The Time It Never Rained

by Elmer Kelton

  “There, Charlie, that’s the very best I can do. You’ll just have to take it or I’ll go on back to town.”

  Charlie frowned over it and shook his head. He reached for the chewed-up pencil and figured some more. He passed the book back. “That there’s rock bottom, absolutely the lowest I’ll go. If you can’t give that, there’s no use us wastin’ any more of each other’s time.”

  The trader looked at the book, then shrugged. “Charlie, if you’d been in this country eighty years ago they’d of hung you for robbin’ stagecoaches.”

  Charlie said regretfully, “I’ve done the best I could.”

  The trader climbed down from the fence, looking back to see if Charlie was weakening. “Well, ’bye, Charlie.”

  “Take it easy, Tooter. Glad you could come out.”

  Thomas took his time walking to the car, and Charlie was just as slow moving down off the fence. Tooter opened the car door, fooling around a minute getting the cushion fixed to suit him. He slowly slid his bulk behind the wheel, carefully glancing back at Charlie. He closed the door and started the car, racing the motor a moment before he backed out. He was watching Charlie, and Charlie—standing by the fence—was watching him. Tooter backed the car a hundred feet, stopped, pulled forward again and cut off the ignition. Charlie started walking toward him, looking as uninterested as he could.

  Tooter stepped out of the car. “Charlie, I’ve always been a damn fool. Never was able to make any money because I got such a kind heart. I’ll split the difference with you.”

  Charlie looked sadly at his cattle and said, “Get your checkbook.”

  Charlie had known from the day he lost his cows that he would lose Lupe Flores next. It happened after Tom stepped off of Prairie Dog a little too fast at a rodeo and broke a bone in his foot. The doctor put a walking cast on it, but that didn’t help enough. Tom would be out of rodeo for a few months at least. Missing those big-money shows at the end of the season meant he was washed out of any chance at the title this year, and he wouldn’t be able to start in time enough next year to catch up. So he came home; there was nowhere else to go. And with Tom here, even half crippled, Big Emmett made it clear that Charlie no longer had any excuse for keeping Lupe. Big had enough influence to find Lupe a job at a livestock yard in San Angelo; at least he wasn’t turning him out to starve like some old used-up horse set loose on the desert.

  The last thing Lupe put on the borrowed bobtail truck was a boxspring and mattress. He lashed a tarp down over them, then stepped to the ground to survey the job. The wind was blowing hard out of the west, carrying the dry taste of dust. A loose corner of the tarp flapped against the sideboards. All the property Lupe and Rosa owned was packed onto this truck, and into a cotton trailer Charlie had borrowed from Emil Deutscher. This was harvest time, but Emil didn’t need the trailer. He hadn’t made a crop.

  The Flores family stood in an uneven line across the front of their wind-swept yard—Lupe, Rosa, Anita, Luisa. Manuel was out past the barn, where they had buried his bay colt. The smallest boys, Candelario and Juan, knelt to pet the black dog they were having to leave behind.

  Blinking back tears, Juan said, “I wish we could take him with us. I bet they’ve got dogs in Angelo.”

  Charlie put his hand on the boy’s thatch of black hair. “He’s a ranch dog, hijo. He’s growed up out here where he’s had the whole world to run in. He couldn’t live cooped up. Town’s no place for a dog.” He added with a touch of bitterness, "Or a boy, either.”

  Lupe rubbed his neck and looked at the ground. He and Charlie had avoided each other’s eyes. Mary stood beside Rosa, both women crushing handkerchiefs in their hands. Neither was talking. Tom stood to one side, leaning on his cane and watching soberly. Charlie looked around for Dolly; she was sitting on the front porch of the big house, watching from a distance. She hadn’t come down to speak to Lupe’s family, but he guessed she didn’t really know them. Perhaps she felt this was a private farewell, best reserved to old friends. He hoped that was the way she looked at it. Ever since Tom had brought her home this time, the ice in her eyes had been thick enough to chill a man across the room.

  “Just think, Lupe,” Charlie said in a thin attempt at cheer, “regular hours from now on. You won’t have to get up till six-thirty. Go to work at eight, get off at five, and it won’t matter to you whether it rains or not.” None of this was true; he had seen enough of the stockyards to know better.

