July hadn't. He wished she would just be quiet. He had no idea what to do next, and hadn't since he left Fort Smith many months ago. At moments, what he wanted was just to go home. Let Ellie go, if she didn't want to be his wife. Let Clara have the baby, if she wanted him so much. He had once felt competent being a sheriff — maybe if he went back and stuck to it he would someday feel competent again. He didn't know how much longer he could stand to feel such a failure.
"If your wife don't want Martin, do you have a mother or sisters that would want to raise him?" Clara asked. "The point is, I don't want to keep him a year or two and then give him up. If I have to give him up I'd rather do it soon."
"No, Ma's dead," July said. "I just had brothers."
"I've lost three boys," Clara said. "I don't want to lose another to a woman who keeps changing her mind."
"I'll ask her," July said. "I'll go back in a day or two. Maybe she'll be feeling better."
But he found he couldn't stand it to wait — he had to see her again, even if she wouldn't look at him. At least he could look at her and know he had found her after all. Maybe, if he was patient, she would change.
He saddled and rode to town. But when he got to the doctor's no one was there at all. The room Ellie had been in was empty, the big man no longer to be found.
By asking around, he found the doctor, who was delivering a baby in one of the whorehouses.
"She's left," the doctor said. "I came home yesterday and she was gone. She didn't leave a note."
"But she was sick," July said.
"Only unhappy," Patrick Arandel said. He felt sorry for the young man. Five idle young whores were listening to the conversation, while one of their friends lay in labor in the next room.
"She took it hard when they hung that killer," he added. "That and the childbirth neatly killed her. I thought she would die — she ran one of the highest fevers I've ever seen. It's a good sign that she left. It means she's decided to live a little longer."
The man at the livery stable shook his head when July asked which way they went.
"The wrong way," he said. "If they get past them Sioux they're lucky people."
July felt frantic. He had not even brought his rifle to town, or his bedroll or anything. They had a day's start, though they were traveling in a wagon and would have to move slow. Still, he would lose another half day going back to the ranch to get his gear. He was tempted to follow with just his pistol, and he even rode to the east end of town. But there were the vast, endless plains. They had almost swallowed him once.
He turned back, racing for the ranch. He wore the horse half down, and he remembered it was a borrowed horse, so he slowed up. By the time he got back to Clara's he was not racing at all. He seemed to have no strength, and his head hurt again. He was barely able to unsaddle; instead of going right to the house, he sat down behind the saddle shed and wept. Why would Ellie keep leaving? What was he supposed to do? Didn't she know about the Indians? It seemed he would have to chase her forever, and yet catching her did no good.
When he stood up, he saw Clara. She had been on her way back from the garden with a basket of vegetables. It was hot, and she had rolled the sleeves up on her dress. Her arms were thin and yet strong, as if they were all bone.
"Did she leave?" Clara asked.
July nodded. He didn't want to talk.
"Come help me shuck this corn," Clara said. "The roasting ears are about gone. I get so hungry for them during the winter, I could eat a dozen."
She went on toward the house, carrying her heavy garden basket. When she didn't hear his footsteps, she looked back at him. July wiped his face and followed her to the house.
82
THE NEXT MORNING, when he managed to get up, July came into the kitchen to find Cholo sharpening a thin-bladed knife. The baby lay on the table, kicking his bare feet, and Clara, wearing a man's hat, was giving the two girls instructions.
"Don't feed him just because he hollers," she said. "Feed him when it's time."
She looked at July, who felt embarrassed. He was not sick, and yet he felt as weak as if he had had a long fever. A plate with some cold eggs on it and a bit of bacon sat on the table — his breakfast, no doubt. Being the last one up made him feel a burden.
Cholo stood up. It was clear he and Clara were contemplating some work. July knew he ought to offer to help, but his legs would barely carry him to the table. He couldn't understand it. He had long since been over his jaundice, and yet he had no strength.
"We've got to geld some horses," Clara said. "We've put it off too long, hoping Bob would get back on his feet."
"I hate it when you do that," Sally said.
"You'd hate it worse if we had a bunch of studs running around here," Clara said. "One of them might crack your head just like that mustang cracked your father's."
She paused by the table a minute and tickled one of the baby's feet.
"I'd like to help," July said.
"You don't look that vigorous," she said.
"I'm not sick," July said. "I must have slept too hard."
"I expect you did something too hard," she said. "Stay and make conversation with these girls. That's harder work than gelding horses."
July liked the girls, though he had not said much to them. They seemed fine girls to him, always chattering. Mostly they fought over who got to tend the baby.
Clara and Cholo left and July slowly ate his breakfast, feeling guilty. Then he remembered what had happened — Ellie was gone, into Indian country. He had to go after her as soon as he ate. The baby, still on the table, gurgled at him. July had scarcely looked at it, though it seemed a good baby. Clara wanted it, the girls fought over it, and yet Ellie had left it. Thinking about it made him more confused.
After breakfast he got his rifle, but instead of leaving, he walked down to the lots. Every now and then he heard the squeal of a young horse. Walking, he didn't feel quite so weak, and it occurred to him that he ought to try and be some help — he could start after Ellie later.
