The Time It Never Rained

by Elmer Kelton

  Jim watched him apprehensively. “You set there and rest a little. I better go back and try to soothe that federale. He can fair gut me if he takes a notion.”

  Charlie could hear Jim in the office, trying to placate the angry auditor. The auditor was demanding, “What’s that man’s name? I want to look at his records again.”

  “He ain’t got any records.”

  “What do you mean he hasn’t any? He’s your customer, isn’t he?”

  “He never did take any drouth feed.”

  “Don’t try to hand me that. Everybody lines up at the public trough when he gets the chance.”

  “Not Charlie Flagg. He never did.”

  The auditor mused a long time. “What is he, some kind of a nut?”

  Page Mauldin was a dying man, suffocating in a swirling sandtrap of mortgages and due-notes, desperately clutching at anything that seemed to offer a hold. The awful weight of his empire was dragging him down.

  It began with the federal auditor, who declared with official solemnity that Page never had been eligible for drouth aid and that he had therefore defrauded the government. Page snorted his contempt for any such notion. With the impatience which overworked, weather-beaten ranchmen usually have for people with clean suits, smooth hands and leather briefcases, Page simply told him to get the hell off of the ranch and stay off. When the auditor persisted, Page curtly ordered Diego Escamillo to throw him off.

  Diego had always been a man who did what he was told, and did it with great efficiency.

  Within a week the word spread across Texas. Tremors shook the marble halls of finance. Fearful the government’s claim on Page might endanger their own, creditors converged on Rio Seco like a swarm of hungry locusts, each intent on getting his settlement first and escaping the fray with skin intact. With a numbing suddenness, Page Mauldin found his world crumbling down around him like a house built on sand.

  Emmett Rodale had always cultivated a brooding appearance, for it invariably put the other man on the defensive from the start. That sourness came now without conscious effort. Gloom was like a dark cloud hovering over his head. He rubbed a ham-sized hand across his heavy face. “Charlie, we’ll all suffer over this. When a man like Page Mauldin goes down, it’s like the Titanic suckin’ the lifeboats under. This’ll take the starch out of people who’ve held on and fought. They’ll say if he couldn’t make it, what chance have they got?”

  “Ain’t there anything you can do?”

  “Could I put out a brush fire with a canteen? Page got too big for this bank years ago.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Shore up our own, the best we can. And cry a little bit, maybe, for Page.”

  Charlie parked his pickup in front of the big Mauldin house. He stepped out into the winter sunshine and slammed the door. He stood a moment, looking, listening. He heard no sound except the chill, dusty wind rustling through the bare branches of the big old pecan trees and whistling mournfully among the electric and telephone wires. He saw no movement except a horse in a corral, poking his nose around an empty hayrack, looking for something to eat.

  Diego was probably out in the pastures feeding, Charlie thought. Maybe Page was in the house.

  He opened the cedar-picket yard gate and moved through. Rheumatism bothering him a little, he limped up the rock walk to the front door. He hesitated a moment, then knocked.

  In a minute Kathy Mauldin was staring at him in surprise. “Uncle Charlie!”

  Charlie had the odd feeling he was calling on a house in bereavement. He took off his dusty hat. “Hello, Kathy. You’re lookin’ good.”

  They stared at each other a long, awkward moment. Kathy swung the door wider. “It’s windy out there. Won’t you come on in?”

  Charlie said, “If you think it’s all right ...”

  “Certainly it’s all right.”

  “After that set-to with Page in town, I wasn’t sure.” He walked in. “I tried to telephone first.”

  “We had to disconnect the line. So many calls, all hours of day and night.”

  Charlie twisted his hat brim, unsure of himself. “Maybe I oughtn’t to’ve come, but I wanted to see Page. I’d like to be his friend again.”

  “You never stopped bein’ a friend, Uncle Charlie. He never took time to cultivate friends much; there weren’t many. Right now he needs all there are, and you’re Number One.”

  Charlie looked around the pine-paneled living room and past it into the hallway. “Where’s he at?”

  “At the barn, I think. He gets restless sittin’ in the house. But he keeps comin’ back to it like a little boy lost.”

