Текст книги "Comanche Moon"

Автор книги: Larry McMurtry

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 46 страниц)

When Call came in with his saddlebags over his shoulder, Maggie's spirits sank. She was too disappointed to speak. Woodrow only brought his saddlebag into her rooms when he was leaving early –he was meticulous about checking his gear and would spend an hour or more at his task whenever he had to leave.

"You've only been here a day," she said sadly. "We haven't even talked about the baby." "Well, you ain't having it tomorrow, and this may be a short trip," he said, not unkindly. "I expect we can discuss it when I come back." What if you don't come back? she thought, but she didn't say it. If she spoke it would only anger him and she would risk losing the little sweet time they might have. Austin was full of widows whose husbands had ridden off one morning, like Pearl Coleman's father, and never come back.

What Maggie felt was the fear any woman felt when her man had to venture beyond the settled frontier, and even the settled frontier was far from being really safe. Every year, still, settlers were killed and women and children stolen from their cabins, almost within sight of Austin. There was not much safety in town, but there was no safety where Woodrow had to go.

Worry about him sank deep in Maggie's gut, where it mixed with another grave worry: the question of what she would do if Woodrow refused to marry her, or accept her child as his. A woman with a child born out of wedlock had no hope of rising, not in Austin. If she wanted to raise the child properly she would have to move to another town and try to pass herself off as a widow. It would be hard, so hard that Maggie feared to think about it.

Unless Woodrow helped her she would be as good as lost, and the child as well.

But Maggie swallowed her questions and her doubts, as she had many times before. After all, Woodrow was there; he had come to her on his return and now again, on the eve of his departure.

He was there, not somewhere else; she did her best to push aside her worries and make the best of their time. The depth of her love for Woodrow Call gave him a power over her that was too great –and he didn't even know he had it.

"All right, I'll make you a meal–there's still two beefsteaks, if you want Gus to come," she said. It made Maggie happy if Woodrow brought Augustus home to eat with them: it was as if he were bringing his best friend home to eat his wife's cooking. She wasn't really his wife yet, but they were jolly on those occasions. Sometimes she and Gus could even tempt Woodrow into playing cards, or joining them in a singsong. He was a poor cardplayer and not much of a singer, but such times were still jolly.

"Gus went off to Madame Scull's and stayed three hours–t's why I'm late," Call said. "He just went to drink tea with her–I don't know why it took three hours.

Now he's too tired to eat. I don't think I've ever seen Gus too tired to eat before." Maggie smiled–everyone knew that Madame Scull took young men as lovers, the younger the better. She had taken Jake Spoon for a while; everyone knew that too. Lately Jake had come mooning around, wanting to make up to Maggie for his bad behaviour. He had offered to carry her groceries twice, and had generally tried to make himself useful; but Maggie remained cool. She knew his kind all too well.

Jake would be nice until he had what he wanted, and then, if she denied him a favor, he would pull her hair or slap her again. There was no changing men–not much, anyway; mainly men stayed the way they were, no matter what women did. Woodrow Call was not all she wanted him to be, but he had never raised a hand to her and would not think of pulling her hair. Jake could offer to carry her groceries if he wanted but she would not forget what he did.

Call noticed her smile, when he mentioned Gus's fatigue.

"What's that grin for? What do you know?" he asked.

"It's just a smile, Woodrow–I'm happy because you're here," Maggie said.

"No, it was something else–something about Gus," he said. "If you've a notion of why he stayed at Madame Scull's so long I'd like to know it." Maggie knew she was treading on dangerous ground. Woodrow had strict notions of what was right and what was wrong. But she was a little riled, too: riled because he was going away so soon, riled because he wouldn't talk about the baby, riled because she had to keep swallowing down the way she felt and the things she needed to say. If he wouldn't think about her baby, at least she could get his goat a little about their friend.

"I know why he's tired, that's all," she said, pounding the beefsteak.

"Why, then, tell me," Call asked.

"Because Madame Scull took his pants down –if you'd gone she would have tried to take yours down too," Maggie said.

Call flinched as if he had been slapped, or jabbed with a pin.

