The Berrybender Narratives

by Larry McMurtry

  “It’s not your belly, it’s just the wages,” he said. “With two little ones we’ll be needing cash.”

  “That we will—if we live,” Tasmin said, feeling her spirits sink. She had rarely felt more mixed, more confused. Her first thought, when Jim announced his news, had been a wicked one: with Jim gone she could at last have a shot at Pomp in reasonable privacy. With Jim gone perhaps she could coax Pomp into being a lover. He could be a wonderful lover, she felt, if she could just get him started.

  And yet it was only Jim she felt really safe with; she was touched by the fact that he had broken his pattern. Instead of letting her find out from some of the men that he was leaving, he had taken the trouble to inform her himself, and had even explained that he was leaving in order to earn money that his family would in time surely need.

  All this bespoke concern; it was a development she would certainly have welcomed happily a little earlier in their marriage, as any wife would have.

  And yet, now, her first thought had been vain, selfish, adulterous. She wanted her lover, and yet she could not but feel new admiration for her husband. What could be rarer than to have a husband change his ways for the sake of his wife and children?

  For a moment Tasmin felt so crowded with confusing feelings that tears came into her eyes. Jim saw them and felt he might as well go. At least he had informed her of his intention, as he had been asked to.

  But when he turned to go Tasmin grabbed him, pulled him down, and hugged him tightly, her cheeks now shining with tears.

  “We’ll be wanting a house, I guess,” he said, hoping to soothe her. “Might find a cheap one in Taos.”

  “Not Taos—Santa Fe. I’ve such a preference for capitals, if there’s one handy,” she said, hoping she hadn’t offended him by brushing aside his suggestion.

  Jim was amused by Tasmin’s switch—sobbing one minute, she became picky the next.

  “All right, Santa Fe,” he said, hoping to leave her happy. Mindful that Charlie Bent was an impatient man, he gave Tasmin a quick kiss and started to get up, but Tasmin was staring at him in obvious invitation.

  “Shut the door—a little peck won’t do—let’s have a good rut,” she said. “I know your Mr. Bent is very impatient, but there are situations where wives come first. Besides, by the time you come back I’ll be so big you’ll hardly be able to get in me.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Jim said.

  But he obeyed, got up, and closed the door.

  Tasmin’s habit of speaking bluntly about conjugal matters still took him aback. And she was just as direct physically as she was in her speech. She simply extracted him from his pants and handled him until he was nearly ready to shoot before allowing him entry. Then, once he had shot and they were done, she locked him in with her legs in such a way as to suggest that perhaps they weren’t done.

  “Stay awhile, my sweet—stay awhile,” Tasmin said. Her eyes seemed to grow very wide at such times. Jim knew Charlie Bent would be fretting—nonetheless he stayed awhile.

  54

  . . . the lamb gave a surprisingly loud bleat. . .

  MONTY never knew when his father might show up and tickle him in his fat little ribs, reducing him to a cascade of giggles. Often, if Talley happened to be nearby, his father would distribute his tickling impartially, tickling Talley too, while Talley’s mother watched and smiled. Talley would giggle so uncontrollably that he would grow red in the face and have to gulp in order to get his breath.

  On this occasion both boys had been absorbed in an inspection of the tiny lamb the sheepherders had rescued. When they reached out their hands to touch the white, soft fur, the lamb gave a surprisingly loud bleat, causing them at once to jerk their hands away.

  Then Monty’s father came, and his mother. Across the courtyard the great oxen were mooing. Monty feared the oxen but could not stop looking at them. Then there was a round of tickling—his father held Monty high above his head, and spun him round until he was dizzy. When his father sat him down Monty toppled into Little Onion’s lap, where he often napped.

  “I consider small children to be the only honest people,” Vicky Kennet remarked. Since reaching the trading post her cheeks had filled out, her beauty returned. Her hair was very long again.

  “I suppose they may be the only sincere people,” Tasmin agreed. “The poor little things can’t help it.”

  Jim, about to lead the small caravan out of the gate, turned and waved at his wife and son.

