Lonesome Dove

by Larry McMurtry

  "I'm July Johnson," July said. "I come from Arkansas."

  Clara almost dropped the poker. The girls had told her the little scarfaced man had said the woman they were with was married to a sheriff named Johnson, from Arkansas. She hadn't given the story much credence — the woman didn't strike her as the marrying type. Besides, the little man had whispered something to the effect that the big buffalo hunter considered himself married to her. The girls thought it mighty exciting, having a woman in the house who was married to two men. And if that wasn't complicated enough, the woman herself claimed to be married to Dee Boot, the gunfighter they had hung last week. Cholo had been in town when the hanging took place and reported that the hanging had gone smoothly.

  Clara looked more closely at the man standing in her kitchen. He was very thin and in a kind of daze — probably couldn't quite believe that he was still alive after such a journey. She had felt that way herself upon arriving in Ogallala after her trip over the plains with Bob, and she hadn't been snakebit or had any particular adventures.

  But if he was married to the woman, the baby drooling on her bosom might be his. Clara felt a flash of annoyance, most of it with herself. She had already grown attached to the baby. She liked to lie in bed with him and watch him try to work his tiny hands. He would peer at her for long stretches, frowning, as if trying to figure life out. But when Clara laughed at him and gave him her finger to hold he would stop frowning and gurgle happily. Apart from the colic, he seemed to be a healthy baby. She knew the mother was probably still in Ogallala, and that she ought to take the child into town and see if the woman had had a change of heart and wanted her son, but she kept putting it off. It would be discouraging to have to give him up — she told herself if the mother didn't want him bad enough to come and get him, then the mother was too foolish to have him. She reminded herself it was time she got out of the habit of babies. She wouldn't be likely to get any more, and she knew she ought to figure out another way to keep herself amused. But she did like babies. Few things were as likely to cheer her up.

  She had never seriously supposed a father would turn up, and yet only three weeks had passed and one had, standing in her kitchen, dirty, tired, and with a badly discolored leg.

  Clara poked the fire a time or two more, trying to adjust to the surprise. Then she turned and looked at July.

  "Mr. Johnson," she said, "are you looking for your wife, by any chance?"

  July almost fell over from surprise. "Yes, her name is Ellie — Elmira," he said. "How'd you ever know?"

  He began to tremble. Clara came over, took his arm and led him to a chair. The girls were standing in the doorway, watching every move.

  "I been looking for Ellie all the way," July said. "I didn't even know she come this way. She's not a large woman, I was afraid she might have died. Have you seen her?"

  "Yes," Clara said. "She stopped here for the night about three weeks ago in the company of two buffalo hunters."

  To July it seemed too much of a miracle — that with the whole plains to cross he and Ellie would strike the same house. The woman, who was watching him intently, seemed to read his mind.

  "We get a lot of travelers," she said, as though he hadn't spoken. "Situating this place right here was one of the smartest things my husband ever did. Anyone coming along the Platte who might need a horse isn't going to miss us. We're on the only road. If we hadn't located on this road, we'd have been starved out long ago."

  "It seems . . ." July said, and he couldn't finish. It was all he had hoped for, to be able to find her someday. He had risked and lost three lives to do it, and though Ellie wasn't right there, surely she was in town. He began to tremble and then to cry — he couldn't help it. His hopes were to be answered after all.

  Silently Clara handed him a rough dish towel. She scowled fiercely at the girls until they backed off. She followed them out the back door to give the man a moment to collect himself.

  "Why's he crying?" Betsey asked.

  "He's just unnerved — he's come along a long way and I imagine he had stopped expecting to make it," Clara said.

  "But he's a man," Sally said. Their father had never cried, as far as she knew.

  "Men have tears in them too, same as you," Clara said. "Go draw some water. I think we might offer him a bath."

  She went back in. July had not quite gained control of himself. He was too shaken with relief. The baby, now in a good mood, was mouthing its own fingers and rolling its eyes up to her. Might as well tell the man, she thought. She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

  "Mr. Johnson, I guess I've got another piece of news for you," Clara said. She looked from the baby's face to his, seeking resemblances. It seemed to her the foreheads were the same, and though the child had little hair, the little was the same color as July's. He was not a bad-looking man, just gaunt from his travels, and dirty. She had a notion to make him shave, when he had rested, so she could compare his face with the baby's. He could use Bob's razor. One week ago she had stropped it and shaved Bob.

