14.
CHARLES GOODNIGHT WIRED the money, and Clara Allen telegraphed that she was bringing the children home herself as soon as she could get a train. Lorena felt relieved. She hoped Clara would stay for a while. Clara was the one person she could let herself rest with.
When Lorena came back with the tickets, Pea Eye was startled. The Colonel had assured him that everything would be arranged; he himself would be taking them home to the Panhandle.
Captain Call hadn’t spoken, since coming back from Nuevo Laredo. He seemed to have taken the news of Bolivar’s death very hard. Pea Eye was surprised at just how hard the Captain took the news. When Bolivar had worked for them the Captain had usually been mad at him, the way Pea Eye remembered it. Bolivar was given to clanging the dinner bell with his broken crowbar, whether it was mealtime or not. The Captain hadn’t liked it, either. But now he was so sunken that even Tessie couldn’t get him to speak.
“The Colonel’s due back tomorrow,” Pea Eye reminded Lorena. “He’s going to be right surprised when he finds out we left ahead of him.”
“We’re going today—don’t lose the tickets,” Lorena said, handing them to him.
15.
COLONEL TERRY TURNED red with anger when he returned from Coahuila and discovered that Lorena and her party had left ahead of him. What was a little cut on the hand? It was only a start—women’s anger sometimes led to better things.
“Who let them go? Was it you, goddamn you?” the Colonel said, glaring at the elderly stationmaster.
“Why, Colonel . . . they had tickets,” the stationmaster told him. “People with tickets can get on the train. . . . It’s just a matter of having tickets.”
“Damn the tickets, and goddamn you, you’re fired, get off my railroad!” Colonel Terry ordered.
16.
IN SAN ANTONIO, Lorena stopped for a day to take Teresa to an eye doctor. The stationmaster in Laredo had noticed that the little girl was blind, and told Lorena the name of a doctor in San Antonio who could help people with poor vision. His wife’s sister was shortsighted, and had gone to him and got some fine spectacles. Before that, she had been prone to mixing up the sugar and the salt. Her husband, his brother-in-law, had been about to leave her for it.
The eye doctor was a very old man. His name was Lee.
“No kin to the General,” he told Lorena. He boiled his instruments for a long time, before examining Teresa.
“People think I’m kin to the General, but I’m no kin to the General,” he said again, while waiting for the instruments to cool.
Teresa held her rooster—the old doctor had allowed it.
“Why, sure, what’s the harm in a rooster, unless he pecks,” he said.
When he was through, Dr. Lee took Lorena aside and told her that Teresa was incurably blind. Lorena went back to the train with a heavy heart. But Teresa had her rooster, and she seemed happy.
17.
NORTH OF FORT Worth, there was a delay. An old man had been crossing the tracks with a wagonful of pigs. The old man was deaf, and he didn’t hear the train coming. The wreck killed the old man, and scattered pigs everywhere. One of the wagon wheels jammed under the locomotive, along with a dead sow; it took a long time to clear it. In the railroad station in San Antonio, Lorena had used a little of Mr. Goodnight’s money to buy a book by Mr. Hardy. She read it while the train was stopped.
“It’s about a girl called Tess,” she told Pea Eye, when he inquired.
“I hope she wasn’t blind, like our Tessie,” Pea Eye replied.
18.
CALL LOOKED OUT the window at the grasslands, as the plains opened around them. Teresa whispered to him, trying to get him to talk; but he could not bring himself to speak, at least not often. There must have been a lot of rain that winter, for the cover was abundant. It would be a good year for the cattle herds.
The Captain could not imagine what he was going to do, in the years ahead. He would have to live, but without himself. He felt he had left himself far away, back down the weeks, in the spot west of Fort Stockton where he had been wounded. He had saddled up, as he would have on any morning. He had ridden off to check two horses, as he would have on any morning, as he had ridden on thousands of mornings throughout his life. He had been himself; a little stiff maybe, his finger joints swollen; but himself. He scarcely heard the gunshots, or felt the first bullet. That bullet and the others hadn’t killed him, but they had removed him. Now there was a crack, a kind of canyon, between the Woodrow Call sitting with Teresa on the train and the Woodrow Call who had made the campfire that morning and saddled his horse. The crack was permanent, the canyon deep. He could not get across it, back to himself. His last moments as himself had been spent casually—making a campfire, drinking coffee, saddling a horse.
