“The baby’s yours, Woodrow,” she said. “I’m hoping you’ll help me bring it up.”
Call took his hand off the doorknob.
“It’s mine?” he asked, puzzled.
“Well, it’s ours, I mean,” Maggie said, watching his face as she said it, to see if there was any hope at all. For three weeks, ever since she was sure that she was pregnant, she had anguished over how to tell Woodrow. Over and over she practiced how she would tell him. Her best hope, her nicest dream, was that Woodrow would want the baby to be his and also, maybe, want to marry her and care for her as his wife.
Sometimes Maggie could imagine such a thing happening, when she thought about Woodrow and the baby, but mostly she had the opposite conviction. He might hate the notion—in fact he probably would hate it. He might walk out the door and never see her again. After all, he was a Texas Ranger captain now, and she was just a whore. He was not obligated to come back to see her, much less to marry her or help her with the child. Every time she thought of telling him, Maggie felt despair—she didn’t know what it would mean for their future.
But she was pregnant, a truth that would soon be apparent.
Now the words were out—Woodrow just seemed puzzled. He had not flinched or looked at her cruelly.
“Well, Maggie,” he said, and stopped. He seemed mainly distracted. Maggie had put on her robe but hadn’t tied it yet; he was looking at her belly as if he expected to see what she was talking about.
“This is surprising news,” he said, rather stiffly, but with no anger in his voice.
The fact was, Call had set his mind on the next task, which was locating Gus and getting on to the Governor’s office. He had never been good at getting his mind to consider two facts at once, much less two big facts. Maggie was slim and lovely, no different than she had been the day he had ridden off to Fort Belknap. It occurred to him that she might just be having a fancy of some kind—Gus had told him that Clara often had fancies about babies. Maybe she had just got it into her head that she was having a baby. It might be something like Gus McCrae’s conviction that he was going to stumble onto a gold mine, every time they went out on patrol. Gus was always poking into holes and caves, looking for his gold mine. But there wasn’t a gold mine in any of the caves and there might not be a baby in Maggie, either.
What he didn’t want to do was upset her, just when it was necessary to leave. She had been sweet to him on his return and had fixed him a tasty meal at her expense.
Maggie was a little encouraged by the fact that Woodrow didn’t seem angry. He had an appointment with the Governor and was clearly eager to get out the door, which was normal. If he went on with his task, perhaps he would think about the baby and come to like the notion.
“You go on, I know you’re in a hurry,” she said.
“Why, yes, we can discuss this later,” Call said, relieved that no further delay was required.
He tipped his hat to her before going out the door.
The minute he left, Maggie hurried over to the window so she could watch him as he walked down the street. She had always liked the way he walked. He was not a graceful man, particularly. Even when he was relaxed he moved a little stiffly—but his very awkwardness touched her. He needed someone to take care of him, Woodrow did, and Maggie wanted to be the one to do it. She knew she could take care of him fine, without ever letting him suspect that he needed to be taken care of. She knew, too, that he liked to feel independent.
Maggie just wanted her chance.
Despite herself, watching him walk away, her heart swelled with hope. He hadn’t said anything bad, when she told him about the baby. He had not even looked annoyed, and he often looked annoyed if she asked him any question at all, or detained him even for a minute, when he was in a hurry to leave. An appointment with the Governor was important, and yet he had stopped and listened to her.
Maybe, after all, the whoring was over, she thought. Maybe Woodrow Call, the only man she had ever loved, would think about it all and decide to marry her. Maybe he was going to make her dream come true.
33.
INEZ SCULL, dressed entirely in black, was sitting in Governor Pease’s office when Call and Augustus were ushered in. Bingham had come to fetch them and had not said a word on the buggy ride. What was more surprising to Call was that Gus had not said a word either. In the whole stretch of their friendship Call could not remember an occasion when Gus had been silent for so long—and the buggy ride only took ten minutes, not a long silence by normal standards.
“Are you sick, or are you so drunk you can’t even talk?” Call asked, near the end of the ride.