  July looked at her as she fiddled with the baby. The tears had left him feeling empty, but his gratitude to the woman just for being there and treating him kindly was so great that he felt he might cry again if he tried to speak. The woman seemed too beautiful and too kind to be true. It was clear she was older — she had fine wrinkles around her mouth — but her skin was still soft and her face, as she wiggled the baby's little hand with one finger, was very beautiful. The thought of more news troubled him a little, though — probably one of Elmira's companions had stolen something or made some mischief.

  "If that woman was your wife, I guess this child is yours," Clara said. "She had it the night she was here. Then she left. She was very anxious to get to town. I don't believe she realized what a fine boy she had. We all took to him right away around this place."

  July had not really looked at the baby. He had supposed it belonged to Clara — she had said her name was Clara. She was watching him closely with her kind gray eyes. But what she said seemed so unlikely that he couldn't really credit it. Elmira had said nothing to him about wanting a baby, or planning to have one, or anything. To him, so tired he could hardly sit straight, it just meant another mystery. Maybe it explained why Elmira ran away — though it didn't to him. As for the little boy, wiggling in Clara's lap, he didn't know what to think. The notion that he had a son was too big a notion. His mind wouldn't really approach it. The thought made him feel lost again, as he had felt out on the plains.

  Clara saw that he was past dealing with it for the moment.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Johnson," she said, immediately getting up. "I should be cooking instead of worrying you with things you're too tired to deal with. You eat and go rest. This boy will still be here — we can discuss it tomorrow."

  July didn't answer, but he felt he was remiss. Not only was Clara going to a lot of trouble to feed him, she was taking care of a baby that might be his. He tried to think of things he might do or say, but nothing came to mind. Clara went cheerfully about the cooking, holding the baby in her arms most of the time but occasionally plunking him on the table for a minute if she needed both hands for the work.

  "Just catch him if he starts to roll," she said. "That's all I ask."

  She fed July beefsteak and potatoes and peas. July felt he would be too tired to eat, and yet at the smell of the food his appetite returned and he ate every bite.

  "I made Bob build me a windbreak," she said. "I watched my gardens blow away for ten or twelve years and I finally got tired of it."

  July looked at her questioningly.

  "Bob's my husband," she said. "He's injured. We don't hold out too much hope for him."

  She had strained and heated a little milk, and while July ate she fed the baby, using a big nipple she had fixed over a fruit jar.

  "We use this nipple for the colts," she said. "Sometimes the mares don't have their milk at first. It's a good thing this boy's got a big mouth."

  The ch
ild was sucking greedily on the nipple, which was quite large, it seemed to July.

  "I've been calling him Martin," Clara said. "Since he's yours, you may want to change it. I think Martin is a nice name for a man. A man named Martin could be a judge, or maybe go into politics. My girls fancy the name too."

  "I don't guess he's mine," July said. "Ellie never mentioned anything about it."

  Clara laughed. It surprised him. "Had you been married long?" she asked.

  "About six months," July said. "When she left."

  "Oh, well, you were newlyweds then," Clara said. "She might have been put out with you and decided not to tell you."

  "She had another boy, Joe," July said. "He went with me when I went after Jake Spoon. Only Joe got killed on the plains. Ellie don't know it yet."

  "Did you say Jake Spoon?" Clara said. "I know Jake. We courted once. I saw him in Ogallala about a year ago but the woman he was with didn't like my looks so we didn't talk much. Why were you after Jake?"

  July could barely remember it all, it seemed to have happened so long ago.

  "Jake was gambling and a fight got started," he said. "Jake shot off a buffalo gun and the bullet went through the wall and killed my brother. I was out of town at the time. Peach, my sister-in-law, wanted me to go after Jake. I wish now I hadn't."

  "It sounds accidental to me," Clara said. "Though I know that's no consolation to your family. Jake was no killer."

  "Well, I didn't catch him anyway," July said. "Elmira ran off and Roscoe come and told me. Now Roscoe's dead too. I don't guess it could be my baby."