  Lupe was lost in gloom. “It will always matter to me, Mister Charlie. Any time I see a cloud, I will hope you got a big rain.”

  Charlie blinked and looked off toward the barn, toward Manuel. “I never thought it would wind up like this. I thought we was all fixed here for life.”

  Lupe shrugged. “God has His reasons. He knows that when we have our bellies full, we don’t bother much with Him. He knows that we stop and listen to Him only when the trouble comes, so once in a while he sends trouble. Maybe He says to Himself, those people down there they think they are too big to need God any more. One time He made it rain for forty days and forty nights to punish the people. This time He made it dry. Someday when all the people learn to pray again He will make it rain.” Lupe looked down. “I will pray, Mister Charlie.”

  “This is just temporary. It’ll rain and everything’ll be the way it was. You-all will be comin’ back. You watch what I tell you—there won’t be nothin’ changed.”

  Lupe nodded, but Charlie saw the realization of truth in his dark eyes: Lupe knew—as Charlie knew—that times change, and people change. Lupe had been born on a ranch and had lived on one or another all his life. But put him in town awhile and there was little chance he would come back. He would accustom himself to new ways, set down new roots. He was far from being a young man any more. Once he changed he would not change back.

  Charlie could talk about it all he wanted to, but nothing would ever be the same again.

  He didn’t notice the car on the town road until it came over the last cattleguard and pulled to a stop beside the truck. Kathy Mauldin stepped out and stood a moment, holding the open door, looking at the Flores family. She said quietly, “I was afraid I’d miss you.” She put her arms around Rosa, then around Anita. She started looking then, for someone was missing.

  Manuel trudged back from beyond the barn, his head down. He stopped beside Kathy, started to raise his hands and then self-consciously dropped them back to his sides. They stared at each other, not saying anything.

  Finally Kathy spoke. “Angelo’s not so far, really. You can drive down any time you take a notion.”

  Manuel glanced at Charlie, then cut his eyes quickly away. Charlie had seen resentment in them the last few days. Manuel had said nothing to him, but the message in his eyes had been plain to read: You sold us out.

  Charlie didn’t know how to explain it to him. He guessed he hadn’t really tried. Now it was too late.

  It was a long, silent, awkward moment, and Lupe finally broke it up by clearing his throat and getting into the truck. Manuel gave Kathy a last long look, then climbed up on the other side, sliding in with his father. Candelario followed him. One by one the rest of the family got into the old car.

  Charlie kept looking at the truck, not wanting it to end this way with Manuel. He walked up and leaned against the door. “Manuel, I expect we can use a little help next spring at shearin’. I couldn’t afford to pay you what I’ve paid your daddy, but I’ll find a way to pay you somethin’. Reckon you can come?”

  Manuel seemed surprised. Tightly he said, “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  “I hope you can, boy.”

  Charlie couldn’t reach Manuel, who sat in the middle, but he put his hand on top of Candelario’s hat and gave the boy’s head a gentle shake. Candelario began to cry. Charlie bit his lip as Lupe turned the ignition key and started the motor. He stepped back and lifted his hand in a half-hearted wave. The tears were working down his own cheeks as he could see them on Lupe’s, and he didn’t give a damn.

&nbs
p; “Vaya con Dios, Lupe.”

  “Adiós, Mister Charlie.”

  He didn’t move until the truck had disappeared behind the car and trailer, well down the road. The black dog chased after them all the way to the bend, then started walking back, panting hard. Charlie stood in silence, aching from the sudden emptiness inside. He blew his nose and delayed turning around to face the others until he could surreptitiously wipe his eyes.

  When at last he turned, he found Mary watching him. He looked quickly away, not wanting her to see what was in his face; she would probably think him an old fool for letting the thing get to him the way it did.

  She had never spoken reproachfully to him about this, but he had known the thought must be there. I could have held onto them a little longer, he knew. I could have taken help like the others, and maybe I could have held onto them. He wondered why she had never put the thought into words. It wasn’t like her not to ache at him about something she didn’t approve of.

