A B Guthrie Jr

by Les Weil

  From the kitchen came the knock of a spoon in a pan, and she knew that Aunt Fran or Happy was scraping up lunch. She ought to help, and she would by and by, after she had put wood in the stove and stood close to it warming her bottom, which the wind through the loose-fitting window had chilled. You had a pitiful story for the men who made out to pity you, always after they were satisfied. You were an orphan, or you were starving, or the man you had trusted had got you in trouble, and what was a poor girl to do? Never speak for the life! Never act amused or put out by the question! Never ask where or whose was the wrong!

  Make up a story! Some girls did every time, and often it paid off in cash. Sometimes, feeling so sorry, a man had to have another turn in the bed.

  To Lat she had told a part of the truth when he edged up to the question. She would always remember that first boy if only because he was first, but his face and his manner had dimmed with the years. What had drawn them together, she could see now, was her need of company. Her father had brought her down from the hill farm in West Virginia and had gone to work in the coal mines; and there she was, in a strange town, without a mother or brothers or sisters or anyone. A person wanted someone more than a father who was home only for breakfast and supper and just grunted then no matter how tasty the victuals she cooked. So what happened happened. She didn't blame the boy, not even for skipping town. She hadn't wanted to marry him. But her father had gone on the rampage, him that had been so uncaring before, and had stormed around, hunting, and finally had taken her, crying, to the home of a granny who knew just the trick of fixing girls up, good as new. She had been sick for what seemed a long time and for a longer time sad. Then her father had shipped her off to Aunt Fran, who was doing well in the west, in a boarding house or in land or in business of some kind, he wasn't sure what since she hadn't named it exactly. What no one had understood, what no man could understand now, what she hadn't told Lat, was that she had wanted the baby.

  In her way Aunt Fran had taken to her, and she had learned a few things. Being with men left you the same as before, just so you took care. Maybe you didn't always feel like it, maybe it made you a little sick to your stomach at times, at first especially, but when you got up, you were still you, with money to put in the sock. It was no more than exercise except in particular cases. So why the cloud that never quite left the mind? And why the to-do by the proper? Sometimes even now Lat himself seemed held back and almost afraid -and somehow she loved him more for it and found extra pleasure in bringing him on.

  "What you doin', Callie?"

  Amy Lou stood at the opened door, her thin, fair face in the daylight showing tired lines and the beginnings of puckerings. She wore an old dressing gown, over which her hair tangled down. Her eyes wandered over the room. "Cleaned up already, huh?" Through the push-out of teeth her breath smelled of stale whiskey.

  "All through. You look tired. Want me to help you?"

  "Aw, it can wait." Amy Lou's gaze came around uncertainly. "But you wouldn't happen to have just a little drop, would you? Fran's gettin' tighter than alum."

  "Not here."

  "I s'posed not." Amy Lou lowered her head. "Christ!" Standing there with her shoulders slumped and her face loose and spiritless in the dangles of her, she reminded Callie somehow of the end of too big a night, with the visitors gone and the house messed up and silent and another day dawning gray through the windows.

  "You don't need more, Amy Lou. Really you don't."

  "Don't need it!" Amy Lou laughed a high, shivering laugh. It uncovered teeth like a horse's, like the yawn of a horse did a horse's. "All I've had today you could put in your eye. And after last night!"

  "Why don't you rest?"

  Amy Lou's mouth straightened but didn't quite close. Her eyes wavered from Callie's and fixed on the window. The bare branches of a cottonwood were bending to the breeze outside. "Johnny threw me over. Said I wasn't worth keeping, and after me working my tail off for him!"

  "Now you'll have some money of your own then. You gave it all to him." She disliked to say pimp, which was what Johnny was, and she didn't want to lower Amy Lou's feelings.

  "You know how it is? With Lat?"

  "I do not! Lat isn't Johnny!"