  “Wave at your father, Monty,” Tasmin commanded. When Monty just looked puzzled she held up his small hand and waved it for him.

  “Say bye-bye,” Tasmin ordered, but Monty did not say bye-bye. Although he was interested in the small lamb, he wished Little Onion would take him away. When his mother spoke to him in a certain tone he felt confused and didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know why she insisted on waving his small hand at his father.

  “Now I’ve confused him, as usual,” Tasmin admitted. “Look at him, hopelessly trapped in his small integrity.

  “But it doesn’t last long, this early honesty,” she said. “I was an accomplished liar by the time I was five, and the skill has stood me in good stead.”

  She smiled, and Vicky smiled too.

  “How else is one to manage two men?” she asked, smiling.

  “How else is one to manage even one?”

  Monty, tired of the lamb, yawned and began to wave. It became a new trick he could do—he waved at his father, he waved at his mother—he waved and waved, giggling at his own brilliance. He even waved at the frightening oxen as they were going out the gate. He waved at Talley who waved at him. Delighted with this new skill, the little boys waved and waved.

  55

  No wife could possibly be as cozy . . .

  QUIT pestering me, Owl,” Willy Bent muttered, to his wife. It was just dawn—soon he would have to pull himself out of his warm robes and away from his even warmer, bright-eyed wife and head across the frosty prairie to join Jim Snow and do what he could to see that the big eight-team caravan, packed with a fortune in trade goods, made its way safely to the company’s warehouse in Saint Louis. It was never easy to leave Owl. No wife could possibly be as cozy and good as she was; it seemed that she anticipated his every need and did her best to satisfy it before he himself even realized that he was needing anything. It might be a good rubbing with some fragrant grease, or it might be tender tidbits of dog, which Owl plucked from the stew pot and fed him with her fingers. It might be some new moccasins, which fit perfectly, or it might be some husband-and-wife activity, which was usually followed on Willy’s part by a long, deep nap.

  Willy Bent was happily convinced that he had the best wife in the world: a pert, pretty wife who in his opinion was much to be preferred to the long-legged bossy English girl Jim Snow had married. Owl was a steadier companion than the violent Mexican beauty his own brother was about to take to wife. Willy could not imagine that Owl would ever embarrass him to the extent of hitting him in the head with a heavy pot, as Maria had hit Charlie.

  And yet, of course, no wife was likely to be entirely perfect or always easy to accommodate. This morning, as always, disagreement arose as he was enjoying the coziness a few more minutes, trying to work himself up to departure.

  “I can’t be an Indian all the time, dern it, Owl,” Willy protested.

  “You are an Indian all the time,” Owl reminded him, in a pleasant voice. “My own father, Yellow Wolf, made you a member of our band. My father wants to take us on a buffalo hunt, and I want you to stay with us— we’re going on a buffalo hunt.”

  Willy didn’t answer. It was true that Yellow Wolf had made him a member of the band, but it still didn’t mean he was free to live the Indian life all the time. He had begged Owl to come live at the fort, but she wouldn’t—she didn’t like the smells, or really anything about the white man’s ways. It was a puzzle to her how her Willy, whom she loved deeply, who had tried both ways of living, could not see how clearly superior t
he Cheyenne way was. And yet, with the beautiful prairies all around them, he still insisted on going away to do some foolish white man’s business of some kind.

  “I like being with the tribe,” Willy assured her, not for the first time. “Maybe I can spend all summer with your people next year, if Charlie can find someone else to supervise the hauling. But I still ain’t an Indian and there’s times when I have to go to work.”

  “You’re an Indian, my father says so,” Owl repeated—she was stubborn when she had her mind set on something.

  Willy thought it would have been wiser of the Almighty to create women without tongues, since even Owl, the most agreeable woman he knew, still didn’t scruple to use her tongue to create unease in his breast.