  To his surprise she slipped her hand into his and leaned against him in a way she hadn’t done in years. He could feel her shoulders shake a little as she tried to hold it all inside.

  “Mary,” he said, knowing she must understand what he was talking about, “a man does what he feels is right, no matter what it costs him.”

  She nodded. Her voice was so soft he barely heard it. “I never said different.”

  Presently Mary asked Kathy to come on up to the house, but Kathy gave some quiet excuse that Charlie couldn’t hear. She got back into the car and left. That, Charlie thought, was a wasted trip. Kathy hadn’t spoken a dozen words during the short time she had been here. Or maybe it wasn’t wasted. Sometimes a woman could say a lot and never open her mouth.

  Tom moved up closer to his mother and father. Charlie brought himself to say, “Well, son, they’re gone—gone with the wind and the dust and the drouth. Now it’s just us ... me and your mother and you.”

  Tom did not reply.

  As the Flaggs turned back toward the big house, Dolly came down from the porch and walked out to meet Tom. She had nothing to say to the elder Flaggs as they passed her, and they were too somber to speak. She looked back after them a moment and finished moving to where Tom stood in front of the frame house. He said solemnly, “We just as well go in and take a look at the house. This’ll be home for us.”

  Dolly looked down the road, where the dust was slowly clearing. “Seemed like a lot of fuss to make over some Mexicans.”

  “They were friends.”

  Her brow arched. “I just now got a good look at that oldest girl, Anita. I’ll bet she was a real friend.”

  Tom’s face colored. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I know all about Mexican girls. Seemed to me when we got married, you brought a good education with you.”

  Tom’s voice was acid. “I don’t reckon me or you either one was exactly an amateur. But whatever I knew, there didn’t none of it come from Anita. She was like a little sister. I don’t want you sayin’ anything about that girl again. Now, you comin’ into the house, or not?”

  She followed him, pouting. Tom gave her a glance and looked away. He couldn’t remember he had ever seen that pout before he married her. He was damn well getting used to it lately.

  He stopped in the living room. The empty place was like a graveyard. “It’s clean. Rosa always loved this house. She wouldn’t of left it any way but clean.”

  Dolly’s jaw took a firm set. “It’s a Mexican house. It’s got a Mexican smell to it.”

  “It’s your house now. What kind of a smell you goin’ to put in it?”

  She turned her back on him and folded her arms across her breasts. She said tightly, “This wasn’t part of the bargain when we married. You didn’t say anything about taking me to live in a poverty hole like this.”

  “I can’t help it if my luck went bad. I can’t grow a new foot.”

  “You didn’t have to break that one. If you hadn’t gone off half-cocked and pulled a damnfool stunt . . .”

  “All right, I was mad when I went after that calf, and I didn’t have my mind on what I was doin’. But if you hadn’t been chewin’ on me so goddam hard just before I went out there . . .”

  She turned on him, her eyes crackling. “Go ahead, try to blame your mistakes on me.”

  “I’m not puttin’ all the blame on you; I’m blamin’ myself too. I ought to’ve slapped your teeth out the first time you opened your mouth against me instead of just standin’ there and listenin’ to it.” He took a step toward her and jabbed the tip of his finger at her breastbone. “So now we’re here and the honeymoon is over and you’ll by God make the best of it!”

  She didn’t cow. She lighted a filter-tip and drew on it slowly, her eyes burning like the end of the cigarette. She blew the smoke into his face. “We’ll see,” she said. “We’ll see.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  DESPITE THE CAST, TOM COULD DRIVE A PICKUP IF HE took time and care. Keeping his weight on his good foot, he could help Charlie swing feed sacks up onto the bed of the vehicle. As he had done with Lupe in recent times since feeding had become such an encompassing chore, Charlie divided the feeding routes into two segments, one for himself, one for Tom. It was better that Tom not have to climb up and down into the bed of the pickup to rip the strings on feed sacks, so Charlie used the oldest of the two vehicles, the blue one Lupe had driven. Tom took Charlie’s. It was not much better, but Charlie had had a shade-tree welder put a homemade bulk feeder onto the bed. All Tom had to do to distribute feed to the stock was to reach through his window and pull a rope. The pellets would spill out.

