Comanche Moon

by Larry McMurtry

  He would go to the stronghold of the Black Vaquero and offer him the great horse, in exchange for women. If he took the horse in and lived he would have the power of a great chief. Buffalo Hump and Slow Tree would have to include him in their councils. There would be great singing, because of what he had done.

  But Three Birds had come with him and he could not insult him because he was a little prone to wandering in the dream time. Going to the stronghold of Ahumado would be a great test. He could not tell his friend not to come.

  "I thought you might want to go home and see your family," Kicking Wolf said. "But if you don't then we had better eat this little antelope and ride through the night." "I don't need to see anyone at home," Three Birds said simply. "I want to go with you. If we ride all night Scull will not catch up." "That's right," Kicking Wolf said, as he cracked off a couple of the little antelope's ribs. "Big Horse Scull will not catch up."

  Augustus felt stunned--fora moment he was unable to speak. Once, while he was reluctantly trying his hand at blacksmithing, a horse that he was shoeing caught him with a powerful kick that struck him full in the diaphragm. For ten minutes he could only gasp for breath; he could not have spoken a ^w had his life depended on it.

  That was how he felt now, standing in the sunny Austin street with Clara Forsythe, the girl he had raced in to kiss only an hour before, holding his hand. The ^ws Clara had just spoken were the ^ws he had long feared to hear, and their effect on him was as paralyzing as the kick of the horse.

  "I know it's hard news," Clara said. "But I've made up my mind and it's not fair to hold it back." After leaving Governor Pease, Augustus had gone straight to a barber, meaning to get shaved and barbered properly before hurrying back to Clara to collect more kisses. She had consented to one more, but then had led him out the back door of the store, so that neither her father nor a casual customer would interrupt them while she was telling Gus the truth she owed him, which was that she had decided to marry Robert f. Allen, the horse trader from Nebraska.

  Augustus went white with the news; he was still white. Clara stood close to him and held his hand, letting him take his time, while he absorbed the blow. She knew it was a terrible blow, too. Augustus had courted her ardently from the day he met her, when she had been barely sixteen. She knew that, though much given to whoring, he loved only her and would marry her in an instant if she would consent. Several times she had been tempted to give in, allow him what he wanted, and attempt to make a marriage with him.

  Yet some cool part of her, some tendency to think and consider when she was most tempted just to stop thinking and open her arms, had kept her from saying yes.

  What stopped her was the feeling that had come over her when he rushed off to see Governor Pease: one kiss and then you're gone. Augustus was a Texas Ranger: at the end of the kissing or what followed it, there'd be an hour when he would be gone; she would have to carry, for days or weeks, a heavy sense of his absence; she would have to cope with all the sad feelings that assailed her when Gus was away. Clara was active: she wanted to live the full life of her emotions every day--she didn't like the feeling that full life would have to wait for the day Augustus returned, if he did return.

  Almost every time the ranger troop left Austin there would be a man among them who did not come back. It was a fact Clara couldn't forget; no woman could. And she had seen the anguish and the struggle that was the lot of frontier widows.

  "If this is a joke it's a poor one," Augustus said, when he could find breath for speech.

  But Clara was looking at him calmly, her honest eyes fixed on his. Of course she loved to tease him, and he would have liked to persuade himself that she was teasing him this time. But her eyes danced when she teased him, and her eyes were not dancing--not now.

  "It ain't a joke, Gus," she said. "It's a fact. We're going to be married on Sunday." "But ... you kissed me," Augustus said.

  "When I came running in you called me your ranger, just like you always do." "Why, you are my ranger ... you always will be," Clara said. "Of course I kissed you .

  I'll always kiss you, when you come to see me. I suppose I have the right to kiss my friends, and I'll never be so married that I won't be a friend." "But I'm a captain now," Gus said. "A captain in the Texas Rangers. Couldn't you have at least waited till I got home with the news?" "Nope," Clara said firmly. "I've spent enough of my life waiting for you to get home from some jaunt. I don't like waiting much. I don't like going weeks not even knowing if you're alive. I don't like wondering if you've found another woman, in some town I've never been to." At the memory of all her anxious waiting, a tear started in her eye.

  "I wasn't meant for waiting and wondering, Gus," she said. "It was making me an old woman before my time. Bob Allen's no cavalier. He'll never have your dash--I know that.

  But I'll always know where he is--I won't have to be wondering." "Hell, I'll quit the rangers if a stay-at-home is what you're looking for," Gus said, very annoyed. "I'll quit 'em today!" He knew, even as he said the ^ws, that it was a thing he had often offered to do, over the years, when Clara taxed him with his absences. But he never quite got around to quitting. Now he would, though, captain or no captain. What was being a captain, compared to being married to Clara?

  To his dismay, Clara shook her head.

  "No," she said. "It's too late, Gus.

  I gave Bob Allen my promise. Besides, being a captain in the rangers is what you've always wanted. You've talked of it many times." "Well, I was a fool," Gus said. "Being a captain just means making a lot of decisions I ain't smart enough to make. Woodrow, he's always studying--let him make 'em!