"Now, that's wrong!" he said loudly, but without much confidence in his own conclusion. "How could you know that?" "Because that's what she does with any man who goes home with her, when the Captain's away," Maggie said. "It's the talk of all the barrooms and not just the barrooms–she don't care who knows." "Well, she ought to care," Call said. "I expect the Captain would take the hide off her if he knew she was stirring up talk like that." "Woodrow, it's not just talk," Maggie said.

"I seen her kissing a boy myself, over behind some horses. One of the horses moved and I saw it." "What boy?" Call said. "Maybe they were cousins." "No, it was Jurgen, that German boy the Captain hung for stealing horses," Maggie insisted. "He couldn't even speak English." "They could still have been cousins," Call said–but then he gave up arguing. No wonder Gus had come down the hill looking as he sometimes looked when he had spent a day in a whorehouse.

"If it's true I just hope the Captain don't find out," Call said.

"Don't you think he knows?" Maggie asked.

Sometimes Woodrow seemed so young to her, not young outside but young inside, that it made her fearful for him; it made her even more determined to marry him and take care of him. If she didn't, some woman like Mrs. Scull would figure out how young he was and do him bad harm.

"How could he know if she only does it when he's gone?" Call asked.

"You don't have to be with somebody every minute to know things about them," Maggie told him. "I'm not with you every minute, but I know you're a good man. If you was a bad man I wouldn't have to be with you every minute to know that, either." Her voice quavered a little, when she said she knew he was a good man. It made Call feel a touch of guilt. He was always leaving Maggie just when she had her hopes up that he'd stay. Of course he left because it was his duty, but he recognized that that didn't really make things any easier for Maggie.

"Now you're risking your life because she wants somebody to go look for her husband, and she ain't even true to him," Maggie said bitterly.

When she thought of Madame Scull's dreadful behaviour–kissing and fondling young men right in the street–she got incensed. No decent whore would behave as badly as Madame Scull, and yet she enjoyed high position and went to all the fanciest balls. More than that, she could send men into danger at her whim as she was doing with Woodrow and the boys.

"I guess if it's true and Clara finds out about it, it'll be the end of her and Gus," Call said. "I expect she'll take an axe handle to him and run him out of town." Maggie was silent. She knew something else that Woodrow didn't know–she had happened to be in the Forsythe store one day when Clara was trying on some of her wedding clothes, just the gloves and the shoes. But Clara had made no attempt to conceal the fact that she was marrying the tall man from Nebraska. The wedding was going to be in the church at the end of the street. Now that Augustus was back, surely Clara had told him; but evidently he hadn't got around to informing Woodrow. Perhaps Gus wasn't able. Perhaps talking about it made him too sad.

Maggie knew it wasn't her business to tell Woodrow this, and yet concealing things from him made her deeply uncomfortable. She knew he trusted her to tell him everything that might be important to the rangers, and the fact that Gus had lost Clara seemed pretty important to her.

"Woodrow, Gus ain't none of Clara's business anymore," she said nervously.

"Why isn't he?" Call asked, surprised. "He's been her business as long as I've knowed him, and that's years." "She's marrying that horse trader," Maggie said. "The wedding's on Sunday." Woodrow Call was stunned. The news about Madame Scull's faithless behaviour was shocking and repulsive, but the news about Clara Forsythe hit him so hard that he almost lost his appetite for the juicy beefsteak Maggie had cooked him. He knew now why Augustus wanted to leave town so quickly: he wanted to be out of town when the wedding took place.

"I never expected her to marry anybody but Gus," he said. "This is a bad surprise.

I doubt Gus expected her to marry anybody but him, either. I think he hoped his promotion would win her over." To Maggie, his stunned comment was just more evidence that Woodrow was young inside. He wouldn't realize that Clara Forsythe wouldn't care a fig for Gus's promotion; nor did he realize that it didn't take a woman ten years to say yes to a man she meant to marry. She herself would have said yes to Woodrow in a matter of days, had he asked her. The fact that Clara had kept Gus waiting so long just meant that she didn't trust him.

To Maggie it seemed that simple, and she knew that Clara was right. Gus McCrae could be plenty of fun, but trusting him would be the wrong thing to do.

Instead of saying those things to Woodrow she fed him some apple tarts she had saved up to buy from the bakery. They were such delicious apple tarts that he ate four of them, and, after a time, went to sleep. Maggie held him in her arms a long time. She knew there was much she could say to him, and perhaps should say to him, about the ways of women; but she only had one night and decided she had just rather hold him in her arms.

