Joey was not at all surprised that his mother had come. She had been working with the woman in childbirth, and she was as bloody as a wounded animal. The fact that she had old Call’s pistol didn’t worry him. His mother wouldn’t shoot him, and even if she tried she would miss. When the drowning was over he would make her take the pellets out. Once that was done he would get his strength and his pride back, and would go near the City of Mexico and rob some trains with rich people on them. His mother had doctored old Call, for he had seen the old Ranger in bed in her house. Joey had started to kill him, but had felt the same indifference he felt when he let Famous Shoes live. It would be wasting a death to kill such a worthless old person. Who could take pride in killing such old, half-dead people? It was better to do what he was doing: avenge himself on the bloody woman who stood there pointing a pistol at him.
Maria shot one more time. It hit the water near Joey, but he didn’t even look up. She had stopped expecting to scare her son. She shot in hopes that someone would hear and come to see what the shooting was about. Even if the drunken vaqueros came, it might be enough; then Joey might stop.
But Joey didn’t stop. He had managed to get Teresa’s body between his legs, and he tightened his legs and used both hands to shove his sister’s head under the water. Maria waded into the water and struck Joey high on the shoulder with her knife. Joey screamed—the wounds on his back were sore. He turned to his mother with a look of hatred. Maria struck again, high on his other shoulder. She only wanted to cut Joey enough so he would let Teresa go. When Joey turned again, Teresa wiggled free and sucked in air. She kept wiggling until she was out of reach. Joey grabbed for her, but Teresa was quicker. Even with her feet tied, she was as quick as a fish. Joey took a few steps toward her, but Teresa was already yards away. In the water she was quicker than he was.
In fury, Joey turned on Maria and drew his own knife. He would kill Rafael with the knife and then chase down Teresa.
Maria saw where her son’s eyes were pointed. She put herself between Joey and Rafael. She still held her knife, but she didn’t want to stab her son again. The wounds she had given him were light and were meant to distract him, not hurt him. She could help him recover and live. She would do it—take out the pellets of heavy shot, wash his wounds, nurse him, if only he would relent. He must relent, though. She would not give him her other children, his brother and sister.
“Stop this!” Maria cried. “You’re hurt, you’re weak! Stop this killing! Come home with me and let me wash you. I’ll feed you and I’ll hide you until you are well.”
“Wash yourself, whore!” Joey said, in his cold tone. His eyes were like sleet. Maria held her knife high. Joey would not stop. He would not become her good son again. All she could do now was protect Rafael. Joey’s cold look made Maria want to give up. Her son should not look at her with his look of sleet—it was a poor return for the care she had given and the love she had borne.
But it was Joey’s look, and she could not change him. She had to give up. That way she could protect Rafael and Teresa, and she would protect them, no matter what she had to do.
When Joey came close, Maria raised the knife and tried to cut his arm; anyplace to slow him but not kill him. She saw Joey’s knife but didn’t feel it strike—not the first time, not the second, not the third.
“Leave your brother alone!” she screamed. “Leave him alone. Don’t hurt your brother!”
Joey was trying to push his mother out of the way so he could grab his brother’s hair, when the bullet struck him. He turned his head at the shot. Maria turned, too. They saw Gordo, the butcher, standing on the riverbank with his old carbine.
“Don’t kill her, you rascal!” Gordo yelled. “Don’t kill her—I might want to marry her!”
Across the river, Teresa crawled into the shallows, and old Estela hobbled over and helped her out of the water. Teresa was very frightened. Her mother had been right; Joey was bad. She was worried, for she heard shots and she could not see.
“Where is my mother?” she asked the old woman.
Old Estela’s eyes were dim, and she couldn’t see the far bank of the river.
“She is over there,” old Estela said. “I think I hear her talking to my children.”
Joey fell backward into the water. Maria cut Rafael free, and the two of them began to drag Joey to the bank where the butcher stood with his gun. Before Maria could get out of the river, she fell, too. She fell across her son’s legs, and the river began to swirl her blood away.
14.
GORDO CARRIED MARIA home. She was awake, but he saw where she had been stabbed and knew she would not live. It angered him, for he had already begun to think of her as his wife and was looking forward to laying with her. She had eluded him when she was a girl, and now she was going to elude him again by dying. It was an aggravation, such an aggravation that he refused to bring her devil of a son’s body to her.
“He’s dead, Gordo,” Maria said. “Bring him home.”
The butcher ignored her. He also refused to lift Captain Call and bring him back inside the house. He put Maria on the bed, and as he went out, he spat on Call. Later, the two drunken vaqueros came to Maria’s house and they, too, spat on him. One wanted to put a rope around the old man’s neck and drag him to death, but the other vaquero argued that it would be better just to let the old man die. He was too famous. If they put a rope on him, the Texans might find out about it and hunt them down.
Teresa picked her way back across the cold river in fear. She was afraid her brother might catch her again and put her head in the cold, swirling river and let it suck her breath away. Twice when he held her, Teresa had feared that the river was going to suck all her breath away. But her brother didn’t take her. She waded through the cold water, stepping on slick rocks. Teresa knew the path through the mesquites and was soon home. Rafael was inside, moaning. When Teresa felt his head, she found that it was wet and sticky. Her mother lay on the bed where Señor Call had been.
