Текст книги "Comanche Moon"

Автор книги: Larry McMurtry

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 46 страниц)

Pearl Coleman pushed down her sadness every morning and tried to make her husband a sizable and tasty breakfast. She sat Long Bill down to a good plate of biscuits and four tasty pork chops. Then she told him, as she had every morning since his return, that she wanted him to quit the rangers and quit them now.

"I can't stand you going off in the wilds no more, Bill," she said, beginning to weep at the memory of her recent ordeal. "I can't stand it. I get so scared my toes cramp up when I get in bed. I can't get to sleep with my toes cramping up like that." Though he appreciated the biscuits and the pork chops, Long Bill let his wife's remarks pass without comment–he also let her tears flow without trying to staunch them. Tears and entreaties for him to quit the rangers had become as predictable a part of the morning as the sunrise itself.

"There's worse things than cramped toes, Pearl," he answered, a biscuit in one hand and an unhappy look on his face.

He said no more than that, but Pearl Coleman felt exasperation growing. For the first time in her marriage she felt herself in opposition to her husband, and not casual opposition either. About the need for him to quit the rangers immediately she was right and he was wrong, and if she couldn't get Bill to accept her view then she didn't know what to think about their future as husband and wife.

"I'd be the one to know what's bad better than you," she told him. "I was here. I had four arrows shot into me, and I lost our baby from being so scared. I got so scared our baby died inside me." Long Bill's own view was that the raping Pearl had endured had probably killed the baby, but he didn't say so; he ate another biscuit and held his peace. The overwhelming relief he felt when he saw that Pearl was alive had subsided, drained away by the new problem of adjusting to what had happened to her.

One thing Long Bill had to face immediately was that Pearl had been raped by several Comanches. On his anguished long, nervous ride home he had half expected to have to cope with the knowledge of rape; but once he got home and discovered that Pearl actually had been raped he was so shocked that, so far, he had not even attempted the conjugal act that in normal circumstances he looked forward to so much.

Not only that, Pearl didn't want him to attempt it.

"They done it and you wasn't here to help me," she told him, weeping, the first night he was back. "I can't be a wife to you no more, Bill." All that night, and every night since, Pearl lay beside her husband, her legs squeezed together, so desperately unhappy that she wished one of the Comanche arrows had killed her.

Long Bill, beside her, was no less unhappy. He and the rangers had buried thirteen people on the ride back to Austin. Now, lying beside his unhappy wife, he thought of all the battles he had been in and reflected that a single well-placed bullet could have spared him such a painful dilemna.

"How many done you?" he asked Pearl, finally.

"Seven," Pearl admitted. "It was over quick." Long Bill said no more, then or ever, but if seven Comanches had violated his wife then it didn't seem to him that it could have been over very quick.

Since his return, day by day, life had gotten harder. Pearl cooked him lavish, delicious meals, but, in bed, lay beside him with her legs squeezed shut, and he himself had no desire to persuade her to open them.

Through the long, anxious nights on the trail he had wanted nothing more than to be home and in bed with his wife. Now, though, he left the house the minute supper was over, to sit late in the saloon every night, drinking with Augustus McCrae. Gus drank to ease his broken heart, Long Bill to blur his own vivid and uneasy thoughts. Sometimes they were even joined by Woodrow Call, who had his own worries but wouldn't voice them–the most he would do was take a whiskey or two. By this time everybody in Austin knew that Maggie Tilton was pregnant, and many people assumed the baby was Woodrow Call's, a fact not of much importance to anyone except the young couple themselves.

Austin had the great raid to recover from. Most of the townspeople had homes or businesses to repair; they also had griefs to grieve. The fact that a young Texan Ranger had got a whore pregnant was in the normal order of things, and no one thought the worse of Woodrow or of Maggie, because of it. Few had the leisure to give the matter more than an occasional thought.

Night after night the three of them, Long Bill, Gus, and Call, sat at a table in the back of the saloon, all three troubled in mind because of difficulties with women. Augustus had lost the love of his life, Long Bill's wife had been shamed by the red Comanches, and Woodrow's girl was carrying a child she insisted was his, a child he could not find it in him to want, or even to acknowledge.

"How would a whore know if a child is one man's or another's?" he asked one night. Long Bill was no.ing, so the question was mainly directed at Gus, but Long Bill snapped to an attention and answered.

"Oh, women know," he said. "They got ways." To Call's annoyance, Augustus casually agreed, though he was so drunk at the time that he could scarcely lift his glass.

"If she says it's yours, it's yours," Gus said. "Now don't you be fidgeting about it." Call had asked Gus because Gus had made a study of women, more or less, while he himself had devoted more attention to the practicalities of ranger life on the frontier. Since Maggie had immediately claimed the baby was his, and had remained firm in her opinion, he thought there might be some medical or scientific basis for her conviction, and if there was he was prepared to do his duty. But he wanted to know the science of it, not merely be told that women knew about such things.