The troop did not make an auspicious appearance when they gathered in the lots at dawn and began to saddle their horses and tie on their gear.

Call had decided to take the two boys, Pea Eye and Jake Spoon, plus Deets to do the cooking, Long Bill in case there was a desperate fight, andof course himself and Augustus –the latter had not appeared.

Long Bill was there, at least, dark circles under his eyes and a haggard look on his face.

"Didn't you sleep, Bill?" Call asked.

"No, Pearl cried all night–she ain't up to being consoled," Long Bill said.

"Women will just cry when the menfolk leave," Call said. His own shirt was wet from Maggie's tears.

"Did you hear about Clara? It's got me upset," Long Bill said. "I was looking forward to eating her cooking, once Gus married her, but I guess that prospect's gone." "Have you seen him?" Call asked.

"No, but I heard he fought two Germans in a whorehouse last," Long Bill said.

"I don't know what the fight was about." The two youngsters, Pea Eye and Jake, were nervous, Call saw. They kept walking around and around their horses, checking and rechecking their gear.

"Gus is late," Call observed.

"Maybe he didn't win the fight." "I imagine he won it," Long Bill said.

"I suppose Gus could handle two Germans, even if he was heartbroken." Call kept expecting to see Augustus ride up at any minute, but he didn't. They were all saddled up and ready. It was vexing to wait.

"His horse ain't here, Captain," Long Bill said. "Maybe he left without us." "I can't get used to you calling me "Captainea"' Bill," Call said. It was as an honest dilemma. He and Long Bill had been equal as rangers for years, and, in not a few instances, Long Bill, who was five years older than Call, had shown himself to be more than equal in judgment and skill. He was better with skittish horses than Call was, to name only one skill at which he excelled. Yet, through the whim of Captain Scull, he and Gus had been elevated, while Long Bill was still a common ranger. It was a troubling consideration that wouldn't leave his mind.

Long Bill, though he appreciated the comment, had no trouble with the shift in status. He was a humble man and considered himself happy in the love of his wife and the friendship of his comrades in arms.

"No, that's the way it ought to be," he said.

"You're in this for the long haul, Woodrow, andwith me it's just temporary." "Temporary? You've been at it as long as I have, Bill," Call said.

"Yes, but Pearl and me are having a baby," Long Bill confided. "I expect that's one reason she was so upset. She made me promise this would be my last trip with you and the boys –t's a promise I have to keep. Rangering is mostly for bachelors. Married fellows oughtn't to be taking these risks." "Bill, I didn't know," Call said, startled by the similarity of their circumstances.

Long Bill had fathered a child and now Maggie was claiming he had done the same.

"You're welcome to stay if you feel you need to," he told Long Bill. "You've done your share of rangering. You did it long ago." "Why, no, Captain. I'm here and I'll go," Long Bill said. "I mean to have one last jaunt before I settle down." Just then they saw Augustus McCrae come around the corner by the saloon. Gus was walking slowly, leading his horse. Call saw that he was heading across the street toward the Forsythe store, which was not yet open, it being barely dawn. Call wondered if the matter of Clara's marriage was really as settled a thing as everyone seemed to think.

"There he is, headed for Clara's," Long Bill said. "Shall we wait for him?" Call saw Gus turn his face toward where they sat, already mounted. Gus didn't wave, but he did see them. Though anxious to get started, Call hated to ride out without his friend.

"I guess he'll catch up with us–he knows which way we're headed," Jake Spoon said.

He was anxious to get started before he grew any more apprehensive.

"If he lives he might," Long Bill said, looking at the man walking slowly across the street, leading his horse.

"Well, why wouldn't he live?" Jake asked.

Long Bill did not reply. What he knew was that Gus McCrae was mighty fond of Clara Forsythe, and now she was gone for good. He was not stepping high or jaunty, and Gus was usually a high-stepper, in the mornings. Of course Bill didn't feel like explaining it to a green boy such as Jake.

Call too saw the dejection in Gus's walk.

"I expect he's just going to say goodbye," Call said. "We better wait. He might appreciate the company."

Augustus felt queasy in his stomach and achy in his head from a long night of drinking, but he wanted one last ^w with Clara, even though he didn't expect it to improve his spirits much. But, since the day he had met her, every time he rode out of Austin on patrol he had stopped by to say goodbye to Clara. She wasn't quite a married woman yet–one more goodbye wouldn't be improper.

