Leaving Cheyenne

by Larry McMurtry

  Dad told Mr. Peters that if his family would all get in the wagon and wrap up real good in the quilts, I would drive them to Thalia. Mrs. Peters had a sister there, and they could stay with her a day or two, whether they liked it or not.

  Everybody went home and Dad caught one of the Peterses’ mules and went home himself, and I started down the road to Thalia with the biggest wagonload of sad people you ever saw. A norther had come up; I didn’t have on a shirt under my jacket, and like to froze. All the Peterses went to sleep, but about halfway into town Mabel woke up and came up on the seat by me. She let me have a little of her quilt.

  “We’re much obliged to you, Gid,” she said. “You’re the nicest one that came tonight.

  “Some of these days I’ll marry you and make it all up to you,” she said. “You see if I don’t.”

  I started to tell her that I didn’t want her to get her hopes up, but she squirmed over and kissed me and was like that all the rest of the way to Thalia. I could barely drive. It livened up the ride a whole lot.

  “You remember what I said,” she said, when we were coming into town. Her face was all white and excited, and neither one of us was particularly cold any more.

  I got the job of going in and waking up Mrs. Peters’ sister. Everybody else was afraid of the dog, but I beat him off with the wagon whip. When the lights came on all the Peterses climbed out and clobbered into the living room, looking like some Indian nation in all their quilts. The lady took them in, and I got ahold of two quilts and started back. Before I could get off, Mabel ran out and wrapped around me for about ten minutes. “Come and see me,” she said. “I’ll get awful lonesome in here.”

  After that, the Peterses had a real hard time of it. The sister kept them a week, and then they moved into the firehouse, and finally ended up back at the place living in their barn. People scraped up for them and gave them preserves and bacon and old clothes and a little money to get started on. But the old man never had the energy to start, and the boy had the energy but not enough sense. They were the poorest folks in the country, and Mabel felt disgraced. Finally they all left but her and went to some little town in Arkansas, where they had kinfolks. Mabel got a job in a grocery store and a room in a widow’s house and stayed and tried to make herself well thought of. But she was still the poorest of the poor, and it was a long time before she got over it enough to have any prosperous boy friends.

  nine

  As much as I worked around Dad, it looked like I would have been able to figure him out. A man as set in his ways as he was ought to have been more predictable. But he could always keep about a jump ahead of me.

  We had three fair rains in October and a damn good slow three-inch rain the second week in November, and all our country looked good. We had more grass than we had cattle for, and it didn’t look like it would be too hard a winter. I figured Dad would stock some more calves; that would have been the logical thing for a cattleman to do. One morning he sent Johnny off to check the water gaps, and told me to hitch up the wagon, we were going to Thalia. That was okay with me.

  “Well,” he said, once we were started, “I think I’ll let you plant a little wheat this year. See what kind of a wheat farmer you are. Thought we’d buy some seed today.

  “And don’t go getting red in the face,” he said. I was. “You ain’t got no say-so about it, so just keep your mouth shut. I got the damn toothache this morning anyway.”

  “A toothache ain’t got a damn thing to do with it,” I said. “If you ask me.”

  “I never asked you. What I mean is, I can’t stand no long conversation with my tooth hurting this way.”

  I got all nervous. It’s terrible to be in a wagon when you get mad; you can’t make it go no faster or anything. You just have to poke along when you feel like whipping and spurring.

  “Well, I don’t intend to do no fanning,” I said. “Your tooth can stand that much. You’re crazy anyway. We ought to be buying cattle.”

  “Knock hell out of that mule,” he said. “Keep him out of the ditch. He don’t need to graze all the time.

  “I figure it’s gonna get dry,” he said. “We’ve got some dry years coming. We might need this grass next summer more than we need it now, so I ain’t gonna stock very heavy. It won’t hurt you to try a little farming.”

  I began to get the Panhandle on my mind when he said that. It would take something drastic to bring Dad to his senses about me. Maybe if I run off for a little while it would do it.

