Roscoe was having trouble believing what he saw. He felt he had missed a step or two in the proceedings somehow.
“Are you gonna get your clothes on or are you just going to stand there?” July asked.
It sounded like July, and it looked like July, so Roscoe was forced to conclude that he was saved. He had been in the process of adjusting to impending death, and it seemed to him a part of him must already have left for the other place, because he felt sort of absent and dull. Ordinarily he would not have stood around on a muddy prairie naked, and yet in some ways it was easier than having to pick up the pieces of his life again, which meant, first off, having to literally pick up pieces of his clothes.
“They cut up my duds,” he said to July. “I doubt I’ll ever be able to get them boots back on, wet as they are.”
“Joe, bring the handcuffs,” July said.
Joe walked into camp with two sets of handcuffs. It shocked him to see Roscoe naked.
“I never seen so many young ’uns,” Hutto said. “Can this one throw rocks too?”
“Who is throwing the rocks?” July asked. He had been about to step in before the rock-throwing started, but the rock-thrower’s accuracy had been so startling that he had waited a few minutes to watch the outcome.
“That’s Janey,” Roscoe said, buttoning up what was left of his best shirt. “She practices chunking varmints. It’s how we been getting our grub.”
July quickly handcuffed Jim, who was still writhing around on the grass. The blow to the throat seemed to have damaged his windpipe—he gasped loudly for air, like a drowning man.
“You might shoot me, but you ain’t putting no dern cuffs on me,” Hutto said when July approached him.
“This is July Johnson, and I wouldn’t fight him,” Roscoe said. For some reason he felt rather friendly to Hutto, though it was Hutto who had been most inclined to kill him.
Hutto didn’t fight but neither did he get handcuffed, for the simple reason that his wrists were too big. July was forced to tie him with a saddle string, a method he would rather have avoided. A man as large as Hutto would eventually stretch out any rope or piece of rawhide if he kept trying.
Roscoe managed to get his pants to hold together pretty well although they were full of holes. As predicted, he could not get his boots on. Joe helped, but the two of them made no headway.
“It’s a good thing you shot,” Joe said. “We was already camped, but July recognized your gun.”
“Oh, was that it?” Roscoe said, reluctant to admit that it had been Janey who shot.
Once the men were handcuffed and tied, July got them onto their horses and tied their feet to the stirrups. Hutto and Jim he knew by reputation, for they had harried the east Texas trails for the last year or two, mostly robbing settlers but occasionally killing those who put up a fight. He had expected to find Roscoe eventually, but not the two bandits. Now something would have to be done with them before he could even ask Roscoe all the questions he wanted to ask about Elmira. Also, there was the rock-thrower—Janey, Roscoe had called her. Why was a Janey traveling with Roscoe? Indeed, where was she? The rock-throwing had stopped but no one had appeared.
Now that the danger was past, Roscoe began to feel that there were many awkward matters awaiting explanation. He had forgotten about Elmira and her departure for several days, although her departure was the reason he was in Texas. Also, he would have to explain to July why he was traveling with a young girl. It seemed better to talk about the miracle of July’s appearance, but July didn’t want to say much about it.
“I never expected to see you right then,” Roscoe said. “Then there you were, pointing that gun.”
“This is the main trail to Texas from Fort Smith,” July pointed out. “If I was looking for you that’s where I’d likely be.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know you was looking for me,” Roscoe said. “You don’t usually.”
“Peach wrote and told me you was on the way,” July said. It was all the explanation he planned to offer until he could get Roscoe alone.
“I guess we’re caught, but what next?” Hutto asked. He did not like to be left out of conversations. Jim, who still had to suck hard to get his breath, showed no inclination to talk.
“You say there’s a girl?” July asked.
“Yep, Janey.”
“Call her in,” July said.
Roscoe made an effort, but it went awkwardly. “Come on, July’s here,” he said loudly into the darkness. “It’s safe, he’s the sheriff I work for,” he added, just as loudly.
