Larry McMurtry - Lonesome Dove

by Lonesome Dove

  His voice was shaky. He sat down in the chair the doctor usually sat in, by the bedside.

  After a moment he took one of her hands. Zwey was still looking in. July only held her hand for a moment. He dropped it and stood up.

  "I'll check every few days, Ellie," he said. "The doctor can send for me if you need me." He paused. In the face of her silence, he didn't know what to say. She sat propped up against the pillow, silent--it was almost as if she were dead. It reminded him of times in Arkansas, times in the loft when he felt as if he were with someone who wasn't there. When he had found out she was alive and at the doctor's in Ogallala, he had gone off behind Clara's saddle shed and wept for an hour from relief. After all the worry and doubt, he had found her.

  But now, in a minute, the relief was gone, and he was reminded of all her difficulties, how nothing he did pleased her, not even finding her in Ogallala. He didn't know what more to do or say. She had married him and carried his child, and yet she wouldn't turn her head to look at him.

  Maybe it's too soon, he thought, as he stumbled, in a daze of pain and worry, out of the doctor's house. The big man was there watching.

  "I'm much obliged for all the help you've given Ellie," he said. "I'll pay you back for any expense." Zwey said nothing, and July walked away to get his horse.

  Ellie saw him ride past the window. She got up and watched him until he was out of sight.

  Zwey stood watching, too.

  "Zwey," Elmira said. "Get the wagon.

  I want to go." Zwey was surprised. He had got used to her being in the bed in the doctor's house. He liked standing in the warm sun, watching her. She was so pretty in the bed.

  "Ain't you sick?" he asked.

  "No, get the wagon," she said. "I want to go today." "Go which way?" he asked.

  "Go," Elmira said. "Go away from here. I don't care where. Over to St. Louis will do." "I don't know the way to St. Louis," Zwey said.

  "Oh, get the wagon, we'll find the way," she said. "There's a road, I guess." She was out of patience with men. They were great ones for asking questions. Even Zwey asked them, and he could barely talk.

  Zwey did as he was told. The doctor was gone, treating a farmer who had broken his hip.

  Elmira thought about leaving him a note, but didn't. The doctor was smart, he would figure out soon enough that she was gone. And before the sun set they left Ogallala, going east. Elmira rode in the wagon on a buffalo skin. Zwey drove. His horse was hitched to the rear of the wagon. She had asked him to take her, which made him proud. Luke had tried to confuse him, but now Luke was gone, and the man who came to see Elmira had been left behind. She had asked him to take her, not the other man. It must mean that they were married, just as he had hoped. She didn't say much to him, but she had asked him to take her, and that knowledge made him feel happy.

  He would take her anywhere she asked.

  The only troublesome thought he had was the result of something the man at the livery stable said. He had been a dried-up little fellow, smaller than Luke. He had asked which way they were going and Zwey pointed east--he knew St. Louis was east.

  "You might as well leave your scalps, then," the man said. "Have 'em sent by mail, once you get there." "Why?" Zwey asked, puzzled. He had never heard of anyone sending a scalp in the mail.

  "Because of the Sioux," the man said.

  "We never saw no Indians, the whole way from Texas," Zwey remarked.

  "You might not see the Sioux, either," the man said. "But they'll see you. You're a damn fool to take a woman east of here." Zwey mentioned it to Elmira while he was helping her into the wagon.

  "There might be Indians that way," he said.

  "I don't care," Elmira said. "Let's go." Many nights on the trail from Texas she had lain awake, in terror of Indians. They saw none, but the fear stayed with her all the way to Nebraska. She had heard too many stories.

  Now she didn't care. The sickness had changed her--that and the death of Dee. She had lost the fear. A few miles from town they stopped and camped. She lay awake in the wagon much of the night. Zwey slept on the ground, snoring, his rifle held tightly in his big hands. She wasn't sleepy, but she wasn't afraid, either.

  It was cloudy, and the plains were very dark. Anything could come out of the darkness--Indians, bandits, snakes. The doctor had claimed there were panthers. All she heard was the wind, rustling the grass. Her only worry was that July might follow. He had followed all the way from Texas--he might follow again. Maybe Zwey would kill him if he followed. It was peculiar that she disliked July so, but she did. If he didn't leave her alone she would have Zwey kill him.

  Zwey woke early. The man at the livery stable had worried him. He had been in three Indian fights, but both times he had several men with him. Now it was just he who would have to do all the fighting, if it came to that. He wished Luke hadn't been so quick to rush off to Santa Fe.

  Luke didn't always behave right, but he was a good shot. The livery-stable man acted as if they were as good as dead. It was morning, and they weren't dead, but Zwey felt worried. He felt perhaps he had not explained things well to Ellie.

  "It's them Ogallala Sioux," he said, looking in the wagon at her. It was a warm morning, and she had thrown off the blankets.

  "He said the Army had them all stirred up," he added.