  Clara was still studying the two faces, the little one and the gaunt, tired one. It interested her, what came across from parent to child.

  "When did your wife run off?" she asked.

  "Oh, it's been over four months," July said. "A long time."

  Clara chuckled. "Mr. Johnson, I don't think arithmetic's your strong suit," she said. "I think this is young Mr. Johnson you're looking at. I had that figured out, even without the dates, but the dates jibe pretty well."

  July didn't know what to say. Clara seemed delighted with her conclusion, but he didn't feel anything at all. It was just a puzzle.

  "I guess I'm awful," Clara said. "Any kind of company affects me this way. I shouldn't be bothering you when you're so tired. The girls are drawing water. You have a bath. You can sleep in their room — it's a good bed."

  Later, when he had bathed and fallen into a sleep so deep that he didn't even turn over for several hours, Clara brought the baby in and peeked at July. He hadn't shaved, but at least he had washed. Cleaned of dirt he looked very young, only a few years older than her oldest boy would have been had he lived.

  Then she went to look at Bob for a moment — an ugly ooze had been seeping onto his pillow. The stitches in his head had been removed but underneath the wound seemed hot. It might be a new infection. Clara cleaned it as best she could, and took the baby out on her little porch.

  "Well, Martin, your pa showed up," she said, grinning at the baby. "It's a good thing we got a house right on the road. I wonder what your pa will think of us When he gets his wits together."

  The baby waved a hand in the warm air. Down at the lots, the girls were watching Cholo work with a two-year-old filly.

  Clara looked at the baby and offered it her finger. "We don't much care what your pa thinks of us, do we, Martin?" she said. "We already know what we think of him."

  78

  LORENA WAS SITTING in her tent when Gus returned. She had been sitting there hoping he wasn't dead. It was an unreasoning fear she had, that Gus might die. He had only been gone three days, but it seemed longer to her. The cowboys didn't bother her, but she was uneasy anyway. Dish Boggett set up her tent at night and stayed close by, but it meant nothing to her. Gus was the only man she wanted to look after her.

  Then, before it was quite dark, she heard horses and looked out to see Gus riding toward her. She was so glad she wanted to run out to him, but Dish Boggett was nearby, trimming his horse's feet, so she kept still.

  "She's just fine, Gus," Dish said, when Gus dismounted. "I looked after her as best I could."

  "I'm much obliged," Augustus said.

  "She won't hardly even look at me," Dish said. He said it mildly, but he didn't feel it mildly. Lorena's indifference pained him more than anything he had ever experienced.

  "Did you catch the horsethieves?" he asked.

  "We did, but not before they murdered Wilbarger and four other people," Augustus said.

  "Hang 'em?"

  "Yes, hung them all, including Jake Spoon."

  "Well, I'll swear," Dish said, shocked. "I didn't like the man but I never figured him for a killer."

  "He wasn't a killer," Augustus said. "Jake liked a joke and didn't like to work. I've got exactly the same failings. It's lucky I ain't been hung."

  He pulled the saddle off his tired horse. The horse lay down and had a good roll, scratching its sweaty back.

  "Howdy do, miss," Augustus said, opening the tent. "Give me a hug."

  Lorena did. It made her blush that he just asked, like that.

  "If hugs are to be had for the asking, what about kisses?" Augustus asked.

  Lorena turned her face up — the feel of his whiskers made her want to cry, and she held him as tight as she could.

  "I wish we'd brought a bathtub on this trip," Augustus said, grinning. "I'm so dirty it's like kissing a groundhog."

  Later, he went to the chuck wagon and brought back some supper. They ate outside the tent. In the distance the Irishman was singing. Gus told her about Jake, but Lorena felt little. Jake hadn't come to find her. For days she had hoped he would, but when he didn't, and her hope died, the memory of Jake died with it. When she listened to Gus talk about him it was as if he were talking about a man she hadn't known. She had a stronger memory of Xavier Wanz. Sometimes she dreamed of Xavier, standing with his dishrag in the Dry Bean. She remembered how he had cried the morning she left, how he'd offered to take her to Galveston.