Then the wounds split him off from that self, that Call—he could remember the person he had been, but he could not become that person again. He could never be that Call again. Even if he had kept his arm and his leg, he knew it would be much the same. Of course, having the arm and the leg would have been a great convenience, for he could earn a living if he had them. He could be far less of a burden. But even if he had kept the arm and leg, he could not have returned to being the Call who had made the campfire and saddled the horse. The first bullet had removed him from that person. That person—that Call—was back down the weeks, on the other side of the canyon of time. There was no rejoining him, and there never would be.
19.
THE TRAIN REACHED the little station at Quanah after midnight. Teresa slept. Rafael had been moaning; he was having bad dreams. Call could manage his crutches a little, but he was very stiff from the long ride on the hard bench. Pea Eye had to help him up.
Charles Goodnight stood on the platform. Clara Allen stood there, too. When Lorena looked out the window and saw Clara, her heart leapt.
“Clara’s here,” she said, to Pea Eye. “We’ll get to see our children.”
“Oh my Lord!” Pea Eye exclaimed.
Lorena picked up Teresa and kept Rafael close to her side. She didn’t want to scare him. He had the smaller of the goats in his arms.
“Hello—we’ve got two more children now,” Lorena said, as she eased Rafael down the steps.
“What a pretty child,” Clara said, coming closer to look at Teresa in the light from the station window.
“You must have traveled hard—you got here quicker than us, and we was in Texas to begin with,” Lorena said. She freed an arm and hugged Clara. To her eye Clara looked older, and too thin.
Even with Pea Eye’s help, Captain Call had difficulty getting down the steps with his crutches. He was embarrassed that he had to be met, and particularly by Clara Allen, who had never liked him. But she had traveled from Nebraska to bring Pea Eye and Lorena their children. That was doing them a considerable favor, he recognized.
“Pea, you’ve got to go back and get the other goat and Teresa’s chickens,” Lorena said. “I don’t know what Tessie would do if we left that rooster on the train.”
“I’ll fetch the goat,” Goodnight said. He was glad to have something to help with. The sight of Woodrow Call was a shock to him, though he was no stranger to wounded men. It was not so much the missing limbs as the look on the man’s face that bothered him. But it was shadowy, on the platform; perhaps in the daylight he wouldn’t look so ruined.
“I’m not much of a hand with fowl,” he said. “Hello, Woodrow.”
“Yes, hello, Captain,” Clara said. “I’ll get the chickens, Charlie.”
“Why didn’t he just die?” she asked Goodnight, when they were on the train. Goodnight had already picked up the goat, but looked as if he didn’t know quite what to do about the chickens.
“I was never much of a hand with fowl,” he remarked, again.
“I told you I’d get the chickens,” Clara said, annoyed that he had simply ignored her question about Call. Goodnight had happened to be in the station in Amarillo, when she and the children arrived from
Omaha. Clara remembered Goodnight from her childhood, for he had known her father well. He had been in Nebraska once and had bought ten horses from her. She went over and said hello. Since they were going to be on the same train, she thought he might be some help with the little ones, but that proved a false hope. Not only was Goodnight hard to make conversation with, he was as scared of the children as if they had been wildcats.
Clara picked the chickens up by their legs and carried them off the train. The hens and the rooster were outraged—Teresa had never carried them upside down. The hens began to squawk and the rooster to protest.
“What’s wrong with my chickens? Don’t carry them that way, give them to me,” Teresa said. She had realized from the sound that the chickens were upside down.
It was only when Teresa reached for her chickens that Clara realized the little girl was blind.
20.
