by Gwen Bristow
“God bless her,” said Garnet. She had thought she was going to speak vehemently, but she was so touched and so choked with pity that her voice came out in a thin little thread. “Florinda, we can get a message to Estelle, can’t we?”
“Why yes, of course. What do you want to say?”
“Tell her I’ve got a little money saved up. If she’ll let him stay there and die in peace, I’ll help pay for the business she’ll lose.”
Florinda smiled. “All right. Mighty sweet of you.”
Garnet rested her forehead on her hands. “Does he know he’s dying, Florinda?”
“Oh yes. He’s the one that told her. But she says anybody would know it to look at him.”
There was a silence. Florinda finished her coffee. She fingered the handle of the cup.
“I guess you know how Texas feels about you,” she said. “And he adores Stephen, I guess you know that too. When he was out of his head he talked to you all the time. Estelle said would I please tell you—here, have some more coffee.”
Garnet heard her with a sense of pain. Poor Texas, dear Texas. Florinda refilled both their cups. Garnet asked,
“What did Estelle want you to tell me?”
Florinda smiled wryly. “Well dear, she said it would mean a frightful lot to Texas if you’d come and say good-by to him and bring the baby.”
Garnet jerked up straight. “If I’d—you mean, Texas wants me to go there?”
“He didn’t suggest it!” Florinda exclaimed. “Texas wouldn’t dream of asking you to go inside a fancy house. Estelle thought it up. She said the way Texas talked to you and the baby when he was out of his head—she couldn’t stand it, it made the tears pour down her cheeks.” As though afraid she might have said too much, Florinda added quickly, “You don’t have to go, Garnet. Silky didn’t even want me to tell you.”
Garnet looked down. Without raising her eyes she said, “Of course I’ll go, Florinda.”
“Would you really?” Florinda exclaimed.
“Why yes. If it would mean that much to him.”
“Oh Garnet, I’m so glad. I’m so glad, Garnet!”
“Does she want me to come with her now?”
“Oh my Lord, no. Not in the late afternoon, there’s too much going on. But early tomorrow morning. The place is quiet as a parsonage then.”
Garnet twisted her handkerchief through her fingers. “Florinda, you’re sure I’ll be safe there, aren’t you?”
“You’ll be as safe,” said Florinda, “as if you were locked up in the fort.” She gave Garnet a one-sided smile. “Don’t let Silky know I told you this. But the fact is, that establishment belongs to Silky. He wouldn’t let—”
“Silky!”
“He doesn’t want it known, so don’t repeat it. I told you so you’d be sure nobody would bother you there. Silky and Estelle have been friends for years. They got acquainted in St. Louis when he was working the river-boats, and when he took the trail he brought her out here and set her up in business.”
Garnet nodded slowly. Florinda gave her a knowing look.
“Now you’re dying to ask,” Florinda said with amusement, “if I have an investment in Estelle’s outfit too. No, dearie, I haven’t. I own half of this one, just as I told you before, and that’s all. Is there anything else?”
Garnet shook her head. She could not help laughing at Florinda’s shrewdness. “Tell Estelle,” she said, “if somebody I can trust will walk over there with me, I’ll bring Stephen to see Texas tomorrow morning. I’ll be ready whenever she says.”
“Silky will go with you, and he’ll see to it that the house is empty of customers before you get there. Gee, Garnet, that’s good of you. I’ll tell him right away.”
She went to call Silky from the gambling room. Garnet sat where she was. An odd little shiver ran up her back as though someone had touched her with an icicle. It was not that she was afraid to go to Estelle’s. She was sure she ran no risk of the sort that would ordinarily have made her afraid to go inside any such house. But later she was to remember that shiver, and the vague disquiet that plagued her all evening and made her sleep restlessly that night. Remembering it, she wondered if there was any such thing as a hunch, or a forewarning, or anything that could have come out of the future to touch her with cold fingers and tell her not to go.