  We got to Thalia and got the wheat seed, and while I was loading it and fooling around the feed store trying to bargain with the feller for half a load of cottonseed hulls, Dad went up and got the doctor to pull his tooth for him. It must have had roots plumb down to the collarbone, because Dad spit blood all the way home.

  “That was three dollars throwed away,” he said. “Next time one wears out you can pull it.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it for two and a half and save you the trip besides.”

  “I wish it would quit coming these damn cold northers,” he said. “My blood’s getting thin.”

  We didn’t say much going home till we got to the place where the road went over Idiot Ridge. When we got there we could see the Taylor place across the long flat on the other hill, and off to the west of us we could see the Peterses’ barn.

  “Which one of them damn girls do you reckon you’ll marry?” Dad said. “We may as well thrash that out while we’re thrashing.”

  He beat all. “Why, I may not marry at all,” I said. “I can’t see that it’s too much of your business, anyway.”

  “Oh, I guess it is. I was just curious as to which kind of trouble you mean to get yourself into.”

  “Well, if I marry either one it will damn sure be Molly,” I said. “You couldn’t get me to marry Mabel with a thirty-thirty.”

  “That so,” he said, spitting. “He said not to, but I think I’ll chew a little tobacco. I’m bleeding to death through the head.”

  So the rest of the way he split blood and tobacco juice, instead of just blood.

  “Okay,” he said. “Mabel ain’t the kind of girl you want; she’s just the kind of girl that wants you. Molly, she don’t want you.”

  “She damn sure does,” I said. It made me mad. “What makes you think you know so much about her? Me and her get along real well.”

  “Oh, of course,” he said. “I never meant to say you didn’t. But you ain’t gonna catch her, and your buddy Johnny ain’t either, that’s plain as day. And it’s a damn good thing. She’d run you ragged if you did.”

  “How’d we get to talking about this, anyway?” I said. “I may not even marry. But if I do, it’ll be Molly.”

  “Don’t make no bets,” he said. “And don’t be sorry if you don’t. If you stay loose from her, she’ll make you the best kind of friend you can have. If you do marry her, you’ll have ninety-nine kinds of misery. And you remember I told you that. A woman is a wonderful thing, goddamn them, but a man oughtn’t to marry one unless he just absolutely has to have some kids. There’s no other excuse.”

  “Well, you married, didn’t you? You survived it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, “but your mother didn’t. And I’m surprised I did. It like to done for us both.”

  “Anyhow, you’re wrong about Molly,” I said. “I can tell you that.”

  He kinda grinned at me. “You might tell me the time of day,” he said, “if you had a better watch than mine. That’s about all you can tell me. Of course if you marry the Peters girl, that’ll be hell too, but at least you won’t lose no friend.”

  “I swear I can’t talk to you,” I said. “You don’t no more know me than the man in the moon. You think you know everything about me and you don’t really know a damn thing.”

  “You’re probably right,” he said. “Maybe I’ll improve.” He got tickled at something and set there popping the reins on the mules and laughing to himself for the next mile or two.

  “Did y
ou mean you think I ought to marry Mabel instead of Molly?” I said. “I’m just curious.”

  “Oh no,” he said. “I told you already I didn’t want you to marry till you were forty or fifty years old. By then you might have enough judgment to marry right. Only I can see already you ain’t gonna have enough judgment to last that long. I just mentioned it to see how much you knew about yourself.”

  “I’m sure you know more about me than I do,” I said.

  Dad sighed. “People are the hardest animals in the world to raise,” he said. “And it’s because nobody ever got them to breeding right in the first place.”

  “You don’t breed people,” I said.

  “No, and it’s a damn pity,” he said. “I can take me a bull and get him with just the right cows at just the right time, and I won’t have to worry much about the calf crop. But the chances of anybody getting the right man anywhere near the right woman are as slim as chances get. That’s why I don’t mind so bad being old. If I was young agin, I’d probably mess up even worse than I did.”