  Owl didn’t press her case, but she didn’t like it that Willy was always wearying himself trying to please his brother. She had seen for herself how happy Willy was when he could be with the tribe for a few weeks, hunting, racing horses, letting her tend to his needs. Willy never got a bad look on his face at those times; some nights he slept so deeply that even the bright morning sun didn’t wake him. Owl felt that if she could just keep him with the tribe long enough, as they moved around following the buffalo herds and enjoying life, Willy would soon lose the habit of thinking so much about money. Of course, it was all right that Willy and his brother had brought white man’s goods to the People. She herself loved colorful beads and cloths, blue particularly, and was quick to put to use the various awls and needles Willy brought her. But all it took to procure those goods was a few skins, and with buffalo so plentiful, skins were easily obtained. Just because the whites had attractive goods was no reason to exchange the cool, airy Cheyenne life for some smelly trading post. In her opinion, being crowded together, as white people were, led to disputes and quarrels that were unlikely to arise where people were free to spread out and go where they pleased.

  Still, when Willy got a big frown on his face, Owl desisted. She gave him a tickle or two in an intimate place and then popped out of their robes and helped him get his gear together. There was no point in trying to stop a husband from going away—of course, even Cheyenne husbands often went away when they felt like raiding a little, or just riding around without the impediment of womenfolk.

  Indian or no Indian, Willy could never leave his Owl without an awareness of how much he was going to miss her in the chill, hectic months of trekking that lay ahead. Never once had he made the long trip across to Westport Landing without various kinds of trouble presenting themselves. Sooner or later Indians of one band or another would show up, demanding presents and hoping to steal a horse or two, or a gun. The weather would either be too hot or too cold, too wet or too dry. Sometimes animals would sicken inexplicably; other times men would turn up gimpy But despite the troubles and perils of the road, the company was prospering. They knew the route well now, and were more efficient trekkers than their rivals. Willy wasn’t quite as single-minded about commerce as his brother was, but Willy wasn’t lazy, either, and he meant to be rich someday.

  Owl stood demurely by Willy as he saddled up and prepared to leave.

  “I’ll be quick to track you down when I get back,” Willy assured her. Owl did not like for him to touch her in public, so he gave her the briefest of hugs, mounted, and loped away.

  For an hour or more Willy traveled with a lump in his throat. He had a lonely feeling and also a worried feeling. Owl could say all she wanted to about the good Cheyenne way of life, but there were no guarantees in the Cheyenne way of life, or the white way either. It was common knowledge that smallpox had wiped out the Mandans and the Arikaras, strong tribes both. The same disease might come to the Cheyenne—besides which, the Cheyenne were a fighting people. Owl might get snatched in a raid, or killed in a battle, in which case he might never again lie with her in their comfortable robes, enjoying being man and wife. Willy always worried when he left Owl—his mind seemed to conjure up nothing but bad images, some of them rather unlikely. Buffalo were unusually plentiful that fall, and the old bulls were unreliable. What if Owl were off doing some chore and got gored by a buffalo? Also, there were panthers that lurked around Indian camps, hoping to snatch a colt or a young mare—what if one got Owl? Such thoughts were so worrisome that it was all Willy could do to keep from turning back—and he might, in defiance of all commercial good sense, have turned back had he not spotted a horseman far ahead on the prairie. The horse was white, an unusual thing in itself. As Willy approached—not before checking his pistol and his rifle—he saw an old Indian man, sitting on a scrap of blanket, chanting. A white man sat astride the horse. As he came closer Willy saw that the white man wore a look of dejection. Perhaps he had been traveling with the old Indian long enough to grow tired of listening to him pray.

  When the old Indian finished praying and stood up, Willy recognized him—it was old Greasy Lake, a prophet he and Charlie had encountered several times in their first years as trappers on the upper Missouri. The old man had even helped them out once by informing them of the approach of a large band of Piegans. Willy would not have expected to meet old Greasy—a man of splotchy complexion—so far to the south.

  “Hello, Greasy, who’s your friend?” Willy asked, nodding toward the white man, who was gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes.

  “I am Clam de Paty monsieur,” the white man said. “I am from France and I want now to go back.”