Augustus continued to stare off into the distance. He did not speak a word. In his mind’s eye he saw the woman he loved—the woman he would always love—steaming up a broad brown river with Bob Allen, horse trader of Nebraska. His rival had won; that was the bleak fact. He saw no reason to chatter just to please Woodrow Call.
Though Madame Scull was silent, she was a presence they could not ignore. When they stepped in, the Governor was busy with a secretary, so they stood where they were, hats in hand, just inside the door of the broad room. To their embarrassment Madame Scull got up and came and gave them a silent inspection, looking them over from head to foot. She was bold in her looking too, so bold that both men were made distinctly uncomfortable under her silent gaze.
“Here they are, Inez—our two young captains,” the Governor said, when the secretary left. “They brought the troop home safe and rescued three captives besides.”
“I’d say it’s beginners’ luck,” Madame Scull said, in a tone that stung Gus McCrae to the quick.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but we ain’t beginners,” he said. “Woodrow and me have been Texas Rangers a good ten years already.”
“Ten years!” Madame Scull said. “Then why haven’t you learned to stand at attention properly? Your posture is a disgrace. It’s a slouch, not a stance, and it doesn’t bode well.”
“And the other one needs barbering,” she added, turning to the Governor. “I’m afraid I must decline to be impressed.”
“But we ain’t soldiers, we’re rangers,” Gus said, unable to restrain himself in the face of such insults.
“Now, McCrae, you hush,” the Governor said. He knew that Inez Scull was capable of high, even cyclonic furies, and he did not want a cyclone to strike his office just then.
“This is Mrs. Scull,” he added hastily. “She’s upset that the Captain didn’t come home with the troop.”
“Shut up, Ed,” Mrs. Scull said, to the young rangers’ great shock. It couldn’t be proper for a woman to tell a governor to shut up, even if she was the Captain’s wife.
But the Governor immediately shut up.
“I am not so ill bred as to be upset,” Inez said. “I’m angry. Do either of you have a notion as to where my husband is?”
“Somewhere along the Pecos River, I reckon, ma’am,” Call said.
“I hope he drowns in it, then, the stumpy little mongrel,” Madame Scull said, turning to the Governor—Governor Pease had retreated a step or two, and looked very out of sorts.
“He is rather a mongrel, you know, Ed,” she said to the Governor.
“I don’t follow you, Inez—he’s a Scull and I believe they’re a fine family,” Governor Pease replied.
“Yes, but rather bred down, if you want the truth,” Madame Scull said. “Inish is the only one left with any fight, and most of that comes from his mother—she was a Polish servant, I believe. Inish’s father was Evanswood Scull. He rose rather high in Mr. Madison’s government, but he would have the Polish maid. So Inish is a mongrel and that’s that.”
“Fight’s worth more than breeding when you’re policing a frontier,” the Governor remarked.
“Perhaps, but I did not agree to police any frontiers,” Inez replied. “I need my operas and my lapdogs and my fine shops. Given my shops and a little Italian singing I can get by rather well without that black mongrel of a husb
and.”
Augustus wanted to look at Woodrow, to see how he was digesting all this, but Madame Scull stood right in front of them; he didn’t dare turn his eyes.
“Did the ugly little brute give you any warning, or did he just sniff the air and walk off?” she asked. “Inish usually leaves at a moment of maximum inconvenience for everyone but himself. Did you wake up expecting him to leave, the morning he took himself away?”
“No, ma’am,” both said at once.
“He just decided to go try to get his horse back,” Call added.
“Bosh . . . the horse is just an excuse,” Inez said. “Inish doesn’t care about horses. Not even Hector. He’d just as soon eat one as ride one.”
“But Inez, what other reason would he have to walk off like that?” the puzzled Governor asked, still nervous about the possible cyclone.
“I don’t know and neither do these slouchy boys,” Madame Scull said.
“We tried to talk him out of walking but he wouldn’t listen,” Call informed her.
