Sarah's Quilt

by Nancy E. Turner

  “What is man that thou art mindful of him? What does it matter if I live in the dust I shall become?”

  “It doesn’t. But if you’re so quick to quote the Bible, read the Psalms. ‘You are not called to uncleanliness, but are judged by the cleanness of your hands.’ And yours, Mr. Lazrus, are nastier than—”

  “Oh, madam, let us not trade insults again. I’d forgotten your learning and letters. You’re missing a great opportunity, and I’ve decided you’re ready to see me clean and shaven. But if you’ll fetch my payment, I’ll be on my way.”

  I just closed my mouth and went to the house to get the money. I came from my bedroom, and was shocked to find him standing right there in the parlor. “Here you go,” I said, holding forth an envelope.

  “What’s the matter? Do I make you … nervous?”

  “You make me aggravated. I’ve put a hundred dollars in there. Have a good journey, and godspeed on your way to wherever you’re bound.”

  His beard rose on the sides, like he was grinning under there. “Perhaps you should suffer more anticipation. Perhaps I’ll return someday and take you up on it, the bath and all. That’ll be something to ponder.”

  I didn’t move. Neither did he. After a little bit, he raised the envelope to his forehead and clicked his heels together, as sharp a salute as Jack ever made, stuffed the money into the front of his old shirt, and walked out the door. So like a soldier, that stride. He’s so terrible and mysterious and crazy, why does every new thing I know about him rattle me clean to the bones?

  I will keep my bowie knife sharpened, and the shotgun loaded with double-ought shot, just on the prospect of his visiting again. And get another dog, a bigger, meaner one. And put guineas and geese in the yard, the snappy kind that will chase a person and bite the hide off him. Maybe I’ll ring the house with chollas and tarantulas, and train a three-headed sidewinder to guard the porch in back. Catch that puma and chain it to the front door for a watch-mountain lion. That’s how much I’d look forward to that lunatic showing his rusty hide around here again all right.

  Chapter Nine

  June 30, 1906

  Every morning since the well came in, I have awakened with the feeling of Christmas, just happy as a little lizard to have all that good water. Happy, too, to be rid of Lazrus, and looking forward to a future without him lurking about.

  It’s been nearly a week since I kissed Rudolfo. Daily, hourly, I suppose, I have searched my soul and mind to see if there were something I was not being honest about with my own self. Was there some desire, some secret longing, that Rudolfo alone could answer? And daily, even when I allowed myself to think of him in very personal ways, the answer was always no. I decided that I’d need to talk to him, and tell him what the kiss meant to me, which, sad enough, was more about water than about him.

  Still, with him on my mind, it wasn’t much surprise to see Rudolfo tying up at my porch rail as I poured milk into a bowl of flapjack makings at sunup. Charlie came around the back of the house, where he’d been washing up, at the same moment. He greeted Rudolfo, but though Charlie’s voice sounded cheery, his eyes held suspicion.

  I turned my attention first to my son. “Charlie, coffee’s ready.”

  “Mama, Mr. Sherrill is bad again.”

  “I’ll see to him soon as breakfast is done. Rudolfo? You coming in?”

  Well, he joined us for flapjacks and steaks and drained the last of the coffeepot. I was thinking about taking a steak to Mason Sherrill, with some top-milk gravy, just letting my mind wander, when Chess and the boys got up from the table to leave. Rudolfo stayed behind, lingering, silent. Then he asked how the well was working, and after the health of everyone we knew. He brushed sweat from his brow.

  We both waited, and then at the same time, we said each other’s names. Then we laughed. He was fidgeting in his chair, the way the boys do when I scold them for something. Suddenly, Rudolfo didn’t look any different from the way he had when I first met him. At that thought, I smiled again. “You wanted to say something to me the other night?” I asked.

  Rudolfo didn’t smile. He said, “Sí.” He looked into the bottom of the coffee cup. Reckon if I was polite society, I’d have jumped to make another potful, but we were just past six of a morning and it was nearly ninety degrees in the house already, and I’d let the stove go too cold to boil more water. I didn’t expect to heat it up again, and I did expect him to be friend enough to know that. But, to my surprise, Rudolfo pulled a silver flask from his pocket and poured some liquid into the coffee cup.