Clara was expecting him. When she saw him come round to the back of the store she went out barefoot to meet him. A wind whistled through the street, ruffling the feathers of some chickens that were pecking away on the little slope behind the store.

"It's cold, you'll get goose bumps," Gus said, when he saw that she was barefoot.

Clara shrugged. She saw that one of his eyes was puffyou.

"Who'd you fight?" she asked.

"Didn't get their names," Gus said. "But they were rude. I won't tolerate rude behaviour." To his surprise he saw tears shining on Clara's cheeks.

"Why, now, what's the matter?" he asked, concerned. "I ain't hurt. It wasn't much of a fight." "I'm not crying about the fight," Clara said.

"Then why are you crying?" he asked. He hitched his horse and sat down by her for a moment on the step. He cautiously put his arm around her, not knowing if that was still proper–Clara not only accepted it, she moved closer and clasped his hand, tight.

"It's hard to say goodbye to old boyfriends– especially you," she said. "That's why." "If it's so dern hard, then why are you?" Gus asked her. "Where's the sense?" Clara shrugged again, as he had when he told her she had goose bumps.

Then she put her head in her arms and cried harder, for a minute or two. Gus didn't know what to think, or what to say.

When Clara finished crying she wiped her eyes on her skirt and turned to him once more.

"Give me a kiss, now, Gus," she said.

"Well, that's always been easy to manage," he said. When they kissed he felt a salty wetness, from the tears on her cheeks.

As soon as the kiss was over, Clara stood up.

"Go along now," she said. "I hope to see you in Nebraska in about ten years." "You will see me," Gus said. He looked up at her again. He had never seen her look lovelier. He had never loved her more. Unable to manage his feelings, he jumped on his horse, waved once, and trotted away. He looked back but didn't wave.

Clara stood up and dried her cheeks– despite herself, tears kept spilling out. Her father and mother would be up soon, she knew, but she didn't feel like facing them, just yet. She walked slowly around the store to the street in front of it. The six departing rangers were just passing. Call and Gus, both silent, were in the lead. Clara stood back in the shadows–she didn't want them to see her, and they didn't.

Along the street, also hidden in the shadow of buildings, two other women watched the rangers leave: Maggie Tilton and Pearl Coleman.

Maggie, like Clara, had tears on her cheeks; but Pearl Coleman was entirely convulsed with grief. Before the rangers were even well out of town she began to wail aloud.

Maggie and Clara both heard Pearl's loud wailing and knew what caused it. Maggie knew Pearl from the old days, when she had been married to a bartender named Dan Leary, the victim of a random gunshot that killed him stone dead one night when he stepped outside to empty an overflowing spittoon. Some cowboys had been shooting off guns outside a bordello–one of the bullets evidently fell from the sky and killed Dan Leary instantly.

Clara too knew Pearl–she was a frequent customer at the store. She started up the street, meaning to try and comfort her, and was almost there when Maggie came out of the alley, bent on the same errand.

"Why, hello," Clara said. "I guess Pearl's mighty sad, because Bill's run off again, so soon." "I expect so," Maggie said. She started to stop and leave the comforting to Clara, but Clara motioned for her to come along.

"Don't you be hanging back," Clara said.

"This job is big enough for both of us." Maggie, ever aware of her position, glanced down the street but saw only one man, an old farmer who was urinating beside a small wagon.

When they reached Pearl she was so upset she couldn't talk. She was a large woman wearing an old blue nightdress; her back shook, as she cried, and her ample bosom heaved.

"He's gone and he won't be back," Pearl said. "He's gone and this baby inside me will never have a father–I know it!" "Now you shush, Pearl, that ain't true," Maggie said. "This trip they're taking is just a short trip. They'll all be back." She said it, but in her own mind were fears for her own child, whose father also might never return.

Clara put her arm around Pearl Coleman, but didn't speak. People were always leaving, men mostly. The cold wind burned her wet cheeks.

Soon she herself would be leaving with Bob Allen, her chosen husband, to start the great adventure of marriage. She was excited by the thought. She expected to be happy. Soon she would be living away from her parents, and Gus McCrae would not be riding in, dusty, every few weeks, to kiss her. A part of her life was gone. And there stood Maggie, crying for Call, and Pearl Coleman, wailing, bereft at the departure of her Bill.