  "Pardon," Amy Lou said, dismissing the point. "My resting days are coming," she went on in the way of someone saying something often thought. "Know how old I am? Twenty-seven. Can't even hold a cheap P.I. like Johnny. I never called him that before. No money and nothing much to sell much longer, Callie. It's turned stale already." She looked away from the window, to the floor, to the stove, to the walls, to Callie. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes, big tears that welled up and spilled over and ran down to the corners of the mouth that couldn't keep closed on the teeth. "And you say I don't need any more!"

  It was only part of the truth. Amy Lou would have last days before her resting days, outcast days with soldiers, hide hunters and their like until at last she wasn't good enough for them. A worn-out old hay bag, all would say as they had said of others.

  "Don't, Amy Lou!" Callie told her. "You're just upset." She went to the bed stand and picked up her purse and took out a dollar, feeling both guilty and strong because she had a stocking hidden away with savings in it to save her. "Here."

  Amy Lou wiped her eyes and took the dollar in her wet hand. "Thanks, Callie. You're a real sugar tit." She turned and, in her heeled-over slippers, lisped off.

  Callie waited a minute, for nothing, and followed her out. Happy was showing a man into the parlor. The man told her, "Hello," and cocked his head toward the back and asked, "Yes'm?"

  She should ask him first if he'd have a drink. She answered, "All right."

  She took him back and took care of him and afterwards of herself and then drew the bed smooth. The fresh pillow and blankets, put on just for Lat, wouldn't be fresh if he happened to come by today.

  She went back to the parlor, just in time to hear a knock at the door. The knock was Tom Ping, dressed in his work clothes. The dark front lock of hair fanning down from under his hat would have made him look sporty if his face had been smiling. "Come in," she said. "I think Jen's still in bed."

  His voice was low-pitched. "It's you I wanted to see."

  "Me!"

  He put up a hand as if to ward off the thought. "It's business."

  "What?"

  He looked around, as if making sure that no one else was in earshot. "That Lat, he's headin' for trouble, and me, I can't turn him."

  "Lat in trouble!"

  Tom still spoke low. "Just three or four knows it, and you keep your mouth shut."

  "Yes." Her voice was hushed, too.

  "He's doctorin' Jehu's horse brand so as to have a stake for a race."

  "He wouldn't do anything wrong. Jehu owes him money."

  "It ain't the right or the wrong. It's gettin' jailed or maybe strung up." He waved his arm out, questioning. "What if Sugar loses? That Injun pony's no clubfoot."

  She didn't understand all of it yet, but now that she understood something she couldn't quite match Tom's uneasiness.

  "He'd have to pay off in slow-branded horses, and them slow brands don't stick forever. 'Course, he's got sales bills to back him, but who drawed them bogus bills up but that fine-fingered Carmichael, who seen one maybe once and so's gone to practicin' law?"

  At her silence he went on, using both hands to help with his talk. "Look, Callie, I ain't above takin' a trick if the odds ain't too long, but this is plumb crazy. You got to do something."

  Maybe Lat was taking this chance just for her, out of the proud and overblown sense of his debt. She felt him out there like a hurt part of herself, penniless and cut off and driven, sworn not to see her until he could come with the money that made him a man.

  "What can I do, Tom?"

  "Talk him out of it. If anyone can, it's you."

  "Do you really think so?" She hadn't meant to sound so eager.

  "I know it."

  "He -he hasn't been around for a while."
>
  "Too damn busy, wranglin' and brandin' and gettin' set.

  But he's at the livery barn, or just was." "I'll send a note."

  "Why don't you go see him yourself?"

  "He might not like it."

  "Why not, for Christ sake? You're his girl."

  "He's never asked me to go out with him, Tom." Now she sounded self-pitying. "It's the money, you know," she said quickly. "I'll send a note."

  "I better not take it, for he might savvy I put you wise. I'm due at work anyhow. But you toll him in! You change his mind!" Tom signaled out a goodbye and let himself out.