  And then he told me a long tale of how he’d started asking around for anyone who knew what had happened to my south windmill and the tanks there. One of his hired hands then confessed that he’d gotten drunk one night, and hearing how his boss wanted to marry the woman with the adjoining lands, the man thought he was doing his boss a favor, ruining my tanks, so I’d have to marry Rudolfo to stay in business.

  Rudolfo got so angry with the fellow, he beat him, he said. Not just a little, either, but enough to teach him a lesson. The trouble was, after Rudolfo hit him, he fell backward against a post. My friend hung his head and said, “El hombre … es muerto.”

  Dead? Rudolfo killed the man? I chewed on my lip. The wind blew, and half a dozen tumbleweeds passed by the window. Not that I wasn’t mad enough to have done that myself. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

  Rudolfo said, “I never meant to kill him. He hit his head, and didn’t get up.”

  He and I both stared at the floor, as if we’d find some answer there. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if this made Rudolfo a hero to me, or a murderer. “Did he have any family?” I asked at last. “What did you do with him?”

  “¿Familia? No one knows. We buried him. I felt I had to tell you.”

  A gust of wind pushed another tumbleweed across the yard. A couple of quail darted from its path. This man across the table from me had not tasted the liquor in his cup. I stood and stacked plates, my back to him.

  Rudolfo said, “I want to take care of you, Sarah. Let me. I will make you a good husband. I will watch out for you. Your herds. Our land will be the biggest—”

  “I’m not looking to get married, that’s all. You saying you killed a man for my sake, that doesn’t make for a romantic proposal.”

  “I feel very bad about this … thing that has happened. The man who did that thought it was good. You see, my thoughts are for your welfare. We both know the strength it takes to live on this land. And, Sarah, I ask you, think of the children. They need you. I need you. We can put this all in the past, forget about it. It won’t matter.”

  “Rudolfo—”

  “You see, Sarah, I have plans for the future. I want to run for governor. With you at my side.”

  Governor? Me at his side? Well, those words set my kettle boiling. Is that what this is about? Him needing a wife so he can go off and do politics? Why, I’d have more use for a man who went and held up a bank. If I married him, he’d have the land. The cattle. Water rights to my part of this dribble we call Cienega Creek, not to mention a new well. And someone to comb his children’s hair and tie their bows, so he could dote on them and have their photographs put in the newspaper, and buy and sell cattle from his beautiful oficina at the capitol.

  He stood then, heading for the door, and he said, “I need a wife. I’m asking you. But I will not ask you again. This … incident, it will not be spoken of again. When you make a decision, come to me like the old friends we are.”

  There are probably women all over this territory who would think that was as fine an offer as a person could have. I said, “Rudolfo, I have work to do.”

  In the bunkhouse, Mason was sleeping soundly, mouth open, snoring. I had cut up the last steak into little bits and made pan gravy for him, filling it with the steak, then poured it all over a piece of hearty bread, which I knew Mason was fond of. I left the plate by his bed with a towel across it and went to get some chores done.

  Whi
le I worked, I reckoned I should have felt sorry for the misintentioned dead man who’d tried to ruin my windmill. But because of his untimely passing on, I could be forgiven for not wanting Rudolfo, and I didn’t have to explain to anyone, not even him. It would spare his pride if he were to believe the rest of his life that my refusal was about that man who died. That sorry hombre likely got his desserts, too, for if he’d been found to have ruined a water tank and windmill and got hauled down to the sheriff in Cochise County, he’d have been hung that same afternoon. He wouldn’t be doing Rudolfo any more favors. And I was free.

  I walked home through a wind so stiff, I had to carry my hat in my hands. Hard wind and hot is no relief. It simply blasts your sweaty skin and clothes with dust, puts grit in your teeth. Chess once told me he’d gotten hit in the head by a lizard on the wind. I laughed and told him he’d better mind carrying too many tall tales in his pocket before they made a hole. He insisted it hit slap dab on his hat and knocked it off. Even showed me a little line shaped like the shadow of a lizard in the dust of his hat. Though we have a new well, we are not free of the drought, and the stifling thickness of the air has not brought any rain with it. Yesterday, a paloverde tree out by the barn just fell in half in a hot gust, and I thought nothing on earth could dry up a paloverde. They’ve got a tap root that reaches near to China, and can’t be pulled out with a team of four mules.