“Where is he, did he leave?” Teresa asked, concerned. Her mother had promised that Señor Call would be there when she returned home.
“He is outside,” her mother told her, in a voice that was very weak. “Joey hurt me, and Gordo would not help me. Go find Jorge and ask him to come. He can move Señor Call back inside. Ask the old sisters if they would come to me.”
The old sisters and Jorge came. Jorge put Call inside on a blanket. Teresa fixed some frijoles, but only Rafael ate a little. Her mother didn’t want any, and Señor Call was not speaking. His mind had gone to sleep, as it often did.
Teresa began to be afraid for her mother. She heard her mother’s breath, and it was as weak as Señor Call’s. She was worried that they might both die. She was also afraid that Joey might come back and get her and Rafael. She knew now that Joey was bad, and she was very afraid. Having the water suck her breath had left her with a deep fear.
Maria felt her daughter’s fear in the trembling of her small hands.
“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “Joey’s dead. You are safe. Billy will come soon and take care of us. The old sisters will stay until he comes to help.”
When the vaqueros realized that Joey Garza was dead and that Gordo, a stupid butcher, had killed him, they became bitter. They had had the chance to kill him too, but the bloody woman had pointed a gun at them and prevented them from having the glory of killing the young bandit. In their bitterness, they drank a lot of tequila and convinced themselves that they had shot Joey Garza. The butcher had only assisted. They found Joey’s body in the river and shot it a few more times, then put a rope on it and dragged it through the village streets. In other places, one would believe that a greasy butcher had killed the famous young killer with a rusty carbine. But in Mexico and Texas, the people would think it was two fearless vaqueros who had risked their lives to rid the country of a scourge. Their fame would grow; there would be songs about them. Only in Ojinaga would anyone even suppose that a village butcher had anything to
do with it.
The vaqueros left Joey’s body outside the cantina and went to Presidio to spread the news. They wanted to find someone to take their picture with the corpse.
Jorge and his brother brought Joey’s body to his mother. His body was filthy and dirty and coated with dust from being dragged by the two vaqueros. Maria begged the old sisters to heat water and help her clean her son. She wanted his body to be clean, and she wanted him dressed in clean clothes, clothes that she had washed herself.
“He’s my good boy again . . . please make him nice,” she asked the old sisters. But the old sisters smoked and sulked and ignored her. They knew the dead boy was of the devil—to touch him might be to catch corruption.
Maria was weak, but she was determined that her son’s body would be clean.
“Get out!” she cried at the old sisters. “Go roll your cigarettes someplace else.”
She made Teresa heat water. When it was hot, she bathed the wounds on Rafael’s scalp, working very slowly. Then she had Teresa and Rafael help her move to where Joey lay. Teresa brought her a knife, and with it Maria cut off Joey’s clothes. She was very weak, and she had to stop often to rest.
Jorge came in for a minute and helped Maria clean Joey’s body. He was very grateful to Maria, for his wife was alive and he had a fine son. He didn’t know why Maria was still alive. She had three deep wounds in her chest, and the blood seeped through her dress.
“Mama, you’re bleeding,” Teresa said. “I feel it on my hands.”
“Maria, you’re hurt,” Jorge said, thinking she might not realize how badly she was wounded.
“I want to put clean clothes on my son,” Maria said. “I want to do it now.” She ignored their fears, the fears of her child and of the shoemaker. She felt very weak, but she wanted her son’s body to be clean.
She was not strong enough to dress him, though, and Jorge did not like to touch dead bodies. Jorge began to shake and tremble at the thought of what he was doing. He wanted to be home looking at his fine son. He didn’t like moving Joey’s stiffening limbs in order to get him into clothes. They got the shirt on him, but that was the best they could do.
“Maria, just cover him,” Jorge told her, before he left.
Maria had to stop with the shirt, for she was too weak to do more. She asked Teresa to get a blanket, and they covered Joey. Maria wept and wept for her son’s lost life. Teresa felt her mother’s tears with her fingers and tried to comfort her, but for Maria there was no comfort. She had tried to be a good mother, but she had not been able to make her son a good person. Joey had been killed while trying to murder his own brother and sister. That he had killed her didn’t matter so much; his life had killed her already, his life and her life. Her mistakes had been too many and too profound, though she didn’t know exactly when the mistakes had been made or what they were. She had gotten up every morning and made food and washed clothes and seen that her children were clean. She had tried to teach them good behavior, but still it had led to Teresa’s blindness, and Rafael’s poor mind, and the moment in the river when she had had to turn the knife on her own child. It was too hard—Maria wanted peace. She wanted to have all the pains and worries bleed quickly away, and to go into a sleep beyond dreams, beyond the need to be awake and wash and cook while knowing every day that so much was wrong.
When Joey was covered, Maria crawled back to her blanket, stopping several times to rest. She saw old Call watching her. That was another strange trick of life—that she should be dying in her own house, in a room with the man who had killed her father and her brother.