  She hunted out a pencil and a scrap of paper and sat down on the piano stool. It had been a long time since she'd written even one word. It had been a long time since she'd sat in a mountain school and learned her letters, bullied on by a man teacher who loved books and hated his pupils. But now she had a reason to write, and to Lat. She could ask that he see her for his sake alone. She could say it was urgent. She could say it was strictly business but mighty important. She could say anything so long as it brought him. She wanted to say that she loved him. What she wrote at last was just, "I am lonesome," and this she left unsigned.

  The words stared at her from the sheet.

  Company, girls! How-de-do. Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma'am. Yep, a drink, but saloons they sell them. Get your thumb out, Happy. Yes, ma'am, let's go. That's what I come for. Uh-hh, Baby! Here you are, and see you again.

  Men. Men blunt and all business. Men making believe other feelings till the one got its answer. Men rough and cruel. Natural men. Unnatural men. They came and they went, faceless in memory. Which of them cared except for the act and the moment? Who wanted more than the one thing? Everybody's girl, nobody's girl, barring some rare stroke of luck. A girl's only friends, if they were that, were the other girls in the house -Jen, Amy Lou, Aunt Fran for whom money was company. So entered the Johnnies, the love sharks, to ease the lonesomeness, to give hope that someone at least cared. This was the price.

  She called out to Happy and heard him shuffling from the kitchen. He came in with his coat off and stood waiting, his black face saying whatever she wished he would do. One friend. One against emptiness. And Lat.

  "I'll find him, Miss Callie," Happy said to her words. "Now don't you worry yourself."

  She ate with the girls in the kitchen. Jen was dressed for the day. Amy Lou, still looking sick, had given herself a lick and a promise. Aunt Fran didn't usually fix up until night. They talked about nothing, about clothes and callers and the night coming up. "Everybody is boomin' Fort Benton," Aunt Fran said, "but I swear I don't know. Hide business is shot, and to me that damn comin' railroad seems likely to screw us as a port. Thing now is to make hay while we can. Callie, you hear? We got to fight for our share. There's some pretty fair girls, I can tell you, even in them one-towel shebangs." She sniffed. "Competition!"

  Callie listened without really listening and watched with­out watching. Lat might rap at the door any time. He might come or not come. Could he keep away? Or did she have the power? Women always had the last power, with one man or many, each according to her nature, each pleased to prove it. Which was one reason, maybe, for houses. She kept telling herself he would come.

  He didn't until midafternoon. She knew his step on the stoop and his knock at the door and hurried to greet him. He gave her just the trace of a smile, and she scolded out in a joke, "You stay-away! What's the idea?"

  "I got your message," he said. He came in and stood near the threshold with the door closed behind him as if not to go farther. "I haven't much time."

  It was a poor way to greet a girl, but with the thought she forgave him. He was here. From wrangling or branding or bets he was drawn here -and men under strain were likely to be fretful with women. She said, "You ninny!" and took hold of his arm. "Time enough to talk, or you wouldn't have come."

  He let himself be led into the bedroom but there held to his hat and didn't move to take off his jacket.

  She stood apart from him and smiled to give the right turn to her words. "I didn't aim to add to what you think of as your debt."

  She was sorry then, for he answered, "I've got a deal on," as if holding out the promise of payment.

  "I know. I'm scared for you."

  "No need to be," he said and didn't go on to ask how she'd learned.

  "But if you lose, Lat?"

  "I don't think of that, but it's swim or sink anyhow." He put his hands in his pockets and took them out and shifted his weight. A frown narrowed his eyes. "What I think about is a stake and a ranch on the Tansy. That's where Tom and I will set up if we can, somewhere out of Tansytown."

  She was out of place in his thoughts, crowded aside, poor second to cattle and grass. He would leave her if he could, would follow his interests to parts far away and forever be lost to her except that at night now and then perhaps he'd remember and hitch over in bed, wishing he could have her or forget her in sleep.