“He was the captain—there wasn’t much we could do,” Augustus said.
“No, he’s a damn restless mongrel—he wanted to walk off and he did walk off, leaving everybody, including me,” Madame Scull said. “It’s abominable behavior, I say.”
“Ma’am, he left with Famous Shoes, who’s a fine tracker,” Call pointed out. “Famous Shoes knows the country. I expect he’ll bring the Captain out.”
“You don’t know the man,” Inez snapped. “He won’t show up unless he’s fetched. I expect he’ll find his way to the sea, and the next thing I know there’ll be a telegram from India, or somewhere, expecting me to pack up and follow. I won’t have it, not this time!”
There was silence in the room. Madame Scull’s last statement left everyone in doubt. Did she intend to go after the Captain herself? Her black eyes were so filled with anger that when she looked at Augustus he felt like stepping back a step or two, yet she was so forceful that he was afraid to move a muscle, and Woodrow was just as paralyzed. Governor Pease stared out the window, uncomfortable and silent.
“Will you fetch him for me, gentlemen?” she asked, softening her voice even as she raked them with her eyes. “If we can’t catch him soon I might have to wait a year for news, and I won’t tolerate it!”
“Of course you have my permission,” the Governor quickly added. “I’d recommend taking a small force, perhaps four men besides yourselves.”
“The sooner you get started, the better,” Inez said.
In Gus’s mind was the coming torment of Clara’s wedding—he saw Madame Scull’s request as a God-sent hope of escape.
“I’m ready, I can leave in an hour,” Augustus said. “Or less, if it’s required.”
Call was very startled by his friend’s wild statement. They had scarcely been back a day from a long expedition. The men were tired and the horses gaunt. Were they to set off without rest to find a man who might refuse to come back even if they found him, which was by no means a certain thing?
Before he could speak Mrs. Scull suddenly smiled at Augustus.
“Why, Mr. McCrae, such impetuosity,” she said. “I wouldn’t think of having you depart quite that soon. No doubt you have arrangements to make—a sweetheart to say goodbye to, perhaps?”
“I ain’t got a sweetheart and I’m ready to leave as soon as possible I can clean my guns and catch my horse,” Gus said. He didn’t think he could endure being in Austin much more than another hour—not with the triumphant Bob Allen taking up all Clara’s time, as he would for the rest of her life. If the boys couldn’t leave at once, then he meant to leave anyway and camp somewhere along the route, with a bottle of whiskey to keep him company.
Call was astonished, but Gus’s peculiar desire to depart at once wasn’t the only thing that concerned him.
“What if we find him and he won’t come back?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m sure if you tell him Inez is anxious he’ll be happy to come back with you,” the Governor said. His own main desire was get Inez Scull out of his office before she broke into a fit.
“Inish hates to be checked, particularly when he’s running away from his duties,” Inez said. “They may have to arrest him.”
“Just find him and ask him politely to come back,” Governor Pease said, remembering that Inish Scull himself was no slouch when it came to throwing fits. Besides, he was a popular hero, and not loath to act the part. Putting such a popular man under arrest might lead to political catastrophe—he might even lose the governorship, if Inish stood against him. It was too much to risk.
“Ask him politely—what good will that do?” Mrs. Madame Scull said. “Inish ain’t polite.”
“What’ll we do then, ma’am, if we find him and he won’t come back?” Call inquired.
“How should I know? I ain’t a great Texas Ranger, I’m just a wife,” she said. “But don’t come back without him—I won’t have it! Come along, Mr. McCrae.”
She started for the door. Augustus wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.
“Do what, ma’am?” he asked.
“Come along—are you deaf?” Madame Scull said, turning briefly. “I’d like you to walk me home, if you ain’t too busy saying goodbye to your sweethearts.”
“Ma’am, I just told you, I got no sweethearts to say goodbye to,” Gus repeated.
“Capital!” Madame Scull said. “In that case I may ask you to stay for tea. Being abandoned by one’s husband does make one so lonely.”
Then she looked over at Call, with a little smile.