  Dad said that in a pretty sad way. It bothered me to hear him.

  “That’s a pessimistic damn thing to say,” I said. “Why, I think life’s a damn sight more fun than that.”

  “You ain’t lived one,” he said. Then he told me how much work we were going to get done that winter.

  ten

  Dad kept me so busy with one thing and another that it was after the first of December before I got over to Molly’s to ask her to go to the Christmas dance with me. One afternoon I got off early, though. Dad decided it was going to come a storm, and he wanted to leave the cattle alone till it was over. Johnny never come to work that day anyway; his old man had kept him home to help him kill their hogs. Dad said he didn’t need me, so I saddled up and got my sheepskin coat and rode over to the Taylors’. It was cloudy and cold and looked sleety back in the northwest. I seen a big flock of geese going over. I hated the wintertime; it sure made the cow-work mean.

  Molly was hanging out clothes when I rode up. She had on an old red flannel shirt and a pair of overalls and was actually barefooted out in that cold. I guess it was a habit. The Taylor kids hardly ever put on shoes before Christmas, and they had them off agin by Washington’s birthday. She looked as pretty as ever. When I walked up she put her hand on the back of my neck, and it was cold from the wet clothes.

  “Don’t you hope it snows?” she said.

  I kissed her right quick and made her let me help her hang up clothes. It was so cold they practically froze while we were getting them over the clothesline. There were scraps of burned tow sack floating around the yard, so I figured the old man had let the windmill freeze and Molly had had to thaw out the pipes.

  Molly’s cheeks were red and her hair all blowy, but she didn’t seem to mind the weather. “Dad said he might kill a goose,” she said. “If he does, maybe you can come over and eat some of it.”

  “Maybe I’ll kill one myself,” I said. “Let’s go inside for a while.”

  I got the bushel basket the clothes had been in, and she caught me by the hand and led me in the house. The kitchen was nice. It was so warm the windows were fogged over. Molly had made some cookies that morning, and we sat down at the kitchen table and ate them.

  “It’s about time you came,” she said. “I been missing you so much.” She reached her foot under the table and kicked me with her toes.

  “Dad’s been working the daylights out of me. By the time I get loose from him I ain’t fit company for a pretty young lady.”

  “I guess I could stand you,” she said. “Ain’t these good cookies? I feel so good today now that you showed up.”

  I pulled my chair around by hers, so we could sit close together. I decided I would start taking more afternoons off.

  “Johnny comes by a lot,” she said. “He said you’all had a pretty big time in Fort Worth. I wouldn’t mind seeing Fort Worth sometimes.”

  “Maybe we’ll go there on our honeymoon,” I said.

  She looked at me, half-grinning and half-serious; part of what was in her eyes was mischief and part of it wasn’t. She had my hand in both of hers.

  “I told you about that once,” she said. “I don’t intend to get married till I’m going to have a baby.”

  “Oh, now hush,” I said. “That’s silly. We’ll get married by next summer, I don’t care what you say.”

  She shook her head and thought about it to herself for a while, and wouldn’t look at me.

  “Anyway, don’t go getting no black eyes week after next,” I said. “We don’t want to miss another big dance.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Gid,” she said. “I knew that was why you come over. I already told somebody else I’d go with him.”

  That knocked a hole in my spirits. But when I thought about it a minute, it didn’t surprise me. Johnny rode within two miles of her place every day; it was no wonder he’d asked her.

  “Well, I guess he deserves to take you to one dance,” I said. “Anyway I’ll get to dance with you a lot. Johnny won’t care about that.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t Johnny,” she said. “He asked me a long time ago. I promised Eddie I wouldn’t go to dances with anybody but him any more.”

  I didn’t have no idea what to say to that. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Are you plumb crazy?” I said. I started to bawl her out, but I seen she was sitting there about ready to cry. I held up.

  “Well, has he asked you to this dance?” I said. “I haven’t seen him lately. He may not be in this part of the country.”