  "I'm quitting, I mean it!" he said, feeling desperate. He felt he had just as soon die, if he couldn't change Clara's decision.

  "Hush that--it's nonsense," Clara said.

  "I'm promised now--d you think I'm so light a girl that I'd break my promise just because you quit a job?" Augustus felt a terrible flash of anger.

  "No, if you promised, I expect you'll go through with it even if it ruins both our lives and his too!" he said.

  "You shut up, Gusffwas Clara said, with a flash to match his. "I've been telling you what I needed for ten years--if you'd wanted me enough to quit the rangers you would have quit long ago. But you didn't--y just kept riding off time after time with Woodrow Call. You could have had me, but you chose him!" "Why, that's foolish--he's just my pard," Gus said.

  "It may be foolish but it's how I felt and how I feel," Clara said.

  She calmed herself with an effort. She had not called him into the street to fight over the disappointments of a decade--though it had not all been disappointment by any means.

  Augustus didn't know what to do. Though it appeared to be a hopeless thing, he didn't know how to simply give up. The hope of someday marrying Clara had been the deepest hope of his life. What would his life be, with that hope lost?

  He could not even formulate a guess, though he knew it would be bleak and black.

  "When will you be leaving?" he asked finally, in a flat voice.

  "Why, Sunday," Clara said. "We're going to New Orleans and take the steamer up the Mississippi and the Missouri. It'll be chilly travelling, I expect--at least the last part of it will." Gus felt such a weight inside him that he didn't know how he was even going to walk away.

  "Then it's goodbye, I guess," he said.

  "For a while, yes," Clara said. "My hope is that you'll visit, in about ten years." "Visit you once you're married--now why would you want that?" Augustus asked, startled by the remark.

  "Because I'd want you to know my children," Clara said. "I'd want them to have your friendship." Augustus was silent for a bit. Clara was looking at him with something in her eyes that he couldn't define. Though she had just broken his heart, she still seemed to want something of him--what, he was not sure.

  "You're just saying that now, Clara," he said, though he thought his throat might close up with sadness and leave him unable to speak.

  "Bob,
he won't be wanting me there, and you won't either, once you've been married awhile," he said finally.

  Clara shook her head and put her arms around him.

  "I can't claim to know too much about marriage yet, but there is one thing I know for sure--I'll never be so married that I won't need your friendship --don't you forget that," she said.

  Then tears started in her eyes again--she turned abruptly and walked quickly back into her store.

  Augustus stayed where he was for a bit, looking at the store. Whether staying or returning, looking at that store had long filled him with hope. The sight of the Forsythe store--j a plain frame building--affected him more powerfully than any sight on earth; for the store contained Clara.

  There he had met her; there, for years, they had kissed, quarrelled, joked, teased; often they had made plans for a future together, a future they would now never have.

  When he walked into the little room in the rough bunkhouse that he shared with Woodrow Call, what he felt in his heart must have showed in his face.

  Woodrow was just about to go out, but the sight of Gus stopped him. He had never seen Gus with quite such a strange look on his face.

  "Are you sick?" Call asked.

  Gus made no reply. He sat down on his cot and took off his hat.

  "I have to pay a call, but I'll be back soon," Call said. "The Governor wants to see us again." "Why? We done saw him, the fool," Gus asked.

  "We're captains now," Call reminded him. "Did you think we were just going to see him that one time?" "Yes, I had hoped I wouldn't have to look at the jackass again," Gus said.

  "I don't know what's the matter," Call said, "but I hope it wears off quick. You needn't be sulky just because the Governor wants to see us." Augustus suddenly drew back his fist and punched the center of the cot he sat on, as hard as he could. The cot, a spindly-legged thing, immediately collapsed.

  "Dern it, now you broke your bed," Call said in surprise.

  "Don't matter, I won't be sleeping in it anyway," Augustus said. "I wish that damn governor would send us off again today, because I'm ready to go. If I ain't rangering I mean to be out drinking all night, or else reside in a whorehouse." Call had no idea what had come over his friend --bbf he could investigate, Augustus suddenly got up and walked past him out the door.

  "I'll be down at the saloon, in case you lose my track," he said.

  "I doubt I'll lose your track," Call said, still puzzled. By then Augustus was in the street, and he didn't turn.

  Call, about to leave Maggie's, was in a hurry, aware that he was almost late for his appointment with the Governor, and he still had to find Gus and drag him out of whatever saloon he was in. He didn't at first understand what Maggie had just said to him. She had said something about a child, but his mind was on his meeting with the Governor and he hadn't quite taken her comment in.

  "What? I guess I need to clean out my ears," he said.

  Maggie didn't want to repeat it--she didn't want it to be true, and yet it was true.

  "I said I'm going to have a baby," she said.

  Call looked at Maggie again and saw that she was about to cry. She had just made him coffee and fed him a tasty beefsteak, the best food he had had in a month. She had a plate in her hand, but the hand that held the plate was not steady. Of course, she usually got upset when he had to leave, even if he was just going to the bunkhouse. Maggie wanted him to live with her, a thing he could not agree to do. The part about the baby hardly registered with him until he saw the look in her eyes. The look in her eyes was desperate.