THE FIVE CHILDREN were asleep in a heap on the floor, in a corner of the station. Clarie had her arms around them all. At the sight of his daughter holding her brothers and her sister, Pea Eye broke down. In his time of danger he had almost given up hope of seeing his children again. Yet there they were, all alive, all sleeping, on the floor of a railroad station. His big daughter was looking after them. It was more than he deserved, more even than he had hoped for, and he began to cry. Teresa’s hens were still squawking, even though she had set them down. They were running around the station; one brown hen jumped up on the stationmaster’s desk and scattered his papers.
“Here, scat—who are you?” he said. He was not used to such commotion at that hour. Usually no more than a cowboy or two got off the Fort Worth train.
“Oh, Pa,” Clarie said, when she awoke and saw her father. Ben got awake and hugged his father, but waking up proved too much for Georgie and August. Both yawned heavily and went back to sleep. Laurie, the baby, opened her eyes and started to cry. She didn’t know who the strange man was, hugging Clarie. Then her mother reached down and took her. There was an old man standing near who had only sticks for legs. Laurie looked at him curiously, as her mother hugged her.
21.
GOODNIGHT HAD ARRANGED for a cowboy to bring a wagon. The cowboy arrived at sunup, driving the wagon and leading two horses. The boys were awake by then. They chased the hens and played with the goats. They took to Rafael right away but were a little shy with Teresa, who held her rooster in her arms.
“There must be a doctor somewhere who could help that girl see,” Clara told Lorena. Although she had just arrived in Texas, she was already beginning to dread the trip home, by herself. She had grown used to Lorena’s children, and to having laughter and fusses in her house. There had been life in her house again; since her daughters left, it seemed to her, there had been no life in her house. It was hard for her, one aging woman, to bring life to a home. Yet how she missed it!
Goodnight mounted one of the horses; the cowboy mounted the other. Pea Eye took the reins of the team. It was still all he could do to keep from bawling, at the sight of his children and the familiar country.
“Many thanks for the loan of the wagon,” he said to Mr. Goodnight.
“You’re welcome,” Goodnight replied. He had not quite mastered his shock at the change in Woodrow Call.
“I’ll soon repay that loan,” Lorena told him. She had not told Pea Eye she had borrowed money. She intended to discuss it with Mr. Goodnight privately, but there had not been a moment when she could speak to him alone. She was a little worried about Pea Eye’s reaction, but Pea Eye let Georgie sit on his lap and pretend to drive the team—he didn’t hear the remark about the loan.
“We’re branding today,” Goodnight said. “In fact, we’re branding all this week. When we’re done, I’ll trot over and check on the bunch of you.”
He tipped his hat to the two ladies and turned his horse; he rode a few steps and then turned back to Lorena.
“Mrs. Parker, I hope you’ll be opening the school again,” he said.
“I’ll be opening the school again, Mr. Goodnight,” Lorena said to him. “I’ll be opening it again soon.”
“Well, I’ve got to git,” Goodnight said. He had not gotten around to firing Muley, the cook; it was a matter that preyed on his mind, as he and the cowboy loped away.
22.
AT FIRST, THEY put Captain Call in a little granary in the barn. There was no other place for him. The granary was fairly clean; there had never been any grain in it, because they had never been able to afford any, and had so far failed to raise enough to store. The house itself was so crowded that Clara had to sleep in a hallway during her visit.
“This hall is fine,” Clara said. “I won’t have these boys evicted from their bedroom for an old lady.”
“I bet they didn’t sleep in a hall at your house,” Lorena said.
“My house is bigger,” Clara admitted.
Everyone was surprised at how quickly Teresa learned her way around the farm. She went to the barn every morning to take Call coffee and bacon, and she learned all the farm animals by sound. She rarely stumbled. Ben fought with her—he wasn’t prepared for another girl to be living with them. It hadn’t been in his plans. Teresa more than held her own in the fights, though. She was quicker in the head than Ben, and she confounded him with her retorts.