  “I’ll go find him.”

  “There’s coffee on the stove if you’d like to warm up first.”

  “Maybe I’ll bring him back and we can drink it together.” He turned at the door. “Page is takin’ it hard, I guess.”

  She nodded gravely. “Uncle Charlie, I think it’s worse even than when Mother died. I’ve told him over and over: we’ve still got each other. We’ve still got this home ranch because it was in Mother’s name, and she willed it to me. It’s awful little ... a drop in the bucket compared to what he had. But it’s a start. We can build on it.”

  Charlie studied Kathy Mauldin, realizing she was not a girl any longer. She was a woman, and she had a woman’s instincts and wisdom. “What does he say to that?”

  “Nothin’. It’s like he can’t even hear me. I’m scared.”

  So am I, thought Charlie. But he didn’t tell her.

  At the barn Charlie found Page had thrown a bundle of feed into the hayrack and sat hunched now on the barn steps, head bowed, squinted eyes solemnly watching the horse tear the bundle apart. Page gave no sign that he even noticed Charlie.

  “Page, it’s me. Charlie.”

  Page turned his head, his dark eyes slow to focus. He nodded, but he didn’t speak.

  “Page, I come over to talk to you. Come over to see if I couldn’t square up whatever’s gone wrong between us.”

  Page shook his head. “There ain’t nothin’ to square, Charlie. They’ve took it all away from me anyway. Nothin’ matters now.”

  The old rancher hadn’t shaved in three or four days. The gritty wind tugged at the brim of his felt hat, but he seemed oblivious to it. Charlie noticed that Page didn’t even have his pants legs tucked into the tops of his boots.

  “Page, it’s chilly out here. Don’t you think you ought to go back to the house and warm yourself?”

  “There’s no warmth in that house. No warmth anywhere.”

  “There’s sure none in this drafty barn.”

  Page shrugged. “I used to be able to come out here and think. Quiet out here. A man’s mind can find itself.” He jerked his chin toward a shotgun that sat just inside the door. “Anyway, been some rats out here tearin’ into the feed sacks. Thought I might shoot me one or two if they’d show theirselves.”

  Charlie sat down beside him, falling into a long, frowning silence. “Page, you didn’t come here to think. You come to eat your heart out.”

  Page didn’t answer.

  “You got to let go. Make up your mind to accept what’s happened and take a firm grip on what you got left. And you have got somethin’ left. You’ve got this homeplace. You’ve got friends. Best of all, you’ve got yourself a daughter. All the drouthed-out land in West Texas ain’t worth one tear in that girl’s eye.”

  Page gave no sign of listening. He hunched with his elbows on his legs, his gnarled old hands hanging limp between his knees. “Did I ever tell you, Charlie, what started me to buildin’? It was hate. And, I reckon, envy. I never had no idea about tryin’ to be the biggest rancher in West Texas till the time I went to work for a man down in Sutton County. Never mind his name; I’ve tried to forget it. This feller had inherited a ranch from his old daddy who had come in the early days and lived like a coyote while he tried to build himself somethin’. The boss had him an Eastern wife who didn’t care beans about none of it. They had a
fine big home they’d built out of the inheritance after the old man died. He’d lived in a frame shack all that time, you know.

  “I was the foreman. One day I walked up to the front of the house to tell the boss about somethin’ ... sick cow, I think it was. His wife met me at the door. She looked at me like I’d crawled out from under a rock. She said, ‘The hired help goes to the back door.’ Well, sir, it flew all over me. Right then and there I quit. I swore that if it taken me the rest of my life I’d own that ranch. I’d buy it out from under them and slam that front door in their goddam faces.

  “I went on my own after that. Started tradin’ in cows and sheep. Luck was good to me. Leased up land, bought this homeplace. Depression come, and my old boss couldn’t cut it. I scraped the money together and went and bought that place after the bank taken it over. I was there the day they moved out, him and his wife. I walked in the front door and stood there and watched them carry out the last of their stuff. I’d waited a long time for that day. But I didn’t enjoy it the way I thought I would. I felt sorry for them, and maybe a little guilty. I never could bring myself to live in that house. I finally sold it to a feller who jacked it up and moved it into Sonora.