“I would ask you too, Captain Call,” she said, “but I expect you’re more of a ladies’ man than Captain McCrae. I imagine you do have sweethearts who will expect you soon.”
“Oh no, ma’am—Captain McCrae’s the ladies’ man,” Call said, though Gus glared at him. “I guess I better go see which of the boys is in the mood to ride out again on short notice.”
“I think I’d locate a barber first, sir, and let him clean you up a little,” Mrs. Scull said. “I believe you’d be rather handsome if you were barbered properly.”
“Thank you,” Call said. “I intended to get barbered before I came to see the Governor.”
“Then why didn’t you, sir?” Inez asked. “You’d have made a far better impression if you’d gone to that little bit of trouble.”
No wonder the Captain walked off, Call thought. He was not about to tell Madame Scull what he’d done instead of getting barbered and he resented that she had been so impertinent as to ask.
“Where do you think he went, Ed?” Madame Scull asked the Governor, her eyes fixed on Call, even though Augustus had gone to the door and was holding it open.
“Went? I don’t know where he went,” the Governor said impatiently. “I’ve just met Captain Call and am not familiar with his habits.”
“I expect he went to a whore,” Inez said, with a little laugh. “He looks like the kind of man who would put whoring before barbering. Don’t you agree, Governor?”
Governor Pease had had enough—the woman would stay forever, it seemed; and he was the governor.
“Any man would put whoring before barbering, Inez,” he replied. “It would be the normal thing.”
“That’s it! I knew you had starch, Ed Pease,” Madame Scull said. “I expect I ought to ask you to my tea party instead of this green ear of corn here, but then you’re the governor. You’ve got duties.”
“I’ve got duties,” Governor Pease agreed, as Madame Scull swept out the door.
Call glanced at Augustus, puzzled as to why he would twice say he had no sweetheart to say goodbye to, when Call himself had just seen him holding hands with Clara, outside the general store.
Gus, though, avoided his eye.
“I’ll see you at the stables, Woodrow,” he said, as he followed Inez Scull out the door.
“It’s like eating green persimmons,” the Governor remarked darkly, once the door was safely closed.
“What, sir?” C
all asked.
“Uncharitable talk, Captain,” Governor Pease said, with a sign and a smile. “Every time I talk to Inez I come away feeling like I’ve eaten a green persimmon—you know how they make your mouth shrink up?”
“I wouldn’t know, I avoid green fruit!” Call said.
“I’ve got to send you out, Captain—I gave Inez my promise,” the Governor said. “But it’s up to you what to say to Inish, if you catch up with him.”
“I might just tell him to keep on walking,” Call said.
“That’s right—let him wander,” Governor Pease replied. “Why come back just to be et alive by your wife? If you’ve got to be et alive, let some cannibal Indian do it.”
The more the Governor thought about Inez Scull, the more worked up he became.
“Damn rich women anyway,” he said. “Particularly rich women from Birmingham, Alabama.”
He looked out the window for a bit, gloomily.
“Inez Scull would try the patience of a saint, Captain,” he said—and then he paced the room for a few minutes, evidently unable to leave the subject of Inez Scull alone.
“Not just a saint. Job!” he exclaimed. “Inez would even try the patience of Job!”
“I don’t know Job, but she sure tried mine,” Call said.
34.
AS THEY WALKED up the steps of the Scull mansion Augustus began to feel timid and uneasy. Madame Scull had marched along, nearly half a mile, from the Governor’s office to the slope where the castle stood, without saying a word to him. She had talked constantly while at the Governor’s, but now she was mute as a jug.
Earlier in the day, in his vexation over Clara, Gus had kicked a large rock and broken his boot heel. He had been meaning to get it repaired when Woodrow showed up and stuck him in the Governor’s buggy.
Now, as he was trying to keep up with the fast-striding Madame Scull, the wobbly boot heel broke off, which caused him to have to walk a little lopsided. His awkward, tilted stride seemed to amuse Madame Scull.
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