For a moment Clara wondered whether life was a happier affair with men, or without them.

Pearl, who had calmed a little, was walking back and forth, looking down the road where the rangers had gone. Her face was the shape of a moon and now looked like a moon that had been rained on.

"My baby's a boy, I know it," she said.

"He's going to need a pa." In a few more minutes the sun came up and the women parted. Pearl, somewhat relieved, went back to her house. Two or three wagons were in the street now–Maggie Tilton discreetly went home through an alley, and Clara Forsythe, soon to be Clara Allen, walked slowly back to her parents' store, wondering if, before the summer came, a child would be growing in her too.

    ook II

For three days Buffalo Hump and his warriors rode south in a mass, singing and chanting during the day and dancing at night around their campfires. They were excited to be going to war behind their leader. Worm, the medicine man, made spells at night, spells that would bring destruction and death to the Texans. They flushed abundant game and ate venison and antelope when they rested. At night, when the half-moon shone, the warriors talked of killing, raiding, burning, taking captives, stealing horses. They were still well north of the line of settlements and forts –they were lords of the land they rode on and confident in their power. The young warriors, some of whom had never been in battle, did not sleep at night, from excitement. They knew their chance for glory lay at hand.

On the fourth morning Buffalo Hump stayed long at the campfire, watching some of the young men practice with their weapons. He was not pleased by what he saw. Many of the young warriors, his own son included, were not good with the bow. After he had watched for a while he called all the warriors together and issued an order that took everyone by surprise, even Worm, who knew what Buffalo Hump felt about the proper modes of warfare.

"Those of you who have guns, throw them down," Buffalo Hump said. "Put them here in a pile, in front of me." More than two hundred warriors had firearms of some sort–old pistols or muskets, in most cases, but, in some instances, good, well-functioning repeating rifles. They prized their firearms and were reluctant to give them up.

There were a few moments of silence and hesitation, but Buffalo Hump had planted himself before them and he did not look to be in a mood to compromise.

Even Blue Duck, who far preferred the rifle to the bow, did not say anything. He did not want to risk being chastised by his father in front of so many warriors.

Buffalo Hump had not expected all the warriors to be happy with his order. He was prepared to have it challenged. Many of the warriors were from bands who scarcely knew him, over whom he held no authority–except the authority of his presence. But he had thought much about the great raid they had embarked on. He knew it might be his last chance to beat back the white man, to cleanse the land of them and make it possible for the Comanche people to live as they had always lived, masters of the llano and all the prairies where they had always hunted. He wanted the warriors who rode with him to fight as Comanches had always fought, with the bow and the lance–and there were reasons for his decision other than his devotion to the old weapons.

After he had faced the warriors for a time, Buffalo Hump explained himself.

"We do not need these guns," he said. "They make too much noise. They scare away game that we might need to eat. Their sound carries so far the bluecoat soldiers might hear it. There are bluecoat soldiers in all the forts but we do not want to fight them yet. We will spread out soon. We will slip between the forts and kill the settlers before the soldiers know we are there. We must slip down on the settlers and go among them as quietly as the fog. We want to kill them before they can run and get the bluecoats. Kill them with your arrows. Kill them with your lances and your knives. Kill them quietly and we can ride on south and kill many more. We will go all the way to the Great Water, killing Texans." He stopped, so the warriors could think over what he had said. He had spoken slowly, trying to bring all his power into the ^ws. His fear was that some of the young warriors would defy him and split off.

They might make their own raid, shouting and raping, in the way of young warriors. But if such a thing occurred there could be no great raid into the large towns of the whites. There were many forts now, all along the Brazos and the Trinity. Unless they could get below the forts, into the country where white settlers were thick as sage, the soldiers would pour out of the forts and come after them. Then the Comanches would have to defend themselves, rather than bringing war to the settlements. It was not what he wanted, not what he had prayed for.

The half-moon was still visible in the morning sky. Buffalo Hump pointed to it.