  “I caught the land fever after that. Never could get enough. There was always one more ranch I wanted.” He paused, pensive. “I’ve stepped on toes in my time. I expect there’s people who felt about me the way I did about that old boy and his wife. You reckon any of them will feel sorry for me, Charlie?”

  “Nobody really enjoys seein’ somebody hurt.”

  “You want to bet? There’s people would pay good money for a ticket to watch me go down.” Page Mauldin clasped his hands together and brought them up to rest his chin. “I made some mistakes in my day, but that drouth program was the biggest one. If I hadn’t ever touched it ... if I’d stayed out of it like you done ... maybe I wouldn’t be sittin’ here like this today, a ruined man. You was the smart one, Charlie.”

  “Not smart ... just stubborn.”

  “I was sunk the day I taken the first load of feed. It never occurred to me somebody would want to crucify me for bein’ big.”

  “Somebody’s usin’ you for a stepladder. But to hell with them, Page; you can make a comeback. All you got to do is make up your mind to it.”

  Page’s voice sounded old and beaten. “Not any more. There ain’t time enough. I ain’t got the strength for the fight. They’ve whipped me, Charlie.”

  “You have the strength. All you need is the will. You don’t have to have the whole pie. Settle for a slice of it; just be sure it’s a good slice.”

  Page shook his head. “It’s no good. I had the whole pie once. I couldn’t settle for a slice any more.”

  Charlie stared at this gaunt ranchman who had been his friend for forty-odd years. He had taken advice from Page Mauldin many a time; he had seldom given any. He felt his throat tighten, and helplessness came over him like a shroud. Page looked eighty years old. “Page, quit thinkin’ about yourself, then. Think of Kathy.”

  “It’s late to start thinkin’ about her now; I should’ve done that years ago. I cheated that girl, Charlie. For years I left her by herself. Didn’t have time for her. Cheated her out of the attention a girl is supposed to get from her father. I told myself I was doin’ it all for her sake, to leave her somethin’ when I was gone. But I lied. I was doin’ it all for myself.”

  “You gave her more than you realized. She’s a level-headed woman. And she’s got your strength.”

  “She’s got more strength than I have. And it’s a good thing, because she can stand up to what we’ve lost. I can’t.”

  “You got to, Page. For herself and for you.” Charlie pushed to his feet and glanced toward his pickup. “I got a right smart of feedin’ to do. I’ll be back, Page.”

  Page didn’t reply. He wasn’t even looking at Charlie. Charlie placed his hand on the thin shoulder, then turned and limped toward the house, helplessness and frustration heavy on him.

  His hand was on the picket gate when he heard the shotgun blast. His first thought was that Page had seen one of those rats.

  But realization struck him like a fist. He swayed, a chill running down his back. He started for the barn, half walking, half running, sharp pain lancing his bad leg. He heard the slam of a door and heard Kathy’s fearful cry.

  He reached the barn and started up the step. He grabbed at the doorjamb, his eyes wide, his stomach turning.

  Sick, he backed away. He turned toward the house, toward Kathy. He caught her as she came by him. She struggled, but he managed to hold her. “Don’t go over there, Kathy. For God’s sake, don’t go over there.”

  Lupe and Rosa Flores drove down from San Angelo early the day of the funeral, bringing Manuel with them. They came to Brushy Top first. Charlie tried to make small talk with Lupe awhile, discussing his job in Angelo, relating things that had happened to various people they had known in town and on the ranches. But the conversation was strained, made difficult by the sense of disaster which hung over them.

  Manuel sat in dark and thoughtful silence. He said nothing except when asked a direct question. As often as not he simply nodded his answer.

  When the walls of the house closed in upon them to an intolerable degree, the three got into Charlie’s old green pickup and drove over the ranch. Manuel sat in the middle, looking hard, saying little.

  Lupe hammered the heel of his hand vainly against the dashboard in an effort to stop a persistent rattle. He looked at the mileage on the speedometer and remarked to Charlie that it was far past time to trade the pickup in on a new one.

