more than I can tolerate, officially,” he added.
“I can’t tell that you’ve ever amounted to much, Roy,” Billy informed him. “It’s irritating that you set up to be a judge of your fellowman, so late in life. It’s all because of this saloon. It’s the only saloon around here, and that’s why you think you can be a judge.”
“I admit it was a timely purchase,” Roy said.
“You didn’t purchase it, you shot the owner,” Billy reminded him. “Tom Sykes, I knew him. He was nothing but a cutthroat himself.”
“That’s right—so I purchased his saloon with a bullet,” Roy said. “Three bullets in all. Tom wasn’t eager to die.”
“That’s still cheap,” Billy said.
“Not as cheap as one bullet,” Roy said. “The sad truth is, my marksmanship has declined. In my prime, I would not have had to expend that much ammunition on Tommy Sykes.”
Because of the saloon, it was necessary to put up with Roy, but the more urgent necessity was to get to Ojinaga and give Maria the news he had picked up in Piedras Negras. It was a great annoyance to Billy that because of a long shit and a short nap he had lost his horse. But that was the truth of it, and there was nothing he could do but limp along.
By the time he finally stumbled up to Maria’s house, Billy was exhausted. His head was swimming from the strain of the long walk, and he was sweating a rainstorm. He had to grope his way through Maria’s goats. Her goats seemed to think he had come hurrying all the way from Piedras Negras just to feed them.
Maria heard the goats bleating and went out to have a look. Someone had seen a cougar, near the village; she didn’t want a cougar getting one of her g
oats. But they were only bleating at Billy Williams, who looked as if he might fall on his face at any moment.
“Where’s your horse?” she asked, walking out to have a better look at him. She had known Billy Williams for many years. Sometimes she let him stay at her house, because he loved her children and would help her with them, far more than any of her husbands ever had. He also loved her, but that was not a matter she allowed him to discuss.
“Where’s Joey? I got bad news,” Billy said, stopping amid the goats. Maria frightened him a little. She always had. He presumed nothing when he came to her house.
“Joey left—I don’t know where he went,” Maria said.
“Damn the luck,” Billy said. “I’ve traveled a long way to bring him some news and now I’m tired. I’m tired and I’m blind and I’m old and I’m thirsty.”
“You can sleep in the saddle shed,” Maria said. “Come in—I’ll feed you and give you coffee. I can’t do nothing about your other problems.”
“I’d rather have a bottle of beer, if you can spare one,” Billy said, limping into the house. “I seldom walk in the heat, and I wouldn’t have today, but my horse escaped.”
“I don’t keep beer in my house,” Maria said. “You know that. You stay here. If you want beer you’ll have to go to the cantina.”
“Well, what’s the harm in beer?” Billy asked, wishing Maria didn’t sound so stern. He didn’t know why he had asked for beer, since he knew she didn’t keep it. Maria had been wonderfully beautiful once; probably she was still beautiful. Because of his poor eyesight, all he could see when he looked at her face was a dim outline. He had to fill in the outline with his memories. When he was younger he had coveted her greatly. He would have married her, or given her anything, for a taste of her favors, but he had never tasted them. He still did covet Maria, although he couldn’t really see her now, except in his memories.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 236