  Charlie took over those chores which Tom couldn’t manage. At such times he sorely missed Lupe. He had never fully realized before just how much heavy work Lupe had done for him.

  They fed all winter and were still feeding when the scissor-tails returned, a sign spring had come to stay. Charlie did not look forward to shearing. No fresh green grass arose from the cracked earth. It looked as if his new crop of lambs would grow up without ever knowing the sweet taste of green feed—those that did grow up. Charlie’s shearing-pen count of lambs would be considerably short of the one he had made at marking time, soon after they were born. More had died than he wanted to think about.

  Many baby lambs became lost trying to follow their mothers in the wild melee around the feeding grounds. Some would never pair up again. Other lambs were simply abandoned. When a ewe was doing poorly, she might kick off her lamb in an instinctive move to conserve her own strength from the drain which milk production made upon it. It was a cruel thing but part of her nature. The lost or abandoned lamb would wander aimlessly in circles, bleating in hunger and bewilderment until its strength was gone. Then it would lie down under a bush to die in solitude in its own good time, giving up the struggle after a few harsh days of a futile life.

  All his years in the sheep business had never steeled Charlie to the point that a dead lamb did not bring a wrench to his soul. In practice, however, he did not find a great many. Buzzards and other scavengers cleaned the pastures quickly and well. But Charlie did not have to see the bodies to know of the deaths; he could tell by the ever-increasing number of ewes that showed up with no trailing offspring.

  Driving around the feeding ground, watching ewes with baby lambs tagging along sore-footed, trying to keep up as their mothers hurried in for their share of the pellets, Charlie sometimes felt himself slipping toward despair.

  All of his life he had enjoyed what he had done. It had been fun being a wage-working cowboy out on the Pecos; with all the hardship, there had been more than enough offsetting compensations. Ranching, too, had always been enjoyable to him. Even during the hard years of the ’30s there had been more pleasures than pain. But he had had his youth then, and a resilience the years had since stolen from him.

  Now there was no longer any fun in it; now it was an ordeal.

  He saw a ewe badly outdistancing her lamb in eagerness for feed. The lamb to
ttered along far behind, near exhaustion, bleating pitifully. Charlie rolled down the window and shouted in fruitless anger, “Slow down, old Nelly! There’ll be a-plenty for all of you.”

  Instead the ewe broke into a run, following the pickup. “Damn sheep!” Charlie gritted. “Damn stupid sheep!”

  The heedless ewe was headed for the other sheep and for the feed she knew would be there. In this wind and in the confusion around the feed grounds she would probably never find that lamb again.

  An explosion of rage brought Charlie boiling out of the pickup. He reached down for rocks and hurled them at the ewe, shouting above the wind. “Get back there, damn you! Get back there and act like a mother!”

  The ewe dodged around Charlie and hurried on toward the other sheep. “Damn you!” Charlie shouted. “Damn you!”

  Tom had been out of practice at ranch work, but he was soon back into the swing of it. He said most ranch routine was like riding a bicycle; once learned, it was never forgotten. But Charlie had cause to wonder if Tom was really enjoying it, or if his mind was still out on the rodeo circuit, on the long highways and in the crowded fairgrounds. Tom never spoke of rodeo unless Charlie chanced to ask him something, and Charlie made it a point to mention the subject very seldom. The fact that Tom did not discuss it made Charlie suspect he was covering up the extent to which he missed it.

  Doc Fancher declined to take the cast off Tom’s foot when Tom wanted it removed; the doctor said it needed to stay awhile longer. When Tom got home he cut it off for himself. He showed little limp, but he could not hide the pain from his eyes as he walked.

  “Just like you,” Mary remarked to Charlie in her exasperation. “Nobody ever could tell you anything either.”

  At night was when Charlie missed the Flores family most. During the long years they had lived in that frame house, the lights in their windows had been a friendly beacon in the darkness. When Mary wasn’t talkative or Charlie needed a change because she was talking too much, he would walk over to visit the Flores family. He would sip sweet coffee with Lupe and Rosa and listen to the cheerful racket of frisky children raising Billy Hell.