There was no sound from the darkness, and no sign of Janey. Roscoe could tell July was impatient. It made him nervous. He remembered how Janey had disappeared for two hours that afternoon. If she thought July would wait two hours, she didn’t know much about him.
“Come on in, we’ve got these men tied,” he said, without much hope that Janey would obey.
She didn’t. There was not a sound to be heard, except for some coyotes singing about a mile away.
“I suspect that girl has Indian blood,” Hutto said. “She had us ambushed, fair and square, and if she was as good with a pistol as she is with a rock we’d be dead.”
“What’s the matter with her?” July asked. “Why won’t she come?”
“I don’t know,” Roscoe said. “She don’t take to company, I guess.”
July thought it a very odd business. Roscoe had never been one to womanize. In fact, around Fort Smith his skill in avoiding various widow women had often been commented on. And yet he had somehow taken up with a girl who could throw rocks more accurately than most men could shoot.
“I don’t intend to spend the night here,” July said. “Has she got a horse?”
“No, but she’s quick of foot,” Roscoe said. “She’s been keeping ahead of me without no trouble. Where are we going?”
“To Fort Worth,” July said. “The sheriff there will probably be glad to get these men.”
“Yes, he will, the son of a bitch,” Hutto said.
Roscoe felt bad about going off and leaving Janey, but he couldn’t think what to do about it. July tied the two outlaws’ horses to a single lead rope and instructed Roscoe and Joe to stay close behind them. It had clouded up and was almost pitch-dark, but that had no effect on July’s pace, which was fast. Having to deliver the outlaws to justice was taking him out of his way, but there was nothing else for it.
When they had been riding about an hour, Roscoe got the scare of his life, for suddenly someone jumped on the horse behind him. For a terrifying second he thought Jim must have gotten loose and come to strangle him or stick a knife in him. Memphis was startled, too, and jumped sideways into Joe’s horse.
Then he heard the person panting and knew it was Janey.
“I couldn’t keep up no longer,” she said. “I thought he’d slow down but he just keeps going.”
Joe was so startled to see a girl materialize behind Roscoe that he didn’t say a word. He found it hard to credit that the person who had thrown the rocks could be a girl. Yet he had seen the rocks hit the men. How could a girl throw so hard and straight?
July had appropriated Hutto’s shotgun, loaded it and put it across his saddle—he assumed it would make the prisoners think twice before starting trouble. His one thought was to get back to Fort Worth, turn the men over and start at once to look for Elmira.
They rode all night, and when the plains got gray they were no more than five miles from Fort Worth. He glanced back at the prisoners and was startled to see the girl, riding behind Roscoe. She looked very young. Her bare legs were as thin as a bird’s. Roscoe was slumped over the horn, asleep, and the girl held the reins. She was also watching the two prisoners, both of whom were plenty wide-awake. July got down and checked Hutto’s knots, which indeed were slipping.
“I guess you’re Janey,” he said to the girl. She nodded. July handed her the shotgun to hold while he retied Hutto.
“My God, don’t do that, she’s apt to cut us in two
,” Jim said. His voice had a husky croak from the blow on his throat—it pained him to speak, but the sight of the girl with the shotgun clearly pained him more.
Joe had managed to get the sleep out of his eyes, and was rather aggrieved that July had given the gun to the girl. She was no older than he was and she was female. He felt he ought to have been given the shotgun.
“You don’t give a man much of a chance, do you?” Hutto said, as July retied him. He was a messy sight from all the dried blood on his mouth and his beard, but he seemed cheerful.
“Nope,” July said.
“If they don’t hang us, you better watch out for Jim,” Hutto said. “Jim hates to have anyone point a gun at him. He’s got a vengeful nature, too.”
Jim did seem vengeful. His eyes were shining with hatred, and he was looking at the girl. The look was so hot that many men would have flinched from it, but the girl didn’t.
All the while Roscoe slumped over his horse’s neck, snoring away. They were nearly on the outskirts of Fort Worth before he woke up, and it was not until July handed the prisoners over to the sheriff that he began to feel alive.