“The doctor in San Antonio said she’d never see,” Lorena told Clara.
“He’s just one doctor,” Clara said.
23.
CALL DIDN’T MIND bunking in the granary. Excepting Teresa, who came to him often to bring him food or tell him her stories, he didn’t want to see people or be around them. He had a kerosene lamp, but rarely lit it. There was hay in the barn; he didn’t want to take a chance at falling asleep, knocking the lamp over, and burning the barn down.
Three old cowboys, one of them a former Ranger, stopped by to see him in the first week. They wanted to congratulate him on having rid the country of Mox Mox; mainly, though, they just wanted to see him, to talk about old times.
Call was uncomfortable with the men, and he let them do the talking. He felt like an impostor. He was no longer the man who had lived the old times; he was no longer even the man who had killed Mox Mox. That man was not the cripple who lived in a granary, in a barn on the Quitaque. That man lived back somewhere in memory, across a canyon, across the Pecos; that man had been blown away, as Brookshire feared he would be, on the plains of time.
The cowboys felt awkward. The Captain clearly did not want to see them. They regretted coming, and they left, disquieted by what had happened to a man they had once regarded as invincible.
24.
HIS BRANDING DONE, Goodnight came. He took a look at Call and the granary, and left. Three days later, two wagons full of lumber arrived, accompanied by six cowboys. Between sunup and sundown of the next day, they built Call a shack. They had brought with them the few possessions he had left in the little line cabin on the Palo Duro. It was just a shack, but it was better than an oat bin. Pea Eye helped with the work, although he was a poor carpenter. He soon hit himself with the hammer, raising a blood blister that was so large and painful, Lorena had to eventually cut off the nail.
She was grateful to Goodnight for the shack, for she had felt bad about putting the Captain in the barn. But she worried about the debt.
“I’ll pay you back, Mr. Goodnight,” she told him. “I expect it’ll be a while, though. But we’re good for it, eventually. I just don’t know when.”
“I’d take up a collection for Call, but I suppose it would embarrass him,” Goodnight said. “He’s ruined now, but there are plenty of people in this part of the country who would have been shot or scalped or robbed, if not for him. Or their folks would have been, if not them.”
Lorena’s mind was on the debt. In the back of her mind was the knowledge, which she had not yet shared with Pea, that she was pregnant.
“We intend to pay you back, Mr. Goodnight,” she said again, firmly.
“If Mrs. Allen needs a ride to the
depot, and if you’ll get word to me, I’ll send a cowboy with a buggy,” Goodnight said.
25.
SOMETIMES, IF TERESA urged him, Call would hobble to the house for his meals. He and Clara rarely spoke. When the meal was finished, it was Teresa who got Call his crutches and helped him from his chair.
If Teresa was out of the room for five minutes, Call grew visibly anxious. He would look around for her.
“Where’s Tessie?” he would ask, if Teresa was absent too long. “Ain’t Tessie here?”
Teresa always walked with him, holding him lightly by the arm as he went back to his shack.
“He’s formed an attachment,” Clara said, watching. “It’s an attachment to a female, too.”
“Yes,” Lorena said. “He wouldn’t last long without Tessie.”
Clara sighed. She knew she ought to be going home soon. It was time to geld the foals, and put the mares with stud. Yet she hated to leave Lorena’s loud, lively household. Sleeping in a hall was better than sleeping in an empty house. Laurie would toddle out in the morning, and cuddle with her. Sometimes little August would come, asking for a story. If August came, Georgie soon followed. She would lie in a heap of children, sometimes for an hour. In Nebraska, August and Georgie had slept in her bed; the little girl usually slept with Clarie.
In the hallway, holding the bright little boy and the babbling girl, Clara daydreamed about changing her life. She realized she had lost touch, just from not touching. Her daughters had produced no grandchildren for her to hold or carry to bed. It didn’t seem to her that her own life had ever been entirely normal, but at least during her years of child raising, she had had people with her, in her house and in her bed—people to touch.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 287