"Maggie's honest, that's the point, Woodrow," Gus reminded him. Though drunk, he meant to see that Woodrow Call did not evade the responsibilities of fatherhood.

"I know she's honest," Call replied. "That don't mean she's right about everything. Honest people make mistakes too.

"I'm honest, and I've made plenty," he added.

"I even make mistakes," Long Bill admitted, ruefully. "And I'm as honest as the day is long." "Pshaw, you ain't!" Gus said. "I expect you told Pearl you was standing guard at night, so you lied within the hour. Ain't that true?" "It's not so much a lie as that Pearl don't need to know everything," Long Bill replied. It was true that he lied to Pearl about his evenings in the saloon, but he didn't think Pearl minded. In fact she might even prefer to have him out of the house until it was time for them to sleep. Otherwise, they would have nothing to do but sit in their chairs or lay in their bed and brood about the fact that they were no longer husband and wife as they had been.

"The point is, Maggie ain't a mistake," Gus told Call. "She's a blessing and you're dumb not to see it." "I am right fond of Maggie," Call said.

"But that don't mean the child is mine. I'd just like to know if there's a way she can be sure about the father." Gus, in a poor mood anyway, was annoyed by the very tone of Woodrow Call's voice.

"If I say it's yours and Bill says it's yours and Maggie says it's yours, then that ought to be enough for you," he said hotly. "Do you need the dern Governor to say it's yours?" "No," Call said, making an earnest effort to stay calm about the matter. "I just want to know for sure. I expect any man would want to know for sure. But you can't tell me for sure and Bill can't either. I don't know what the Governor has to do with it." Silence followed. Augustus saw no point in pursuing the matter further. He had been in many arguments with Woodrow Call but had never, so far as he could recall, succeeded in changing his mind. Long Bill must have felt the same. He stared at his whiskey glass and said nothing.

Call got up and left. He had taken to walking by the river for an hour or more at night, but, on this occasion, had left his rifle in the bunkhouse and strolled back to get it. Since the raid no one ventured out of town, day or night, without a rifle.

"Woodrow's hard to convince, ain't he?" Long Bill said, once Call left.

Augustus didn't reply. Instead he reached in his pocket and took out a letter he had received the day before, from Clara. He had already memorized the letter but could not resist looking at it again:

Dear Gus, I write in haste from St. Louis–tm a boat will take us up the Missouri River. I trust that you are safe. If you are in Austin when you get this letter you will have heard that Ma and Pa were killed in the big raid.

I only got the news two days ago. Of course it's hard, knowing that I will never see Ma and Pa again.

As you are my oldest and best friend I would like you to do this for me: go and see that they are well buried in the cemetery, there by Grandma Forsythe. I would appreciate it if you would hire someone to care for their graves. It is not likely, now that I am a married woman, that I will return that way for many years, but it would be a comfort for me to know that their graves are being cared for. Perhaps a few flowers, bluebonnets maybe, could be planted above them in the spring. My Ma was always taken with bluebonnets.

I hope you will do this for me, Gus, and not be bitter about Bob. Once we are settled in Nebraska I'll send money for the caretaker.

It's hard to write you, Gus–we've always just talked, haven't we? But I mean to practice until I get the hang of it. And you need to write me too, so that I'll know you're safe and well.

Your friend, Clara

She don't know, Augustus thought, as he carefully folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. Merely seeing her writing caused such yearning to swell up in him that he didn't think he could stand it. Despite himself tears welled in his eyes.

"I reckon we can tell about that baby of Maggie's once it's born," Long Bill said. He spoke mainly to cover his friend's embarrassment–merely getting a letter from Clara had brought tears to his eyes.

Gus, though, didn't seem to be listening.

He put the letter back in his pocket, scattered some money on the table, and left.

Long Bill sat alone for a while, drinking, though he knew it was about time he went home to Pearl. No doubt she'd be in bed with her Bible, trying to pray away troubles that just weren't willing to leave. Gus's girl had married someone else, as women would. Maggie Tilton had become pregnant, as women would. But his wife had been shamed by seven Comanche warriors, causing her to lose a baby that had been legally and pleasurably conceived.

Now he wasn't sure that there would be any more such pleasure for himself and Pearl. Her ample flesh, which had once drawn him to her night after night, now repelled him. He didn't mind that Pearl kept her legs squeezed together. Every night now he scooted farther and farther from her, in the bed. Even her sweat smelled different to him now.