FORTY-TWO
“MISS GARNET,” SAID TEXAS, “there’s one or two little things I wish you’d tend to for me.”
“Why of course, Texas,” said Garnet. “What are they?”
Texas turned his head a little and smiled at her. She sat on the wall-bench at the head of his bed, while Stephen, curled up on the floor, was tearing up one of the straw animals Texas had made for him during the past summer. Texas held Garnet’s hand in his as he spoke. His voice was weak, but the words were plain enough.
“I’ve got a few hides on deposit with Mr. Abbott. Tell him to pay up everything.”
“Yes, Texas.”
“And if there’s any left over—” Texas smiled again as his eyes moved toward Stephen—“buy something for him.”
“You’re so good to him, Texas. But isn’t there—isn’t there anybody else?”
“No ma’am,” said Texas. There was a pause. Texas stroked her hand. After a while he asked, “Miss Garnet, do you guess I could have a drink?”
“Why yes,” said Garnet. “I’ll pour it for you.” She poured the drink from a bottle she had brought with her, and held Texas’ head up so he could swallow. It was Florinda’s best whiskey. Garnet had offered to pay for it, but Florinda had answered, “Not necessary, dear. Texas always keeps plenty of hides on the books.”
Stephen toddled over and pulled at the not very clean blanket lying across Texas’ broken body. Texas winced, though he tried to smile at the baby, and Garnet drew Stephen away. Stephen was tired and getting cross. She gave him some cold porridge from a pail she had brought, and at length Stephen curled up on his own blanket, which she had spread in a corner for him, and went to sleep.
Texas lay quietly. His bed had no sheets, but he had a pillow, and he seemed to be comfortable. The light was dim, for Garnet had closed the shutters; and though the sun was blazing outside, the thick adobe walls kept the room fairly cool. This was about all that could be said in its favor. Smells of garbage crept in through the cracks around the shutters, along with the other smells of hides and chili and unwashed Diggers that always hung over Los Angeles. By now Garnet was so used to the atmosphere that she did not often notice it. But here in this little cubbyhole at Estelle’s the smells were thick and stale, as though they clung to the walls.
Besides the smells, the cracks let in streaks of sun. Garnet could see the dust in the air and the flaking whitewash on the walls; and over her head she saw tatters of cobweb dangling from the rafters. The wall-curtains were faded at the folds and dingy at the hems. On the walls above the curtains hung two mirrors in gilt frames, and some pictures cut from old magazines that had filled up the chinks in M. Abbott’s goods-boxes. The pictures were smudgy, and curling at the edges.
Garnet could hear ox-carts creaking and drivers shouting, men’s talk and women’s talk and the voices of children, and the rough drone of Digger water-sellers calling their trade. She did not often notice the noise either. But today she heard it, perhaps because the racket outside was in such contrast to the silence within. Estelle’s girls were all asleep, and so, probably, was Estelle. Early this morning when Garnet had walked over here with Silky, Estelle had opened the door for them. Garnet had had only a glimpse of her. Silky, holding her elbow tight, had guided her straight through a dusky little passageway to this room. He had promised her that the house would be locked up until he himself came back to get her. Before leaving he had asked to see her Colt, to make sure it was ready for use. Nothing was going to happen, he assured her again, but a good Colt was a comforting thing to have. Silky did not approve of this visit.
Until she had actually entered the room where Texas lay, Garnet had no
t been sure that she was wise to come here. Her little cold shiver of yesterday had come back over and over during her wakeful night. But when she saw Texas, and the glow that broke over his face when she came in, her doubts went away. Maybe it was because she had not been sure before that Texas was really dying. But now she saw the green tinge of his face, the strange uncertainty of his eyes, the flutters of his hands, the limpness of the lower part of his body, which lay under the blanket like a bundle of weeds. Little as she knew about the look of coming death, she knew as though by some ancient instinct that this was not the look of life. With Stephen in her arms, she knelt on the dusty floor by the bed. For a moment Texas’ hands fumbled on the blanket, then as he looked at them he got a better sense of direction. His hands moved toward her. He touched Stephen, and stroked Garnet’s cheek with his hard dry fingers, whispering, “God bless you, Miss Garnet, God bless you.”