  “I don’t know about France, but I expect we can get you to Saint Louis,” Willy told him. “I have eight wagons up ahead—we’re Saint Louis bound.”

  “He was one of the men who could fly,” Greasy informed him, nodding at Clam. “He was with the Sin Killer and the Broken Hand and all the English. I don’t know where they are.”

  “I do,” Willy said. “They’re with my brother at our new trading post, all except Jimmy Snow, who’s helping me with the wagons.”

  “You could make the trading post in a day if you’d care to, sir,” he added.

  Clam shook his head. He did not want to rejoin the English and the Americans—he wanted to be out of the wild, to live again in a place where there were cafes and theaters, newspapers and jolies laides. Yet he wasn’t in such a place: the wild still surrounded him, and he was almost too tired to hope. If there was a chance to make Saint Louis, he wanted to take it.

  In late afternoon, as dusk spread over the prairies, they caught up with the caravan—the white horse turned out to belong to Greasy Lake—he was merely sharing it with the white man.

  When Jim Snow, like Willy Bent, expressed surprise at finding Greasy Lake, the old prophet revealed his reason for traveling south.

  “It’s because of the white buffalo,” he told them.

  � white buffalo?” Willy said. “Now that’s something I’ve never seen, and I’ve seen a passel of buffalo.”

  “I’ve not seen one either. Where is it, Uncle?” Jim asked.

  “With the Comanches,” Greasy Lake told them. “It was born on the night when many stars fell—it is still just a calf. All my life I have waited for this white buffalo, and now it has come.”

  Though the old man accepted a little food, he refused to stay the night. He mounted his white horse and rode on by moonlight.

  Clam de Paty ate only a mouthful or two of venison. He was really too tired to chew. A space was made for him in one of the wagons and he was soon asleep.

  Willy and Jim sat up most of the night, not saying much, just watching the fire flicker. Willy had a question he wanted to ask Jim, and yet when he tried to come out with it, he grew embarrassed and kept putting it off. And yet, the question nagged him so that he finally asked it.

  “Do you miss your wife much, Jimmy?” he mumbled, finally.

  Jim Snow was surprised. Why would Willy Bent care whether he missed Tasmin? He remembered how wide Tasmin’s eyes had been when they made love just before his departure.

  “Some,” he allowed, finally. “I miss her some.”

  What he mainly wished was that W
illy Bent was less talkative.

  “Then you’re like me—I’m already missing my Owl,” Willy admitted. He felt better for having said it.

  He was hoping Jimmy Snow would talk a little about the way it felt to miss a wife, but Jimmy didn’t. He just stared into the fire—his manner seemed so stiff that Willy did not pursue the matter.

  In the night Clam de Paty had a painful dream. In the dream his old colleague Benjamin Hope-Tipping was in their balloon, hovering over Paris. Now Ben was over Notre Dame, over the Invalides, over the Seine.

  Ben was trying to make the balloon descend, so Clam could climb aboard. Clam went running along, underneath the balloon, from which Ben had dangled a small ladder for Clam to climb up. But the balloon never quite came low enough—the small ladder dangled just out of reach. Clam jumped for it but missed; he jumped for it a second time, but missed again. Too tired to jump a third time, he fell back and watched helplessly as the balloon rose and rose, above the Hotel de Ville, above Notre Dame, above Montmartre. Clam could no longer see Ben; the soft shadows of Paris were replaced by a wide white sky, as vast and empty as the prairies. The sky turned the color of blue ice—in it great yellow bears were flying like birds. The bears had long beaks, like the birds that had hit their balloon. Clam squeezed his eyes shut; he did not want to see the long-beaked bears, or the ice blue sky. He felt a swirling around him, he felt birds beating him with their wings, then he felt nothing.

  When Willy tried to shake Clam de Paty awake in the morning to offer him coffee, he at once found that he was shaking a cold, stiff leg, the leg of a man who had died during the night.

  “I guess he was just plumb wore out from all the traveling,” Willy said, as he and Jim dug the grave.

  “The man said before that he was finished—he wasn’t lying,” Jim said.