It was hot, and the young horses were kicking up dust in the lots. To his surprise, he saw that Clara was doing the cutting, while the old man held the ropes. It was hard work — the horses were strong, and they badly needed another man. July quickly climbed into the lots and helped the old man anchor the hind legs of a quivering young bay.
Clara paused a moment, wiping the sweat off her forehead with her shirttail. Her hands were bloody.
"Shouldn't one of us do it?" July asked.
"No," Cholo said. "She is better."
"Bob taught me," Clara said. "We didn't have any help when we first came here. I wasn't strong enough to hold the horses so I got stuck with the messier job."
They gelded fifteen young horses and left them in the pen where they could be watched. July had stopped feeling weak, but even so it was a wonder to him how hard Clara and the old man worked. They didn't stop to rest until the job was done, by which time they were all soaked with sweat. Clara splashed water out of the horse trough to wash her hands and forearms, and immediately started for the house.
"I hope those worthless girls have been cooking," she said. "I've built an appetite."
"Do you know anything about the Indian situation?" July asked.
"I know Red Cloud," Clara said. "Bob was good to him. They lived on our horses that hard winter we had four years ago — they couldn't find buffalo."
"I've heard they're dangerous," July said.
"Yes," Clara said. "Red Cloud's fed up. Bob treated them fair and we've never had to fear them. I was more scared as a girl. The Comanches would come right into Austin and take children. I always dreamed they'd get me and I'd have red babies."
July had never felt so irresolute. He ought to go, and yet he didn't. Though he had worked hard, he had little appetite, and after the meal spent more time cleaning his gun than was really necessary.
When he finished, he sat the rifle against the porch railing, telling himself that he would get up and l
eave. But before he could get up, Clara walked out on the porch with no warning at all and put the baby into his hands. She practically dropped the child into his lap, an act July felt was very reckless. He had to catch him.
"That's a good sign," Clara said. "At least you'd catch him if somebody threw him off a roof."
The baby stared at July with wide eyes, as surprised, evidently, as he was. July looked at Clara, who seemed angry.
"I think it's time you took a look at him," she said. "He's your boy. He might come to like you, in which case he'll bring you more happiness than that woman ever will. He needs you a sight more than she does, too."
July felt scared he would do something wrong with the baby. He also was a little scared of Clara.
"I don't know anything about babies," he said.
"No, and you've never lived any place but Arkansas," Clara said. "But you ain't stupid and you ain't nailed down. You can live other places and you can learn about children — people dumber than you learn about them."
Again, July felt belabored by the tireless thing in Clara. Ellie might not look at him, but she didn't pursue him relentlessly with words, as Clara did.
"Stay here," she said. "Do you hear me? Stay here! Martin needs a pa and I could use a good hand. If you go trailing after that woman, either the Indians will kill you or that buffalo hunter will, or you'll just get lost and starve. It's a miracle you made it this far. You don't know the plains and I don't believe you know your wife, either. How long did you know her before you married?"
July tried to remember. The trial in Missouri had lasted three days, but he had met Ellie nearly a week before that.
"Two weeks, I guess," he said.
"That's short acquaintance," Clara said. "The smartest man alive can't learn much about a woman in two weeks."
"Well, she wanted to marry," July said. It was all he could remember about it. Ellie had made it clear she wanted to marry.
"That could have been another way of saying she wanted a change of scene," Clara said. "People get a hankering to quit what they're doing. They think they want to try something else. I do it myself. Half the time I think I'd like to pack up these girls and go live with my aunt in Richmond, Virginia."
"What would you do there?" July asked.
"I might write books," Clara said. "I've a hankering to try it. But then it'll come a pretty morning and I see the horses grazing and think how I'd miss them. So I doubt I'll get off to Richmond."
Just then the baby began to cry, squirming in his hands. July looked at Clara, but she made no effort to take the baby. July didn't know what to do. He was afraid he might drop the child, who twisted in his hands like a rabbit and yelled so loud he turned red as a beet.
"Is he sick?" July asked.
"No, he's fine," Clara said. "Maybe he's telling you off for ignoring him all this time. I wouldn't blame him."
With that she turned and went back in the house, leaving him with the baby, who at once began to cry even harder. July hoped one of the girls would come out and help, but neither seemed to be around. It seemed very irresponsible of Clara to simply leave him with the child. He felt again that she was not a very helpful woman. But then Ellie hadn't been helpful, either.
He was afraid to stand up with the baby squirming so — he might drop him. So he sat, wondering why in the world people wanted children. How could anyone know what a baby wanted, or what to do for them?
But, as abruptly as he had started, the baby stopped crying. He whimpered a time or two, stuck his fist in his mouth, and then simply stared at July again as he had at first. July was so relieved that he scarcely moved.
"Talk to him a little," Clara said. She stood in the door behind him.
"What do you say?"
She made a snort of disgust. "Introduce yourself, if you can't think of nothing else," she said. "Or sing him a song. He's sociable. He likes a little talk."
July looked at the baby, but couldn't think of a song.
"Can't you even hum?" Clara asked, as if it were a crime that he had not immediately started singing.