He didn't know what to do, but one thing he did not intend to do was resign from the rangers, which was the very thing Pearl wanted most. That very morning, before starting in about it, Pearl had run out in the yard and grabbed up a fat hen that he wasn't even too sure was their hen; she had wrung its neck before he could even raise the question of whose hen it might be, and then started talking about the rangers.

"Pearl, I wish you'd stop talking about me quitting the rangers," he told her bluntly.

He didn't think he could survive his sorrows without the companionship of the boys in the troop; besides that, he had to make a living and had few marketable skills. How did the woman expect him to feed her if he quit the job he was best at? They'd have to poach some neighbor's chicken every day if he did that.

"But Bill, I need you to quit, I can't help it!" Pearl said.

"Don't be complaining at me today, Pearl," he said. "I've got to help Pea Eye shoe the horses, and that's tiring work." He had just come down the stairs in time to see the chicken die.

Pearl was already gutting it–she flung a handful of guts toward the woodpile where several hungry cats soon descended on them.

Pearl knew Long Bill was tired of her trying to get him to quit the rangers, but she couldn't stop herself. Sometimes at the thought of him going away again she felt such distress that she felt her head might burst, or her heart. She and Long Bill had been so happy before the raid; they hardly ever fussed, except over the crease in his pants, which she could never seem to iron well enough to suit him. They had been happy people, but a single hour of horror and torment had changed that.

Pearl didn't know how to get their happiness back but she knew it would never be possible unless Bill moved her to a place where she felt there were no Indians to threaten her. If he wouldn't move to a safer town, then the least he could do was stay home and protect her. The thought of Bill leaving made her so scared that, twice recently, just walking down the street, she had grown so nervous that she wet herself, to her great shame. She had no confidence now, and knew she had none. The Comanches had come once and done as they pleased with her. There was no reason to think they wouldn't come again.

Long Bill paid for his whiskey and walked home under a thin March moon. There had been a spurt of snow the day before, and a little of it lingered in the shaded places near the buildings. It crunched under his feet as he approached the house where he and Pearl lived.

It was late, past midnight. Long Bill had hoped to find his wife asleep, but when he tiptoed in he saw that the lamp by the bed was still lit. There lay Pearl, propped up on a pillow with the lamp lit and a Bible in her lap.

"Pearl, if you've been praying, that's enough of it, let's blow out the lamp and get to sleep," he said.

Pearl didn't want to. For hours, while Bill drank in the saloon to avoid coming home to her–Pearl knew that was what he was doing and knew that the rapes were what had driven him out–she had been praying to the Lord to show her a way to get their happiness back; finally, only a few minutes before Bill stepped in the door, a vision had come to her of what that way was –a vision so bright that it could only have come from the Lord.

"Billy, it's come to me!" she said, jumping out of bed in her excitement.

"Well, what has, Pearl?" Long Bill asked, a little taken aback by his wife's sudden fervor. He had been hoping to slip into bed and sleep off the liquor he had just drunk, but that clearly was not going to be easy.

"I know what you can do once you quit the rangers," Pearl said. "It came to me while I was praying. It's a vision from the Lordffwas "Pearl, I've learnt rangering and I don't know how to do anything else," Long Bill said. "What's your notion? Tell me and let's get to bed." Pearl was a little hurt by her husband's tone, which was brusque. Also, he was swaying on his feet, indicating a level of drunkenness that she could not approve. But she hadn't lost hope for her God-sent vision–not quite.

"Billy, you could preach to the multitudes!" she said. "Our preacher got killed in the raid and his wife too. There's a church open right here in town. I know you'd make a fine preacher, once you got the hang of it." Long Bill was so stunned by Pearl's statement that he dropped, a little too hard, into their one chair, causing a loose rung to pop out, as it often did. In his annoyance he threw the rung out the open window.

"We need a better chair than this," he said.

"I'm tired of that damn rung popping out ever time I sit down." "I know Bill, but the Forsythes are dead and the store ain't open," Pearl said, horribly disappointed in Bill's response to her suggestion. She had convinced herself that he would be delighted to become a preacher, but he clearly wasn't delighted at all. He just looked annoyed, which is how he had looked most of the time since his return.

"Didn't you hear me?" she asked.

"Handsome as you are, I know you'd make a fine preacher. The town needs one, too. One of the deacons has been holding church, but he can't talk plain and he's boresome to have to listen to." Long Bill felt a good deal of exasperation.

In the first place, Pearl had no business being up so late; now she had caused him to break their chair, and all because of a notion so foolish that if he had been in a better mood he would have laughed.

"Pearl, I can't read," he pointed out.

"I've heard some of the Bible read out, but that was a long time ago. The only verse I can recall is that one about the green pastures, and even that one's a little cloudy in my mind." Long Bill paused, noticing that his wife was on the verge of tears; Pearl did not cry thimblefuls, either. Once she got started crying it was wise to have a bucket handy, or at least a good-sized rag.