"Tomorrow we will break into small parties," he said. "We will fan out, as far as the headwaters of the Brazos. Go quietly between the forts and kill all the settlers you find. When the moon is full we will come back through the hills to the Colorado and strike Austin, and then San Antonio. When we have killed as many Texans as we can, we will go on to the Great Water. If the bluecoats come after us we can go into Mexico." The warriors listened silently. There was no sound in the camp except the stamping and snorting of horses. No one, though, had stepped forward to lay down his gun. Buffalo Hump feared, for a moment, that he was not going to be obeyed. The warriors were too greedy and too lazy to surrender a gun, even a poor gun. With guns they didn't have to hunt so hard and carefully. Too many of them had ceased to depend on their bows, or to practice with them. He decided he had better keep speaking to them.

"Now is the time to fight as the old ones fought," he said. "The old ones had no trouble killing Texans with our own weapons. It was only when we first tried to use guns that we lost battles to the Texans. The old ones believed in the power of their weapons. They fought so hard that they made the Texans run back down the rivers. We took their women and made their children captives. The Mexicans feared us worse than they feared their own deaths. Leave your guns here and let us make war like the old ones made it." At that point old Yellow Foot pushed through the crowd and put his musket on the ground. The musket looked even older than Yellow Foot, one of the oldest warriors to come on the raid. He had wrapped buffalo sinew around the gun so that the barrel would not jump off the stock when he shot at something. It was such a bad gun that no one wanted to stand near Yellow Foot when he shot it, for fear that it might do more damage to them than to whatever Yellow Foot was shooting at.

Nevertheless, Yellow Foot was very proud of his gun and wasted many bullets shooting at game that was too far away to hit. Twice he had killed young horses because his vision was poor and he mistook them for deer. Buffalo Hump was pleased when he saw the old warrior come forward.

Though a little crazy, Yellow Foot was much respected in the tribe because he had had over a dozen wives in his life and was known to be an expert on how to give women such extreme pleasure that they would remain jolly for weeks and not complain as other women did.

"I am leaving my gun," Yellow Foot said. "I don't want to smell all that gun grease anymore." All the older warriors soon followed Yellow Foot's example and put their guns in a pile. Buffalo Hump said no more, but he did not move or look away, either. He looked from warrior to warrior, making them face and accept his command or else reject it in front of everybody. In the end only one warrior, a small, irritable man named Red Cat, refused to put his weapon on what had become a great pile. Though Blue Duck was almost the last man to lay his gun on the pile, he did finally put it there. Red Cat, who was indifferent to what any chief thought, kept his rifle.

Buffalo Hump did not want to make too big an issue of one gun.

"If you are going to keep that smelly gun, then raid far to the west, where the Brazos starts," he asked. "If there are any Texans out that way, you can shoot them. I don't think there are any bluecoats out there to hear you." Red Cat made no answer, but he thought it was stupid of old Buffalo Hump to leave behind so many guns. He meant, when he had time, to slip back to where the guns were and pick out a new rifle for himself.

When Famous Shoes saw that the tracks of the Buffalo Horse were going straight into the Sierra Perdida, he sat down on a rock to think about it. Scull was studying a small cactus, for reasons Famous Shoes could not fathom. Very often Scull would notice a plant he was not familiar withand would stop and study it for many minutes, sometimes even sketching it in a small notebook he carried. Sometimes he would ask Famous Shoes about the plant, but often it would be a plant Famous Shoes had no use forand knew little about. Some plants were useful and many were very useful, yielding up medicines or food or, as in the case of some cactus buds, yielding up important visions. But, as with people, some plants were completely useless. When Scull stopped for a long stretch to examine some fossil in the rocks or some useless plant, Famous Shoes grew impatient.

Now he was very impatient. The little cactus Scull was studying was of no interest at all–all anyone needed to know about it was that its thorns were painful if they stuck you. Now the situation they faced was apt to be far more painful than the thorns of any cactus. They were near the country of Ahumado, the Black Vaquero, a man who had wounded Scull once and who would do worse than wound him if he took him prisoner. Scull needed to recognize that their situation was perilous. Under such circumstances, studying a cactus was not the proper behaviour for a captain.

When Scull finally came over to where he sat, Famous Shoes pointed at the mountains.

"Kicking Wolf has taken your horse into the Sierra," he said. "Three Birds is still with him, but Three Birds does not want to go into the Sierra very much." "I doubt that he does, but how can you tell that from a track?" Scull asked.