July remembered a saloon song he had always liked: "Lorena." He tried humming a little of it. The baby, who had been wiggling, stopped at once and looked at him solemnly. July felt silly humming, but since it calmed the baby, he kept on. He was holding the baby almost at arm's length.
"Put him against your shoulder," Clara said. "You don't have to hold him like that — he ain't a newspaper."
July tried it. The baby soon wet his shirt with slobbers, but he wasn't crying. July continued to hum "Lorena."
Then, to his relief, Clara took the baby.
"That's progress," she said. "Rome wasn't built in a day."
Dusk came and July didn't leave. He sat on the porch, his rifle across his lap, trying to make up his mind to go. He knew he ought to. However difficult she was, Ellie was still his wife. She might be in danger, and it was his duty to try and save her. If he didn't go, he would be giving up forever. He might never even know if she had lived or died. He didn't want to be the kind of man who would just let his wife blow out of his life like a weed. And yet that was what he was doing. He felt too tired to do otherwise. Even if the Indians didn't get him, or them, even if he didn't get lost on the plains, he might just find her, in some other room, and have her turn her face away again. Then what? She could go on running, and he would go on chasing, until something really bad happened.
When Clara came out again to call him to supper, he felt worn out from thinking. He almost flinched when he heard Clara's step, for he had a feeling she was ill-disposed toward him and might have something sharp to say. Again he was wrong. She walked down the steps and paused to watch three cranes flying across the sunset, along the silver path of the Platte.
"Ain't they great birds?" she said quietly. "I wonder which I'd miss most, them or the horses, if I was to move away."
July didn't suppose she would move away. She seemed so much of the place that it didn't seem likely.
After watching the birds, she looked at him as if just noticing that he was still there.
"Are you willing to stay?" she asked.
July had rather she hadn't asked — rather it had been something that just happened. He didn't feel he had made a decision — and yet he hadn't left.
"I guess I oughtn't to chase her," he said finally. "I guess I ought to let her be."
"It doesn't do to sacrifice for people unless they want you to," Clara said. "It's just a waste."
"Ma, it's getting cold," Betsey said from the doorway.
"I was just enjoying the summer for a minute," Clara said.
"Well, you're always telling us how much you hate to serve cold food," Betsey said.
Clara looked at her daughter for a moment and then went up the steps.
"Come on, July," she said. "These girls mean to see that we keep up our standards."
He put the rifle back in the saddle scabbard and followed her into the house.
83
AS THE HERD wound across the brown prairies toward the Platte, whoring became the only thing the men could talk about. Of course, they always liked to talk about it, but there had been sections of the drive when they occasionally mentioned other things — the weather, cards, the personalities of horses, trials and tribulations of the past. After Jake's death they had talked a good deal about the vagaries of justice, and what might cause a pleasant man to go bad. Once in a while they might talk about their families, although that usually ended with everyone getting homesick. Though a popular subject, it was tricky to handle.
By the time they were within a week of Ogallala, all subjects other than whoring were judged to be superfluous. Newt and the Rainey boys were rather surprised. They were interested in whoring too, in a vague sort of way, but listening to the grown men talk at night, or during almost any stop, they concluded there must be more to whoring than they had imagined. Getting to visit a whore quickly came to seem the most exciting prospect life had to offer.
&
nbsp; "What if the Captain don't even want to stop in Ogallala?" Lippy asked, one night. "He ain't much of a stopper."
"Nobody's asking him to stop," Needle said. "He can keep driving, if he's a mind. We're the ones need to stop."
"I don't guess he likes whores," Lippy said. "He didn't come in the saloon much, that I remember."
Jasper was impatient with Lippy's pessimism. Any suggestion that they might not get to visit Ogallala was extremely upsetting to him.
"Can't you shut up?" he said. "We don't care what the Captain does. We just want to be let off."
Po Campo was also likely to dampen the discussion, once he was free from his cooking chores.
"I think you should all go to the barber and forget these whores," he added. "They will just take your money, and what will you get for it?"
"Something nice," Needle said.
"A haircut will last you a month, but what you get from the whores will only last a moment," Po remarked. "Unless she gives you something you don't want."
From the heated responses that ensued, Newt gathered that whores sometimes were not simply givers of pleasure. Diseases apparently sometimes resulted, although no one was very specific about them.
Po Campo was unshakable. He kept plugging for the barbershop over the whorehouse.
"If you think I'd rather have a haircut than a whore you're crazy as a June bug," Jasper said.
Newt and the Raineys left the more abstruse questions to others and spent most of their time trying to reckon the economics of a visit to town. The summer days were long and slow, the herd placid, the heat intense. Just having Ogallala to think about made the time pass quicker.
Occasionally one of the Raineys would ride over by Newt to offer some new speculation. "Soupy says they take off their clothes," Ben Rainey said, one day.
Newt had once seen a Mexican girl who had pulled up her skirt to wade in the Rio Grande. She wore nothing under the skirt. When she noticed he was watching she merely giggled. Often, after that, he had slipped down to the river when nothing much was happening, hoping to see her cross again. But he never had; that one glimpse was all he had to go on when it came to naked women. He had run it through his mind so many times it was hardly useful.
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