Janey had acted like she wanted to bolt when they came into town—the sight of so many wagons and people clearly upset her—but she held on. July found a livery stable, for it would be necessary to rest the horses for a while. It was run by a woman, who kindly offered to scrape up a little breakfast for the youngsters. It consisted of corn bread and bacon, which they ate sitting on big washtubs outside the woman’s house.
Roscoe’s clothes were practically in ribbons, so much so that the woman laughed when she saw him. She offered to mend his clothes for another fifty cents, but Roscoe had to decline, since he had nothing to wear while the work was being done.
“This is a big-looking town,” Roscoe said. “I guess I can buy myself some clothes.”
“Not for no fifty cents,” the woman said. “That’s nothing but a sack the girl’s wearing. You ought to get her something decent to wear while you’re buying.”
“Well, I might,” Roscoe said. It was true that Janey’s dress was a mere rag.
Janey seemed to think Forth Worth was quite a sight. She was over her fright, and she looked around with interest.
“Is that girl your daughter?” the woman asked.
“No,” Roscoe said. “I never saw her till last week.”
“Well, she’s somebody’s daughter and she deserves better than a sack to wear,” the woman said. “That boy’s dressed all right, how come you skimped on the girl?”
“No opportunity,” Roscoe said. “I just found her up in the country.”
The woman had a red face, and it got redder when she was angry, as she now clearly was. “I don’t know what to think of you men,” she said, and went in her house and slammed the door.
“Where did you get her?” July asked.
“I didn’t get her, exactly,” Roscoe said. He felt on the defensive. It was clear that people would think the worst of him, whatever he did. No doubt in Fort Smith the word would be out that instead of sticking to orders he had run off with the first young girl he could find.
“She run off and followed me,” he added. July looked noncommittal.
“A dern old man beat her and used her hard, and that’s why she run off,” Roscoe elaborated. “Can we got to a saloon? I’d sure fancy a beer.”
July took him to a saloon and bought him a beer. Now that he had Roscoe alone he felt curiously reluctant to mention Elmira. Even hearing her name spoken would be painful.
“What about Ellie?” he said finally. “Peach said she left.”
“Well, Peach is right,” Roscoe said. “Or if she didn’t leave, then she’s hiding. Or else a bear got her.”
“Did you see bear tracks?” July asked.
“No,” Roscoe admitted.
“Then a bear didn’t get her,” July said.
“She probably left on the whiskey boat,” Roscoe said, trying to hide behind his beer glass.
“I don’t see why,” July said softly, almost to himself. He didn’t see why. He had never done anything to disturb her that he could remember. He had never hit her, or even spoken harshly to her. What would prompt a woman to run off when nothing was wrong? Of course, it wasn’t true that nothing had been wrong. Something had been. He just didn’t know what. He didn’t know why she had married him if she didn’t like him, and he had the sense that she didn’t. It was true that Peach had hinted a few times that people got married for reasons other than liking, but Peach was known to be cynical.
Now, in the saloon, he remembered Peach’s hints. Maybe Ellie had never liked him. Maybe she had married him for reasons she hadn’t wanted to mention. Thinking about it all made him feel very sad.
“Did you talk to her at all after I left?” he asked Roscoe.
“No,” Roscoe admitted.
July didn’t speak for five minutes. Roscoe turned over in his mind various excuses for not seeing Elmira, but in truth, it had never once occurred to him to go and see her. He slowly drank his beer.
“What about Jake?” he asked.
“He’s to the south,” July said. “He’s coming with a trail herd. I want to find Ellie. Once that’s done we’ll look for Jake.”
He fished some money out of his pocket and paid for the beers. “Maybe you ought to take the young ones and go back to Arkansas,” he said. “I’m going after Ellie.”
“I’ll come with you,” Roscoe said. Now that he had found July, he had no intention of losing him again. He had had plenty of trouble coming, and yet worse might occur if he tried to go back on his own.