Garnet had never sat with a person who was dying. Before leaving the saloon she had packed a basket, putting in the whiskey for Texas and the things that Stephen would need; and at the last minute she had put her Bible into the basket too. Now that Stephen was asleep, she picked up the Bible and asked bashfully, “Texas, would you like to have me read to you?”
Texas turned his head. Garnet had spoken shyly because she did not know whether or not he would welcome this. She did not know what his faith was, or even if he had any. But Texas smiled, murmuring, “You’re very sweet, Miss Garnet.” After a little silence he said, “You might read me the one about ‘The Lord is my shepherd.’”
She read it to him. At first her voice was unsteady, for she was not used to reading aloud, and she was not at all used to a time like this. But she was glad he had asked for a psalm that she knew almost by heart, for it was easier to read than a less familiar passage would have been. When she had finished she saw that his eyes were closed, but after a moment he opened them, saying, “That’s mighty pretty. Thank you.” He was silent again, but after a little while he asked her, “Miss Garnet, do you reckon the Lord will have me?”
“Yes, Texas,” she answered gently, “I’m sure He will.”
Texas smiled a little. “You know,” he said, “I think so too.” He fumbled across the blanket again, feeling for her hand, and she slipped it into his. Texas said, “I don’t mean I think I’ve been good or anything like that. I mean, I just think He’ll have me anyway.” He waited a moment to get his breath, and went on. “Before you got here, I had a sort of been talking to Him. I don’t mean praying exactly. I wouldn’t know how to make a real prayer. I mean I just talked to Him. And you know, I think it’s all right.”
She pressed his hand. “I think it’s all right too, Texas.”
Again there was a silence. Garnet wondered if there might not be something else he would like to have attended to on earth. When she had waited to let him rest, she asked if there was anybody he wanted her to write to. She thought Captain Brown would help her get a letter through. “Your mother, maybe?” she suggested.
“No ma’am, thank you. My mother died a long time ago.”
“And you’ve no wife, Texas?”
“No ma’am, I’ve never been married. And my father’s been gone since I was a little boy.” Texas was silent a minute, then he went on. “My father died of a wound he got at Fort Bowyer. That was in 1814. I don’t guess you were even born then.”
“No, I was born in ’26. I don’t believe I know about Fort Bowyer.”
“That was the fort guarding Mobile Bay,” said Texas. “General Andrew Jackson was in command there, and the British attacked under Admiral Percy. But they didn’t get inside Mobile. It was a good fight, and my father was a good soldier and he died like a hero.”
So long a speech had made Texas tired. He tried to draw a deep breath, and winced at the pain of it. But after he had rested awhile he went on talking.
“So don’t you bother about letters, Miss Garnet. I’ve got no family. Nor—friends either, I guess.”
“You’ve got me, Texas,” she said firmly.
“God bless your soul, Miss Garnet, I know it.”
“And I’m not the only one,” she told him with certainty. “Don’t you remember all the lives you’ve saved on the desert?”
“Oh, I guess I’ve done a good turn now and then. But—” Texas’ voice was very low. She had to bend her head to hear him. “But when a man thinks what he could have been. When I think what they expected of me. Stephen Austin himself putting his hand on my shoulder and saying, ‘You’ll be like your father, Ernest. It’s boys like you who’ll make Texas a great country.’ And then to be no good.”
He moved his head uneasily. But weak as he was, he wanted to talk.
“I never could let it alone,” he said huskily. “I don’t know why. The vows and the promises I made. And still I couldn’t let it alone.”
