That afternoon he stood up, but he couldn’t touch his right foot to the ground. He managed to belly over the horse and get down to the river. It was three days before he had the strength to go back and get the saddle. The effort of getting to the river had exhausted him so much he could barely undo a button. Early one morning he shot a large crane with his pistol, and the meat put a little strength in him. His leg had not returned to normal, but it had not fallen off either. He could put a little weight on it, but not much.
Five days after the snake bit him, July saddled up and rode across the Republican River. Since leaving Dodge he had not seen one person. He worried about Indians—wounded as he was, he would have been easy prey—and yet finally he grew so lonesome that he would have been glad to see an Indian or two. He began to wonder if there were any people at all in the north.
As he neared Nebraska, the plains took on a browner look. Though he was fairly sure now he wasn’t going to die, he kept having spells of lightheadedness in which his vision wavered and he tended to run off at the mouth. At night he would wake and find himself in the middle of a conversation with Roscoe—it embarrassed him, though no one was around to hear.
But he kept on. Streams became a little more plentiful and he ceased to worry too much about water. Once he thought he saw riders, far in the distance, but when he went toward them they turned out to be two buffalo, standing on the prairie as if they were lost. July started to shoot one, but it was more meat than he needed, and if he killed one the other buffalo would be as alone as he was. He passed on and that night killed a big prairie chicken with a rock.
Three days later he saw the Platte, winding between low brown slopes. He soon hit a good wagon track and followed it west.
About noon he saw a lone frame house standing a half mile south of the Platte. There were corrals and a few sheds near it, and a sizable horse herd grazing in sight of the house. July felt like crying—it meant he wasn’t lost anymore. No one would build a frame house unless there was a town somewhere near. Being alone on the prairie for so many weeks had made him realize how much he liked being in towns, though when he thought about all that he had been through, he didn’t feel he had much hope of finding Ellie there. How could a woman come across such distances?
As he approached the house an old man appeared to the north, riding out of the Platte, his horse dripping water. July saw there were more horses north of the river. The old man had white hair and seemed to be a Mexican. He rode with a rifle held lightly across his saddle. July didn’t want to appear unfriendly. He stopped to wait.
The old man looked mainly at his leg. July had forgotten how ugly it looked—he had even forgotten it was still yellowish and almost bare, for he had cut his pants leg off when the leg was so swollen.
“Is it bad?” the old man asked in English. July was glad for the English.
“Not as bad as it was,” July said. “Is Ogallala near here?”
“Twenty miles,” the old man said. “I’m Cholo. Come to the house. You must be hungry.”
July didn’t argue. He had almost forgotten that people sat at tables, in houses, to eat. He had lived so long on half-cooked bacon, or half-cooked game, that he had become shy at the thought of sitting at a proper table. He didn’t look proper, he knew.
As he approached the house he suddenly heard shrieks of laughter, and a little girl flew around the corner of the house, another slightly older girl in hot pursuit. The girl in the lead ran on to one of the sheds between the house and the corral and tried to hide in it, but her sister caught her before she could get inside, and they tussled and shrieked. The older girl was trying to put something down the younger girl’s neck, and she finally succeeded, at which point the younger girl began to hop up and down while the older one ran off, laughing.
As the two men rode up, a woman appeared on the back steps of the house. She wore a gray smock and an apron and had an infant in her arms. She was clearly out of temper, for she yelled something at the two girls, who stopped their shrieking, looked at one another and slowly approached the house. The infant the woman held was crying fretfully, though, at that, making less noise than the girls. The woman addressed herself to the older girl, who made some excuse, and the younger girl, in her own defense, pointed back toward the shed. The woman listened a minute and began to talk rapidly, giving her daughters what for, July supposed.
To see a woman so suddenly, after so much time alone, made him very nervous—particularly since the woman was so out of temper. But as they drew closer he found that, out of temper or not, he couldn’t stop looking at her. Her eyes flashed as she lectured her daughters, neither of whom was taking the lecture silently—both were trying to talk back but the mother didn’t pause to listen. She had abundant brown hair tucked into a bun at the back of her neck, though the bun had partly come loose.
The old Mexican seemed not the least disturbed by the argument in progress. In fact, he seemed amused by it, and he rode up and got off his horse as if nothing were happening.
“But she put a grasshopper down my neck,” the younger girl said. “I hate her.”
“I don’t care who hates who,” the woman said. “I was up with this baby all night—you know how colicky he is. You don’t have to scream right under my window—looks like there be room on this prairie for you to scream without doing it under my window. All we got here is room.”
“It was a grasshopper,” the little girl insisted.
“Well, is it the first one you’ve ever seen?” the woman asked. “You’ll have more to worry about than grasshoppers if you wake this baby again.”
The woman was rather thin, but anger put color in her cheeks. The girls finally were subdued and the woman looked up and saw him, lifting her chin with a bit of belligerence, as though she might have to tie into him too. Then she saw his discolored leg, and her look changed. She had gray eyes and she turned them on him with sudden gravity.
“Get down, señor,” the old man said.
The girls looked around and became aware for the first time that a stranger had come. They instantly stopped fidgeting and stood like statues.
The woman smiled. She seemed to have switched from anger to amusement.
“Hello, I’m Clara,” she said. “Pardon the commotion. We’re a loud bunch. Get down, sir. You’re welcome.”
July had not spoken in so long, except for the few words he had said to Cholo and his ravings to Roscoe Brown, that his voice came out cracked. “Thank you, I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” he said.
Clara laughed. “You don’t look strong enough to trouble nobody around here,” she said. “We grow our own troubles—it would be a novelty to have some we ain’t already used to. These are my daughters, Sally and Betsey.”
July nodded to the girls and got off his horse. After a ride his leg stiffened and he had to hobble over to the porch. The baby was still fretting. The woman rocked it in her arms as she watched July hobble.
“Snake bit him,” Cholo observed.
“I guess I rolled into it at night,” July said. “I never even seen it. Just woke up with a yellow leg.”
“Well, if you’ve lived this long I expect you have nothing to fear,” Clara said. “We’ll get some food in you. The way sick people have been turning up lately, I sometimes think we oughta go out of the horse business and open a hospital. Come on in the house—you girls set him a place.”
The old man helped him up the steps and into the roomy kitchen. Clara was poking the fire in the cookstove, the baby still held in one arm.
“If you’d like a wash first, I’ll have the girls draw some water,” Clara said. “I didn’t get your name.”
“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 lit
tle 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, but now 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 child 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.”
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 202