  But she didn't remember Jake particularly. He had faded into all the other men who had come and gone. He had got a thorn in his hand, she remembered that, but she didn't remember much else. She didn't much care that he was dead — he wasn't a good man, like Gus.

  What scared her was all the death. Now that she had found Gus, it was very frightening to her to think that he might die. She didn't want to be without him. Yet that very night she dreamed that he had died and she couldn't find the body. When she came out of the dream and heard him breathing, she clung so tightly to him that he woke up. It was very hot and her clinging made them sweaty.

  "What scared you?" Augustus asked.

  "I dreamed you died," Lorena said. "I'm sorry I woke you."

  Augustus sat up. "Don't fret," he said. "I need to go water the grass, anyway."

  He went out, made water, and stood in the moonlight awhile, cooling off. There was no breeze in the tent, so Lorena came out too.

  "It's a good thing this grass don't depend on me," Augustus said. "There's a lot more of it than I can get watered."

  They were on a plain of grass so huge that it was hard to imagine there was a world beyond it. The herd, and themselves, were like a dot, surrounded by endless grass. Lorena had come to like the space — it was a relief after her years of being crowded in a little saloon.

  Gus was staring at the moon and scratching himself. "I keep thinking we'll see the mountains," he said. "I grew up in mountains, you know. Tennessee. I hear them Rockies are a lot higher than the Smokies. They say they have snow on top of them the year round, which you won't find in Tennessee."

  He sat down in the grass. "Let's sit out," he said. "We can nap in the morning. It will scandalize Call."

  "Why does he go off at night?" Lorena asked.

  "He goes off to be by himself," Augustus said. "Woodrow ain't a sociable man."

  Lorena remembered her other worry, the woman in Nebraska. "When will we get there, Gus?" she asked
. "Nebraska, I mean."

  "I ain't sure," he said. "Nebraska's north of the Republican River, which we ain't come to yet. It might take us three weeks yet."

  Lorena felt a dread she couldn't get rid of. She might lose him to the woman. The strange trembling started — it was beyond her control. Gus put his arms around her to make it stop.

  "Well, it's natural to worry," he said. "This is a chancy life. What's the main thing that worries you?"

  "I'm feared you'll die," Lorena said.

  Augustus chuckled. "Dern right, I'll die," he said. "What else worries you?"

  "I'm feared you'll marry that woman," she said.

  "I doubt it," Augustus said. "That woman had two or three chances to marry me already, and she didn't take them. She's an independent type, like you used to be."

  That was so, Lorena reflected. She had been quite independent, but now all she could think of was keeping Gus. She wasn't ashamed, though. He was worth keeping.

  "It's funny humans take to the daylight so," he said. "Lots of animals would rather work at night."

  Lorena wanted him to want her. She knew he did want her, but he had done nothing. She didn't care about it, but if she could be sure that he still wanted her, then the dread of losing him might go away.

  "Let's go in," she whispered, hoping he'd know what she meant. He immediately turned to her with a grin.

  "My, my," he said. "Times do change. I remember when I had to cheat at cards to get a poke. We don't have to go in that old hot tent. I'll drag the bedding out here."

  Lorena didn't care that the cowboys might see, or who might see. Gus had become her only concern. The rest of the world could watch out. But Gus merely hugged her and gave her a kiss. Then he held her tight all night, and when the sun woke her the herd was already gone.

  "Did anybody see us?" she asked.

  "If they did they're lucky," Augustus said. "They won't get too many chances to see such beauties as us."

  He laughed and got up to make the coffee.

  79

  NEWT COULDN'T GET JAKE out of his mind — how he had smiled at the end and given him his horse. He rode the horse every third day and liked his gait so much that he soon became his favorite horse. Jake hadn't told him what the horse's name was, which worried Newt. A horse needed a name. Jake's hanging had happened so quickly that it was hard to remember — it was like a terrible dream, of the kind you can only remember parts of. He remembered the shock it had been to see Jake with his hands tied, sitting on his horse with a noose around his neck. He remembered how tired Jake looked, too tired even to care that he was going to be hung. Also, nobody talked much. There should have been some discussion, it seemed to Newt. Jake might have had a good excuse for being there, but nobody even asked him for it.