  "I'll stir you up if you don't quit blabbing to me about Indians," Elmira said. "I told you yesterday. I want to get gone a good ways before July shows up in town again." Her eyes flashed when she spoke, as they had before she got sick. Ashamed to have angered her, Zwey began to stir the fire under the coffeepot.

  When July came back from town he was so depressed he couldn't speak. Clara had asked him to do a few errands, but the visit with Elmira troubled him so that he had forgotten them. Even after he got back to the ranch he didn't remember that he had been asked to do anything.

  Clara saw at once that he had sustained some blow. When she saw him come back without even the mail, it had been on her tongue to say something about his poor memory. She and the girls hungered for the magazines and catalogues that came in the mail, and it was a disappointment to have someone ride right past the post office and not pick them up. But July looked so low that she refrained from speaking.

  At the supper table she tried several times to get a word or two out of him, but he just sat there, scarcely even touching his food. He had been ravenous since coming off the plains--so whatever the blow was, it was serious.

  She knew he was a man who was grateful for any kindness; she had shown him several, and she showed him another by holding her tongue and giving him time to get past whatever had happened in town. But there was something about his silent, sunken manner that irritated her.

  "Everything's gloomy," Betsey said.

  Betsey was quick to pick up moods.

  "Yep," Clara said. She was holding the baby, who was babbling and gumming his fist.

  "It's a good thing we got Martin here," she said. "He's the only man we got who can still talk." "He don't talk," Sally said. "That ain't talk." "Well, it's sound, at least," Clara said.

  "I think you're mean," Sally said. She was quick to attack mother and sister alike. "Daddy's sick, or he'd talk." "All right," Clara said. "I'll take that back." In fact, she could remember a thousand meals when Bob hadn't said a word.

  "I think you're mean," Sally repeated, not satisfied.

  "Yes, and you're my equal," Clara said, looking at her daughter.

  July realized it all had something to do with him, but he couldn't get his mind on it. He carried his plate to the sink and thanked Clara for the meal. Then he went out on the front porch, glad it was a dark night. He felt he would cry. It was puzzling; he didn't know what to do. He had never heard of a wife doing any of the things Elmira had done. He sat on the steps of the porch, sadder and more bewildered than he had been even on the night when he got back to the river and discovered the three bodies. There was nothing to do about death, but Elmira was alive. He had to do someth
ing --he just didn't know what.

  The girls came out and chattered behind him for a while, but he paid them no mind. He had a headache and thought he ought to lie down, except that lying down usually made his headaches worse.

  Clara came out, still holding the baby, and sat in a rocker. "You seem to be feeling poorly, Mister Johnson," she said.

  "Just call me July," he said.

  "I'll be happy to," she said. "You can drop the Mrs., too. I think we know one another well enough for first names now." July didn't think he knew her very well, but he didn't say it. He didn't think he knew any woman.

  "I need to ask you a favor," she said. "Could you help me turn my husband, or are you feeling too poorly?" He would help her, of course. Several times he had helped her with her husband. The man had lost so much weight that July could simply lift him while Clara changed the bedding. The first time it bothered him a good deal, for the man never closed his eyes. That night he worried about what the man might think--another man coming in with his wife.

  Clara was businesslike about it, telling him what to do when he was slow. July wondered if the man was listening, and what he was thinking, in case he was.

  Clara handed him a lantern and they went inside. She left the baby with the girls for a minute. Clara stopped at the door of her bedroom and listened before going in.

  "Every time I come I expect he'll have stopped breathing," she said. "I always stop and listen." The man was breathing, though. July lifted him and Clara removed the sheets.

  "Dern it, I forgot the water," she said, going to the door. "Sally, bring up the bucket," she yelled, and in a little while the girl appeared with it.

  "Betsey's going to let the baby fall off the bed," she said. "She don't know how to hold it." "Well, she better learn," Clara said.

  "You girls quit fighting over that baby." July felt embarrassed, holding the sick, naked man while his wife sponged him with warm water. It seemed very improper to him. Clara seemed to understand how he felt and made the bed quickly.

  "It's just nurse work, Mister Johnson," she said. "I tried keeping clothes on him, but it's no good. The poor man can't control himself." She stopped and looked at him. "I forgot I was supposed to call you July," she said.

  July felt that his head would burst. He didn't care what she called him. It hurt so that he could hardly walk straight on the stairs.

  He bumped into the door at the foot of the stairs.

  Above them, the baby was squalling.

  Clara was about to go and see to the baby, but when she saw July stumble into the door she changed her mind. He went back out on the porch and sank on the steps, as if at the end of his strength.

  Clara reached down and put her palm against his forehead, which caused him to jump as if he had been struck.

  "My goodness, you're shy as a colt," she said.

  "I thought you might be feverish, but you ain't." "It's just my head," he said.

  "You need a cool rag, then," she said.

  She went back into the house and got a rag and a little water. She made him let her bathe his forehead and temples. He had to admit the cool water felt good.