The children had run outside for a moment. They couldn’t stand to hear the weakness in her voice, and they wanted to be away from the fear that their mother might die. They hid among the goats while Rafael tried to find the nanny goat he sometimes suckled. But he was too confused; he could not find her.
Call saw Maria crawling on the floor, dragging herself back to her blanket. He didn’t know what had occurred, but he saw that the woman was badly injured. He remembered that the cold boy had come into the room and had looked at him insolently.
Maria did not like having the old man in her house. Taking him in had been another mistake. If she met her father and her brother on the other side, they would be stern and unforgiving. But Call was kind to Teresa, and perhaps if he lived he would be a friend to her.
Several townspeople came to see Joey’s body. Maria lay on her blanket and did not speak. She could not afford to waste what strength she had left. Teresa and Rafael came back and sat with her, one child on either side. They were silent and afraid. Maria hoped that Billy would return soon this time. She needed him to hurry back with Lorena. It was for Lorena that she waited, in pain and in life. Maria was a mother; she had two children alive, two damaged children. She hoped Lorena would be kind enough to take them. There was no one in the village to take them, for the village was too poor. No one would want to feed them or keep them clean or wash their clothes. Teresa was pretty; men would soon find her and degrade her. Rafael would be teased and tormented. He would go hungry, for his blind sister would not be strong enough to protect him. For them, Maria held herself in life. Teresa brought her posole, but she could not eat. She saw Teresa feeding old Call and heard her whispering to him.
Long hours passed. Maria grew more and more tired, until she was so weak she despaired. She was about to ask old Call if he would make the request to Lorena for her. Would he ask Lorena if she would take her children? She knew it was a serious request, to ask another woman to raise her children. Lorena had five of her own, and it might be that her husband was dead. But Maria had no one else to ask. She was about to tell Rafael to pull her over nearer to Call, when she heard the horses coming to the house.
Then Billy Williams stood in the doorway; Lorena stood behind him. He came and knelt by Maria. Maria felt grateful to fortune that she had Billy Williams to assist her. He had come back when he promised. He had many failings, but he also had fidelity—now he had brought her the person she most needed, the woman who might help her children after her death, when she could not mother them anymore. It was important that he had come back when he said he would—it was the best thing a man had ever done for her.
“Why, Mary, you ain’t dyin’, are you?” Billy asked. He was stricken in the heart. He touched Maria’s face; it was cold. He had only left for a little more than a day, and now this!
“Go get drunk now, Billy,” Maria whispered to him. “But don’t forget my children. Please talk about me when you see them. Give them your memories. Tell them how I danced and laughed, when I was young and pretty. . . .”
“Mary, you’re still young and pretty,” Billy Williams told her. It took his breath away to think that after all these years, Maria was going. He would be lost; he wouldn’t know what to do.
Maria raised up and gave him a little kiss and tugged at his hair for a moment. He still had the long hair of the mountain man.
“Go on, Billy. Go get drunk,” Maria whispered, again.
“Oh, Mary . . .” Billy sighed. He wanted to talk more—he wanted to say things he had never said to her. But Maria’s eyes were tired and sad.
“You go on . . . obey me,” Maria told him, quietly, but in a tone that he knew better than to argue with.
“Well . . . didn’t I always?” he asked.
Lorena wanted the old man to go. She saw the dying woman looking at her, and she knew what Maria wanted to ask. She wanted the old man to go; yet, maybe he had been to Maria what Pea Eye was to her. It was not her place to rush him in his last moments with his love.
Billy Williams rose, looked at Maria once more, and stumbled outside.
Lorena knelt and felt Maria’s pulse; it was barely there. That the woman was alive at all was a wonder. But then, it was a wonder that Call still lived. Pea Eye was outside, tied to his horse and in great pain. She wanted to lift him down and bring him in, but she had to hear Maria’s request first.
“Would you take them?�
� Maria asked, with a movement of her head, first toward Rafael and then toward Teresa.
“Yes, I’ll take them,” Lorena said firmly. She wanted to relieve the woman’s deep doubt. Maria had made the request she herself would have had to make to Clara, if things had gone differently. And she might not have even gotten to speak it—she might have had to trust that Clara would receive it in her heart, and respond.
“I’ve got my husband back now, and I’ll take them. I expect we can take care of all the children that come along,” Lorena told her. She meant it too; she was firm. She had Pea Eye back, and together they could take care of all the children that came along.
Maria smiled. She looked at Rafael and put her trembling hand on Teresa’s face.
“I’ve got to get my husband in. He’s hurt. I’ll be right back,” Lorena said, softly.
She found Billy Williams outside, crying.
“I just went off for two days,” he choked, “and now this.”
“It was the wrong two days, but you couldn’t know that,” Lorena said. “Help me get Pea off, will you? He’s hurting.”
They lifted Pea Eye down, carried him into the small house, and put him down beside Call.
“There’s not too many more places left to lay sick people or dead people in this house,” Billy Williams mumbled. There were Joey and Maria, Call, and now Pea Eye.
Lorena went to Maria and saw that she was gone.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 283