  "Would it be a good place for me?" She spoke before she thought. The rest came to her mouth in a rush. "Everyone says this town's bound down hill and the railroad will finish it."

  "Too small," he said quickly, and then his face softened, as if at last he was seeing her and was moved. He put out his hand and raised hers and held it. "Callie," he said, understanding. His smile was like the smile of a man with too much to say.

  He dropped her hand and half-turned away, and the thought-wrinkles of cattle and ranching grooved themselves again in his forehead. "I'm going through with it, Callie, so it's no use to argue, and I don't want you to worry."

  She tried to be light. "Can I see you when you're locked up?"

  His face didn't change. "All I'm sorry about is that I've got so little to bet." He paused and watched his toe scuff the floor. "I tried the bank."

  "How much have you?"

  "Few head of horses."

  "The bank said no?"

  He might not have heard her. He might not even realize she was there. He was running the race or putting beef on the range while he toed the floor and frowned at his boot. She saw the great miles of this country stretching between them, the lost and impossible miles, and the miles of his interests reaching farther and farther, beyond sight, beyond all but the whisper of memory.

  She had her savings! The thought left her unsupported, cast loose. But she could loan them and so perhaps keep him, could tie the tie tighter -which was scheming and mean, as unfair to him and her heart as her fear. It was herself that must hold him, not favors that he would repay and remember.

  He had taken a turn in the room and stood with his front to her, hands deep in his pockets, eyes still cast down; and she wished only good for him, only the best, even if wanting to be part of the best. She said, "Lat," and walked to the bed and stooped and dragged out the trunk and opened the lid and took out the stocking. At the last count it held upwards of one thousand dollars. She held it out to him, in doubt what to say. "Make a bet for me -for you."

  He drew back, his face puzzled, and she added, "Here's almost a thousand. I'm playing bank."

  He took another step back and raised a hand, palm out. He looked almost angry. "Never! Not me! You keep it."

  "Be sensible!"

  "I'm not that low."

  "You'll pay it back."

  "When, if I lose?"

  She moved to him and with both hands pressed the stocking on his chest. "Being you're you, it's just like money in the bank."

  "No."

  "If you won't let me help you, then you don't trust me," she told him, feeling that somewhere the answer made sense.

  "But, Callie!"

  "Take it!"

  The look of the boy came to him then, the look of young wonder and awe and open thanksgiving. "Callie," he said, again as if by name alone he was saying all that he could.

  She stuffed the stocking into his pocket while she blinked against her tears. "There now."

  "I'll never forget it," he said and kissed her gently on
the forehead, and words and kiss together were return enough.

  But still she had something to prove. She pressed against him and raised her mouth for his. His arms went around her, soft and hard and harder, and she could hear his breath and feel his body answering to hers. He urged her toward the bed.

  She put her hands on his chest and pushed back. "Not now," she whispered, knowing she was using a tool, a rightful tool, of her power.

  "Yes."

  "You haven't much time."

  "Callie!"

  "Tonight?"

  He didn't like it -which was good- but finally he said, "Tonight then."

  She led the way to the door and, when he was gone, stepped back to see Amy Lou, who sat alone in the parlor wiping her eyes.

  19

  LAT TOLD HIMSELF they were here, they were real -these people, these few friends, these strangers and Indians, some afoot, some in the saddle, some in buggies and wagons. They appeared and made sounds and so must be real, like the sky and the hills and this flat under foot where without fail two horses would race. Sugar stood real or followed along, led by real reins that felt unreal to the hand.

  "'Bout ready?" It was Whitey at his side.

  To him he could say, "This me, Whitey?"

  "What's your name, huh? Puddin-an-Tame, like it says in the pome." Whitey took his arm. His over-size eyes showed understanding. From Lat they went to the men who kept circling around. "Don't let 'em fever you."

  One of the men dug a chew of tobacco out of his whiskers. He called out, "Can that big bronc untrack himself?"

  "And don't let 'em stampede you," Whitey went on. "It's your money ridin'."