  Charlie shook his head. “You priced a pickup lately, Lupe? It’d knock your hat off. I remember when I used to buy a new pickup for the price of four or five good cows. Now it’d take nearer twenty cows, if I even had any. Seems like the higher the prices go on what we have to buy, the lower they go on what we sell.”

  When they returned to headquarters, Lupe strayed over to gaze pensively at the empty frame house he had lived in so long. Manuel hung back, looking at Charlie. Charlie sensed he was working up his nerve for something. He walked up to Manuel and asked him for the sixth or eighth time today, “You still doin’ all right in school?”

  Manuel nodded absently, then blurted, “Mister Charlie, you mean this is all that’s left of the ranch, the part we just drove over?”

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed painfully. “That’s it, muchacho . Just the tag end, that’s all.”

  Manuel shook his head. “I guess I never quite realized ...” His gaze drifted across the ranch yard and out over the horse pasture and on toward Warrior Hill. “Back yonder, there were things I didn’t believe. I guess they were true after all.”

  Charlie puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Manuel shrugged. “I had some wrong ideas for a while. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “How can I forgive you, son? I never blamed you for anything.”

  Kathy never did really break down and cry. From some deep resource she summoned up an iron will which held back the tears while the arrangements were being made. They buried Page Mauldin in the Rio Seco cemetery beside his wife, whose headstone already was darkening from the years. The crowd was large, but there were few genuine mourners beyond a close circle of friends and employees. Charlie sensed with resentment that many of the people were here more out of curiosity than from any desire to pay respects. It seemed to him there was more genuine grief among the dozen or fifteen Mexicans than in all the Anglos put together. Old Elvira Escamillo wore a black veil and wept more than Kathy did. Diego stood with his arm around his mother’s shoulders, the tears running unashamed down his leathery cheeks.

  Lupe and Rosa stood with Charlie and Mary, but at the graveside services Manuel stood near Kathy. Kathy held herself together stubbornly, determined to provide no spectacle for this crowd.

  Later, when the grave had been filled in, a few of them returned to the cemetery. There was no crowd then ... just Charlie and M
ary, the Escamillos and a few other Mexican people who had worked for Page ... the Flores family and Kathy. Now, with no strangers to watch, Kathy broke down and sobbed. Charlie’s eyes burned, and he wanted to go to her, but he stood rooted in his tracks. Mary took a step toward the girl, then stopped as Kathy turned and buried her face against Manuel’s chest. Manuel’s arms went around her.

  Mary seemed not surprised, but it caught Charlie unprepared. He stared, wondering if he had missed something somewhere.

  They all stood awkwardly and let Kathy cry herself out. When she was done, Charlie painfully cleared his throat and said, “Girl, maybe you better come and stay with us a few days.”

  Kathy raised her chin. She glanced at the sorrowing Elvira and Diego. “Thanks, Uncle Charlie, but there’s work to do and stock to feed.”

  “This once, they can do without you.”

  She shook her head. “You’ve taught me better than that, Uncle Charlie. It’s my ranch. I’ll take care of it myself.” She clenched her small fists, her voice tight. “I’ll not ever ask anybody for anything. I’ll not ever let anybody give me anything. And no son of a bitch—nobody—will ever get a chance to take away what’s mine. They’ll never do to me what they did to my daddy!”

  Charlie nodded, for that was talk he could understand.

  Mary said, “Charlie, I think I’ll go and stay with her a couple of days. I expect she and Elvira could use a little company.”

  Charlie agreed. He stood and watched as Manuel opened the car door for Kathy and the women. Diego crawled into the driver’s seat of Page’s brush-scarred car. Manuel closed the door, then leaned to the window and said something to Kathy. She touched his hand and gave him her thanks, then Diego slowly drove away. Manuel stood alone a little while, watching them go. Charlie had nothing to say; he simply watched Manuel, still wondering.

  In a little while the Flores family was gone back to San Angelo. Charlie stood alone on the street, staring at the vacant store buildings, somberly realizing that after today—no matter how much it might rain, no matter how much the country might recover—it would never be the same to him again. There would always be an emptiness here, a scar that would never quite heal.