  "The baby's yours, Woodrow," she said.

  "I'm hoping you'll help me bring it up." Call took his hand off the doorknob.

  "It's mine?" he asked, puzzled.

  "Well, it's ours, I mean," Maggie said, watching his face as she said it, to see if there was any hope at all. For three weeks, ever since she was sure that she was pregnant, she had anguished over how to tell Woodrow. Over and over she practiced how she would tell him. Her best hope, her nicest dream, was that Woodrow would want the baby to be his and also, maybe, want to marry her and care for her as his wife.

  Sometimes Maggie could imagine such a thing happening, when she thought about Woodrow and the baby, but mostly she had the opposite conviction. He might hate the notion--in fact he probably would hate it. He might walk out the door and never see her again. After all, he was a Texas Ranger captain now, and she was just a whore. He was not obligated to come back to see her, much less to marry her or help her with the child. Every time she thought of telling him, Maggie felt despair--she didn't know what it would mean for their future.

  But she .was pregnant, a truth that would soon be apparent.

  Now the ^ws were out--Woodrow just seemed puzzled. He had not flinched or looked at her cruelly.

  "Well, Maggie," he said, and stopped. He seemed mainly distracted. Maggie had put on her robe but hadn't tied it yet; he was looking at her belly as if he expected to see what she was talking about.

  "This is surprising news," he said, rather stiffly, but with no anger in his voice.

  The fact was, Call had set his mind on the next task, which was locating Gus and getting on to the Governor's office. He had never been good at getting his mind to consider two facts at once, much less two big facts. Maggie was slim and lovely, no different than she had been the day he had ridden off to Fort Belknap. It occurred to him that she might just be having a fancy of some kind--Gus had told him that Clara often had fancies about babies. Maybe she had just got it into her head that she was having a baby. It might be something like Gus McCrae's conviction that he was going to stumble onto a gold mine, every time they went out on patrol. Gus was always poking into holes and caves, looking for his gold mine. But there wasn't a gold mine in any of the caves and there might not be a baby in Maggie, either.

  What he didn't want to do was upset her, just when it was necessary to leave. She had been sweet to him on his return and had fixed him a tasty meal at her expense.

  Maggie was a little encouraged by the fact that Woodrow didn't seem angry. He had an appointment with the Governor and was clearly eager to get out the door, which was normal. If he went on with his task, perhaps he would think about the baby and come to like the notion.

  "You go on, I know you're in a hurry," she said.

  "Why, yes, we can discuss this later," Call said, relieved that no further delay was required.

  He tipped his hat to her before going out the door.

  The minute he left, Maggie hurried over to the window so she could watch him as he walked down the street. She had always liked the way he walked. He was not a graceful man, particularly. Even when he was relaxed he moved a little stiffly--but his very awkwardness touched her.

  He needed someone to take care of him, Woodrow did, and Maggie wanted to be the one to do it. She knew she could take care of him fine, without ever letting him suspect that he needed to be taken care of. She knew, too, that he liked to feel independent.

  Maggie just wanted her chance.

  Despite herself, watching him walk away, her heart swelled with hope. He hadn't said anything bad, when she told him about the baby. He had not even looked annoyed, and he often looked annoyed if she asked him any question at all, or detained him even for a minute, when he was in a hurry to leave. An appointment with the Governor was important, and yet he had stopped and listened to her.

  Maybe, after all, the whoring was over, she thought. Maybe Woodrow Call, the only man she had ever loved, would think about it all and decide to marry her. Maybe he was going to make her dream come true.

  Inez Scull, dressed entirely in black, was sitting in Governor Pease's office when Call and Augustus were ushered in. Bingham had come to fetch them and had not said a ^w on the buggy ride. What was more surprising to Call was that Gus had not said a ^w either. In the whole stretch of their friendship Call could not remember an occasion when Gus had been silent for so long--andthe buggy ride only took ten minutes, not a long silence by norma
l standards.

  "Are you sick, or are you so drunk you can't even talk?" Call asked, near the end of the ride.

  Augustus continued to stare off into the distance. He did not speak a ^w. In his mind's eye he saw the woman he loved--the woman he would always love--steaming up a broad brown river with Bob Allen, horse trader of Nebraska. His rival had won; that was the bleak fact. He saw no reason to chatter just to please Woodrow Call.

  Though Madame Scull was silent, she was a presence they could not ignore. When they stepped in, the Governor was busy with a secretary, so they stood where they were, hats in hand, just inside the door of the broad room. To their embarrassment Madame Scull got up and came and gave them a silent inspection, looking them over from head to foot. She was bold in her looking too, so bold that both men were made distinctly uncomfortable under her silent gaze.

  "Here they are, Inez--our two young captains," the Governor said, when the secretary left. "They brought the troop home safe and rescued three captives besides." "I'd say it's beginners' luck," Madame Scull said, in a tone that stung Gus McCrae to the quick.