  The day was beginning to heat up something miserable. Until the rains come, we will all be wishing for winter. The round corral is close enough to the barn to haul in hay and water without much trouble, and we’ve gotten pretty handy at keeping the fifty-gallon barrel in the back of the flatbed. But the metal trough out there is in the sun, and gets hot enough to make coffee if water is left in it. It was near empty, and needing cleaning, so I dumped it over and took care of that. I dragged it under a stand of trees and brush, where it won’t get as hot as it would out in the sun. I plan to get up all my old horses and keep them up here, where I can take care of them without having to search for them. I’m going to have Shorty and the boys build a lean-to over the trough today or tomorrow. And we’ll all start hunting the retired horses.

  About that time, Mason came along and said he was feeling better and had heard the racket I was making. He told me I’d surely have snakes getting in the trough, putting it near the brush. So he and I built some stilts and cut grease cans into slivers, then turned those upside down under the legs to keep the snakes out. It looked to me as if it should work pretty well. I filled the trough with a bucket from the big barrels, thinking to myself we’d done a good morning’s work.

  While I did that, Charlie and Chess rode south to Baker’s spread to see when they expected to start gathering in their herd. Rudolfo has been saying he was going to organize everything, but he just puts it off. Something’s got under his saddle blanket. Whether it’s me that’s the bur I can’t tell. Any rate, they are going direct to Baker’s and see what he’s got planned. If we start from the ranchers near Patagonia and drove each bunch this way, by the time we get them combined, it won’t mean any double back.

  Gil and I rode out to the east pasture, hunting for my five old horses, that are no longer part of the working remuda. I rode a buckskin named Pally, and we took our time picking through the rocks and brush. After about an hour, I spotted one I was looking for—old Dan, a draft horse near eighteen hands, and he has got to be nearly thirty years old. He hardly moves, and I have expected to find his bones out there any day. His big nose has turned white, like an old man’s hair. He’s a good old horse, and as long as he is not ailing, I sure don’t mind spreading him a sheaf of hay and a can of oats. Then there’s Maize, a horse named after the grain, because he’s kind of yellow-colored. Not much horse to look at now, but in his day, he could almost ride out from under you, cornering calves nearly faster than a dog. Best cutting horse on the place. All I had to do was catch sight of Maize and whistle, and he’d come following. That’s how good a horse he was.

  The rest of the riding stock is part of the remuda, the bunch of horses we use for everyday work. I usually take Pally or Stubs or Baldy, as they are my favorites. Stubs is one of Rose’s colts. Rose is an all-around quarter horse. None of her offspring have been half the ride she was.

  After I found Maize, I led him and Dan up to the round corral. Then I stayed in the corral, petting Rose awhile. I put some fly ointment on her face around her eyes and nose. She had a scratch on a flank from some kind of thorn, and I put some balm on that, too. Rose nickered and pushed her head against my back. Gilbert had built a first-rate shade over the water trough, and after he finished it up, he spent a while looking at the feet of all the old horses.

  Rose bumped me with her nose and I scratched her between the ears. “You old sweetie,” I said. When I was a girl and we’d first come here, I often spent a gentle afternoon sitting on her bare back and stretching full out, with my head on her rump, just lying there as she ambled around grazing. I used to spend hours staring at the sky or clouds, thinking about things. Now she is fat and a little stiff from not moving too much, and she’s got a foot that hurts her at times where she got a bruise in the frog. That happened a long time ago. Maybe horses get rheumatism like old folks. When she saw I was going to brush her and tend her a little, she just lapped it up like a puppy. I stroked her all over, and she murmured and twitched her sides as if it tickled.

  Then Gil and I went to the barn for Pillbox and Hunter. We led the mama into the round corral, and the colt followed at her side. What a wonder a baby is. Human or animal, I never fail to see the miracle of a new life. I put a cord around his neck that is a special one I braided from old cotton rags, bits of shirts and things. It is really soft for him to wear for a while as he gets used to something being on his neck. Then I rubbed his little legs and back, slow and gentle, until he quit fidgeting and stood still for it.