  “No.” She didn’t let herself cry, but her eyes spilled over once. “I guess he’s in Oklahoma,” she said. “He ain’t been here in a month. But I promised him anyway.”

  “But, sweetheart,” I said. “He may not even be back in time for the dance. You don’t want to miss it, do you?”

  “No,” she said. “You know I don’t. But he told me not to go unless he was here to take me. So I better not.”

  “That beats anything in the damn world,” I said. “I ought to spank you right here. What kind of a feller is he? That ain’t no way to treat a girl.” But I hugged her anyway, and her face was all wet against my neck.

  “He’s not any count,” I said. “You know that, Molly.”

  “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t promised him,” she said. “But I did. You’re my favorite.”

  We set in the kitchen for a long time, kissing and not talking much. She wouldn’t say another word about Eddie or the dance. I didn’t care. It was a comfortable time, and I didn’t think much about the dance.

  “Stay for supper with me,” she said. “We butchered the milkpen calf, so we can have beef. Dad may not be coming home today, I don’t know.”

  So I decided to stay, and I meant to make it all night if she’d let me. I milked and done her chores for her and chopped enough wood to last her through the cold spell. I even put my horse in the barn. Then we ate and got real cheerful. We found some popcorn and went in the living room to pop it in the fireplace. The living room was neat, so I knew the old man hadn’t been there for a while. When he was around it was always full of junk and whiskey jugs.

  “Wouldn’t you like to get away from here?” I said. We were sitting on the floor close to the fire. Molly had unbuttoned her shirt a little and I was watching the firelight on her throat and chest.

  “Why no,” she said. “I couldn’t leave here. This is where I intend to live. Anyhow, who’d look after Dad?”

  We salted the popcorn and buttered it and ate it, and when Molly kissed me after that she tasted like warm butter and salt; I’ll always remember that.

  “I sure do like you,” she said. “You can come stay with me anytime you want to, you know that, don’t you? It doesn’t make any difference about the dances.”

  She lay down with her head in my lap, and I looked down at her.

  “I sure do like you too. But it makes a difference to me. You’re the one I want and I don’t want no other fe
llers around you.”

  She grinned and sat up and gave me one of those butter-and-salt kisses. The firelight lit up our faces. And just that minute we heard the back door kick in and the old man stomped into the kitchen. We heard him stamping around trying to get his overshoes off.

  It made us both so sad at first we didn’t even move. Then we sat up, and by the time he came into the room we were eating popcorn, just as innocent as you please.

  “We’re in here,” she said. “It’s Gid and me.”

  “Oh it is is it?” he said. He turned and went back to the kitchen and we heard him getting a glass out of the cabinet. When he came back he had a glass of whiskey in one hand and his bottle in the other. It was the first time I ever saw him drink out of a glass. He still had on his big sheepskin coat and his old dirty plaid cap, with the earflaps still pulled down over his ears and tied under his chin. He didn’t look in too good a mood; it kinda scared me, actually. I kept on eating popcorn.

  “Go get some firewood,” he said. “It’s a goddamn cold night.”

  I didn’t know whether he was talking to me or Molly, but I got up and went to the woodpile and got an armful of wood.

  “Put it over here,” he said. So I dumped it right by his chair and he took his gloves off and picked out a chunk and leaned over and pitched it in the fire. Sparks and ashes flew everywhere, and Molly had to jump to keep them from getting on her. It made me mad.

  “Good way to catch the house on fire,” I said. “Let me do it for you, Mr. Taylor.”

  “Hell no,” he said. He sat the glass down on one side of the chair and drank out of the bottle. I never did see him drink out of the glass agin.

  “All right,” I said. I didn’t want no argument with him. “It’s dangerous though.”

  “Danger-rus, my ass,” he said, grinning at Molly like he was fixing to tell her some big joke. “This here’s my house anyway, if I want to burn it down then by god I’ll burn it down. Never asked you nohow. Get on out of here and go home. Who asked you over here in the first place?”