He went on, still talking in that low, husky voice. He said the men of his family had always been in the army. Ancestors of his had served in the colonial troops before the Revolution. Ever since he was born Texas had been meant for the army. When his father was killed at Fort Bowyer, Texas and his mother had gone to live with his uncle, his mother’s brother. Texas was his mother’s only child, and she had centered all her hopes in him. She was a venturesome soul, enthusiastic when her brother wanted to go pioneering with Stephen Austin. She wanted her son to be venturesome too, a hero like the rest of them.
It was a shame, said Texas, his being so no-count when he had so much to live up to. He was just not good enough.
They had given him every advantage. His mother had planned for him to go to West Point, but when he turned out to have such a turn for doctoring his uncle said West Point wasn’t the place for him. Let the boy do what God meant him to do. Let him study medicine and surgery. Then he could go into the army. What was wrong with that? Army doctors were mighty useful.
But he couldn’t let it alone. At first, they had called him a gay young blade. Then the older men began to warn him. He hadn’t done anything serious. But if he didn’t look out, one day it might get serious. And in the army, they warned him, it only needs to happen once.
And it happened, just as they had said it would. It happened when Texas was stationed at Fort Leavenworth.
He had been talking slowly, with long pauses between his lines. He stopped again here, and waited awhile to gather up his strength. But he wanted to finish his story. So at length he went on.
Well, one winter he was stationed at Fort Leavenworth. For months everything had been deadly dull. A small garrison, a remote outpost, a long hard winter. Life was a monotonous round: for the men, the same duties over and over; for the doctor, nothing but an occasional smashed finger or a cold in the head.
When you’re on duty like that, what can you do with yourself? Mighty few books to read, you’ve run out of conversation long ago, you can’t play cards all the time. And the weather is cold. If you take a few drinks to warm up, nobody thinks anything of it. Everybody has a drink now and then. If you take too many once in a while there’s no harm done. It gives you a heavy head in the morning, but you’ve got nothing to do anyway.
But one night there was a sudden alarm. Indians were attacking the fort. The hard winter had lowered their food supplies and they wanted the stores of the white men.
The men sprang up from sleep and grabbed their guns. They were heavily outnumbered by the attackers, and in spite of the law forbidding white men to sell guns to the savages, these Indians were well armed.
Three men were injured early in the fight. Their wounds were not serious and the doctor should have been able to attend to them quickly. But the doctor’s eyes were foggy and his hands fumbled. The doctor was drunk.
Texas told Garnet all about it.
The Indians had not taken the fort. But by sunrise, six men were dead and others were groaning in agony from wounds tended only by volunteers who had done the best they could in the doctor’s place. Fourteen wounded men died later. Of course, some of them would
have died anyway. But no matter what might or might not have happened, it was still true that when they had needed him, the doctor was drunk.
There was court-martial after that, and dishonorable discharge from the army.
“Miss Garnet,” said Texas, “you’re going to think I’m out of my mind when I say this. But I swear to you, ma’am, when it happened it was a kind of relief.
“It was like a man finally giving up a fight he had known all along he couldn’t win. Nothing this bad could ever happen to me again.
“I had always known I wasn’t good enough. I’d always had a feeling something would happen some day to give me away. And now it had happened. Of course it hurt. It hurt worse than I ever knew anything could hurt. But at least I didn’t have to go on waiting for it. Things were easier on the trail. I felt kind of at home there. Nobody expected me to be any better than I was.”
Texas was silent for a while, remembering. His tired brown eyes began to close. When he spoke again he seemed to be talking to himself. “Funny. Mighty funny. Who’d have thought the army would come to California?” He rested and got his breath. “It sure gave me a strange feeling, seeing the boys march in.” Texas turned his head as though looking for her, and she bent nearer. He said, “Miss Garnet, you know something?”
“What, Texas?”
“There’s a couple of men here who were at Fort Leavenworth that winter,” Texas confided. “I don’t think they know me, though. One of ’em’s a friend of yours. Name of Roger Brown. Fine man. Trusty as daylight.”