  Gilbert said, “Mama, you want me to take the saddle off your ride for you?” He was busy stroking little Hunter, and spoke quietly. “Guess I should be doing some real work instead.”

  “No, I reckon I’ll do it,” I said. “Gentling that colt is real work, too. You’ve got your hands full there.” I gave Pillbox an apple. I’d just turned to take the rig off Pally and turn him into the west corral when I heard hooves.

  “Aunt Sarah!” a voice called. It had been in the back of my mind that Mary Pearl should be along anytime. She came up to the corral fence, her legs stretched around the horse’s bare back. Mary Pearl said, “Granny Prine sent me to fetch you, Aunt Sarah. I think you’d better come. She’s all head up, saying, ‘Ernest is home. Ernest is home.’”

  “Ernest’s home?”

  “Some boy just came walking up the road and knocked on the door. He’s not old enough to be Uncle Ernest. I don’t think he is much older than me, but he’s tall.”

  I cupped my hands over my eyes to shade them so I could look her in the face, then said, “Granny thinks it’s my brother?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They’re in our parlor right this minute.”

  “Lands sakes alive. Your Granny is going to start taking in roomers next. Gilbert?” I called. “You want to come see?”

  “Go ahead, Mama. I’ll get Charlie and be up there after a bit.”

  Mary Pearl clucked to her horse and turned him around as I got into my saddle.

  We rode on a little ways, and about halfway there, Mary Pearl turned and said, “I saw you kissing El Maldonado.”

  I drew in my breath and stopped the horse. Flat out didn’t know what to say, so I figured the hard honest truth would be the best. I said, “Well, that was a foolish thing I did. I had to explain to him that I didn’t mean anything by it. Just got all tied up in happiness about the water coming in. He didn’t take it too well. I’m afraid he thinks I care for him.”

  “Do you?” The tone of her voice was more angry than curious.

  “Not like you’re thinking. He’s a good neighbor and I trust him. But I don’t want to marry him.”

/>   She rearranged her hat—some old beat-up thing of her brother’s—pulling it low in front, then fiddled with a thread at the hem of her skirt. “I don’t want to marry anybody.”

  “That’s all right.” At least she wasn’t looking to run off with some vaquero. I clucked to the horse. “Does everybody else know I did that?”

  Mary Pearl laughed under her breath. “You sound like one of my sisters, caught writing a letter to a boy in town. I don’t know if anyone else saw or not. Maybe not.” She started her mount moving up the road, and I rode half a length behind.

  Well, it would serve me right, I suppose. Proof, one more time, that any little thing a person does can be called to her name and have to be accounted for down the line. I’d really let myself go that night, what with all the tiredness and the excitement. “Well, maybe not,” I said. “Are you still coming over to stay for a while?”

  “Soon as I get the wash in off the line. It’s my turn folding. I should be there before long. This boy coming along put off my chores for a bit.” Mary Pearl straightened her hat again, trying to get it to suit her, and said, “Poor Granny is sure this fellow is Uncle Ernest. Wouldn’t he be a grown man, though?”

  I said, “Yes, he would. He’s older than I am.”

  “She’s getting addle-headed. Worse than usual.” She picked at a thread on her pocket, twisting it around her finger. Mary Pearl’s tiny hands reminded me of Granny’s.

  “Granny has just seen too much, and her mind just can’t hold any more. Anything new comes along just won’t go in.”

  “I know that feeling. Like Latin. Declining nouns always makes my head feel like it’s full of cotton lint. I fall asleep.”

  I laughed. We were safely away from the subject of my errant kiss—away from her discomfort on the subject of men and women—safely into Latin nouns. I said, “Maybe Granny Prine feels like that, trying to figure out some things. Here’s a new one for you: efficiunt clarum studio. Tell me what that is, tomorrow.” I pretended not to see Mary Pearl roll her eyes, nor to hear the sound of her teeth clicking. We passed the gate into the yard and tied up at the rail by the porch. I took off my riding gloves and folded them into my waistband. “Let’s get a look at this hombre. See what this one wants.”