“I expect if we paid that woman she’d board the girl,” July said. “You go buy some duds. You’ll be a laughingstock if you try to travel in those you got on.”
The woman at the livery stable agreed to board Janey for three dollars a month. July paid for two months. When told she was to stay in Fort Worth, Janey didn’t say a word. The woman spoke to her cheerfully about getting some better clothes, but Janey sat on the washtub, silent.
The woman offered to take Joe, too, and board him free if he would help out around the livery stable. July was tempted, but Joe looked so unhappy that he relented and decided to let him stay with them. Then Roscoe showed up, in clothes that looked so stiff it was a wonder he could even walk in them.
“I guess you might break them clothes in by Christmas,” the livery-stable woman said, laughing. “You look like you’re wearing stovepipes.”
“I can’t help it if they’re black,” Roscoe said. “It was all they had that fit.”
He felt sorry about leaving Janey. What if old Sam got well and tracked them to Fort Worth and found her? He offered her two dollars in case she had expenses, but Janey just shook her head. When they rode off, she was still sitting on the big washtub.
Joe was glad she wasn’t coming. She made him feel that he didn’t do things very well.
He didn’t have long to enjoy being glad, though. That night they camped on the plains, twenty miles north of Fort Worth. July felt it was all right to sleep without a guard, as there were trail herds on both sides of them. They could hear the night herders singing to the cattle.
In the morning, when Joe opened his eyes, Janey was squatting by the cold campfire. She still wore her sack. Even July had not heard her come. When July woke up she handed him back the six dollars he had given the woman. July just took it, looking surprised. Joe felt annoyed. It was wrong of the girl to come without July’s permission. If the Indians carried her off, he for one would not be too sorry—although, when he thought about it, he realized he himself might be an easier catch. The girl had followed them at night, across the plains. It was something he couldn’t have done.
All that day the girl ran along on her own, never getting far behind. She was not like any of the girls Joe had known in Fort Smith, none of whom could have kept up for five minutes. Joe didn’t know what to make of her, and neither did July, or even Roscoe, who had found her. But
soon they were far out on the plains, and it was clear to everyone that Janey was along for the trip.
53.
LONG BEFORE THE WHISKEY BOAT STOPPED, Elmira knew she was going to have trouble with Big Zwey. The man had never approached her, or even spoken to her, but every time she went out of her shed to sit and watch the water, she felt his eyes on her. And when they loaded the whiskey in wagons and started across the plains for Bent’s Fort, his eyes followed her in whatever wagon she chose to ride for the day.
It seemed to her it might be the fact that she was so small that made Big Zwey so interested. It was a problem she had had before. Huge men seemed to like her because she was so tiny. Big Zwey was even larger than the buffalo hunter who had caused her to run to July.
Sometimes in the evening, when he brought her her food, Fowler would sit and talk with her a bit. He had a scar which ran over his nose and down across his lips into his beard. He had a rough look, but his eyes were dreamy.
“This whiskey-hauling business has about petered out,” he said one evening. “Indians kept the trade going. Now they’ve about got them all penned up, down in these parts. I may go up north.”
“Are there many towns up north?” she asked, remembering that Dee had mentioned going north. Dee liked his comforts—hotels and barbershops and such. Once she had offered to cut his hair and had made a mess of it. Dee had been good-natured about it, but he did remark that it paid to stick to professionals. He was vain about his looks.
“There’s Ogallala,” Fowler said. “That’s on the Platte. There’s towns in Montana, but that’s a long way.”
Big Zwey had a deep voice. She could sometimes hear him talking to the men, even over the creak of the wagon wheels. He wore a long buffalo coat and seldom took it off, even when the days were hot.
One morning there was great excitement. Just as the morning mists began to thin, the man on guard claimed to have seen six Indians on a ridge. He was a young man, very nervous. If there were Indians, they did not reappear. During the day the men surprised three buffalo and killed one of them. That night Fowler brought Elmira samples of the liver and the tongue—the best parts, he said.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 176