  "Thank you," he said.

  "Oh, you don't have to thank me for a washrag," Clara said. "I'm not much of a nurse. It's one of my failings. I'm too impatient. I'll give a person a week or two, and then if they don't improve I'd just about as soon they'd die." "Not children," she added, a little later. "I ain't that harsh with children. I'd rather have them sick five years than to lose one. It's just my observation that nursing don't do that much good. People get well if they're able, or else they die." They were silent for several minutes.

  "Did you find your wife?" Clara asked.

  "It ain't my business, I know, but I'll ask you anyway." "Yes," July said. "She was at the doctor's." "She must not have been very glad to see you," Clara said.

  July wished she would leave him alone. She had taken him in and fed him, saved his wife and cared for his child, and yet he did wish she would just leave him alone. He felt so weak himself that if he hadn't been braced against the porch railing he might have rolled off the steps. He had nothing to say and nothing to offer. And yet there was something tireless in Clara that never seemed to stop. His head hurt so he felt like shooting himself, the baby was squalling overhead, and yet she would ask questions.

  "I guess she's still sick," he said. "She didn't say much." "Did she want the baby?" "She didn't say," July said.

  "Did she ask any questions about it at all?" "No," July admitted. "She never said a word." The baby had stopped crying. They heard a horse splash out of the river--Cholo was coming in late. Even with no moon they could see his white hair as he trotted to the corrals.

  "July, I know you're tired," Clara said.

  "I expect you're heartsick. I'm going to say a terrible thing to you. I used to be ladylike, but Nebraska's made me blunt.

  I don't think that woman wants you or the baby either. I don't know what she does want, but she left that baby without even looking at it." "She must have been addled," July said. "She had a hard trip." Clara sighed. "She had a hard trip, but she wasn't addled," she said. "Not every woman wants every child, and plenty of wives don't want the husbands they took.

  "It's your child and her child," she added. "But I don't think she wants it, and if she means to prove me wrong she better do it soon." July didn't know what she meant and didn't really care. He felt too low to pay any attention.

  "I like young things," Clara said. "Babies and young horses. I get attached real quick. They don't have to be mine." She paused. She knew he wished she'd shut up, but she was determined to say what was on her mind.

  "I'm getting attached to Martin," she said.

  "He ain't mine, but he ain't your wife's anymore, either. Young things mainly belong to themselves.

  How they grow up depends on who gets attached to them. I'll take Martin, if she don't, or you don't." "But your husband's sick," July said. Why would the woman want a baby to care for when she had two girls to manage and a big horse outfit to run?

  "My husband's dying," Clara said. "But whether he's dead or alive, I'll still raise that child." "I don't know what to do," July said.

  "It's been so long since I done anything right that I can't remember it. I don't know if I'll ever get Ellie back to Fort Smith. They might even have hired a new sheriff by now." "Finding a job's the least of your problems," Clara said. "I'll give you a job, if you want one. Cholo's been doing Bob's work and his too, and he can't keep it up forever." "I always lived in Arkansas," July said.

  It had never occurred to him that he might settle anywhere else.

  Clara laughed. "Go to bed," she said. "I've worried you enough for one night." He went, but the next morning at breakfast he didn't look much better or feel much better. He would scarcely talk to the girls, both of whom doted on him. Clara sent them off to gather eggs so she could have a word or two more with July in private.

  "Did you understand what I said last night, about raising Martin?" she asked.

  July hadn't. He wished she would just be quiet. He had no idea what to do next, and hadn't since he left Fort Smith many months ago. At moments, what he wanted was just to go home. Let Ellie go, if she didn't want to be his wife. Let Clara have the baby, if she wanted him so much. He had once felt competent being a sheriff--maybe if he went back and stuck to it he would someday feel competent again. He didn't know how much longer he could stand to feel such a failure.

  "If your wife don't want Martin, do you have a mother or sisters that would want to raise him?" Clara asked. "The point is, I don't want to keep him a year or two and then give him up.

  If I have to give him up I'd rather do it soon." "No, Ma's dead," July said. "I just had brothers." "I've lost three boys," Clara said. "I don't want to lose another to a woman who keeps changing her mind." "I'll ask her," July said. "I'll go back in a day or two. Maybe she'll be feeling better." But he found he couldn't stand it to wait--he had to see her again, even if
she wouldn't look at him. At least he could look at her and know he had found her after all. Maybe, if he was patient, she would change.

  He saddled and rode to town. But when he got to the doctor's, no one was there at all. The room Ellie had been in was empty, the big man no longer to be found.

  By asking around, he found the doctor, who was delivering a baby in one of the whorehouses.

  "She's left," the doctor said. "I came home yesterday and she was gone. She didn't leave a note." "But she was sick," July said.

  "Only unhappy," Patrick Arandel said. He felt sorry for the young man.

  Five idle young whores were listening to the conversation, while one of their friends lay in labor in the next room.