"I do not know how you got such a notion, honey," he said, in the gentlest tone he could manage. "If I was to put myself up to be a preacher, I expect the boys would laugh me out of town." Pearl Coleman wasn't ready to give up her God-sent vision, though. Faith was supposed to move mountains–it was just a question of convincing Bill that faith and his handsome looks was all he would need to start out on a preaching career.

"I can read, Billy," she said. "I can read just fine. I could read you the text in the morning before church and then you could preach on it." Long Bill just shook his head. He felt a weariness so deep he thought he might go to sleep right in the chair.

"Would you help me off with my boots, Pearl?" he asked, stretching out a leg. "I'm tired to the bone." Pearl helped her husband off with his boots.

Later, in bed, as silently as possible, she had her cry. Then she got up, went out into the street, and managed to locate the chair rung Long Bill had flung out the window. There was no telling how long it would be before the store opened again, and, meanwhile, they had to have their chair.

Old Ben Mickelson had been so badly frightened during the great Comanche raid that, as soon as it was clear that he had survived it, he attempted to give notice and leave.

"Leave and go where?" Inez Scull asked him, a moment or two before she took the long black bullwhip to him.

In the Scull mansion, of course, there was little room to employ a bullwhip properly, and old Ben, when it became a question of his hide, proved surprisingly nimble, darting through the halls and managing to keep the heavy furniture between himself and his enraged mistress. The best Inez managed was to strike the old butler a few times across the shoulders with the coiled whip before driving him outside, where she cornered him on the high porch.

"Leave and go where, you scabby old fool?" Inez said, waving the whip back and forth.

"Why, back to Brooklyn, madame," Ben Mickelson said; he was calculating the risk of jumping off the porch–it wasn't that high but neither was it that low, and he had no desire to break an ankle or any other limb.

"There's no red Indians in Brooklyn," he added. "A man needn't fear mutiliation, not in honest Brooklyn." "You'll get worse than mutiliation if you think you can give notice on me," Inez hissed at him. "Where do you suppose I can get another butler, in these wilds? If you leave, who do you suppose will serve the brandy and the port?" She swung the whip, but clumsily–mostly she employed the bullwhip more as a club than a whip, in her fights with Inish. Old Ben Mickelson deflected the blow and leapt off the porch. He failed to make a clean landing, though; one ankle twisted beneath him so painfully that when Inez Scull followed him and attempted to apply a sound lashing Ben Mickelson was forced to crawl away.

That was the sight that greeted Augustus McCrae as he came trotting up from the town.

Old Ben Mickelson was crawling down the long slope toward the springhouse, while Inez Scull followed, attempting to whack him with the bullwhip. Nothing that happened at the Scull mansion surprised Augustus very much; the one thing that was obvious in the present encounter was that Madame Scull could have done the old butler more damage if she'd used a quirt and not a bullwhip. He arrived just in time to hear her deliver a final comment.

"If you attempt to leave me again, Ben, I'll put it out that you stole my emeralds," she said. "You won't have to worry about red Indians if I do that, because the sheriff will haul you off and hang you." "All right! Let me be! I'll stay and serve your damned port," old Ben said, standing up but favoring his ankle.

Inez promptly whacked him again.

"Damned port, indeed," she said. "Don't you presume to swear at your mistress!" Augustus watched with amusement. Lately he and Ben Mickleson had become allies in crime. Before going upstairs to engage in what Inez Scull described as a good trot, he and old Ben would often sneak in and raid the cabinet where Captain Scull kept his fine whiskeys and brandies. At first he had underestimated the potency of the brandy to such an extent that he represented himself poorly, once he got to the boudoir, a fact which never failed to draw a stinging reproach from Madame Scull.

"It looks as if you've crippled Ben," he said to the lady, watching the old butler limp away.

"The scabby old beast attempted to quit, just because a few Comanches chased through town," she said.

"I won't have desertion–y should bear that in mind yourself, Captain McCrae." Her face was fiery red and she flung him a look of contempt.

"I detest contrary servants," she said.

"Ben Mickelson has too much damned gall to think he could just walk in and quit." Augustus got off his horse, a nervous filly. He thought it best to walk along with Madame Scull until she calmed down.

Sometimes a jumpy horse would start bucking even if it only heard a voice it didn't like.

Woodrow Call had some skill with bucking horses, but he himself had none. Three jumps and he usually went flying; better to dismount and walk when Inez Scull was waving her bullwhip around.

"Your husband's in Mexico–t's the news," he told her. "Or at least that's the rumour." "Not interested in rumours and not especially interested in where Inish is," Inez said.

"Anyway, I doubt he's that close. Inish usually goes farther afield when he strays–I expected him to be in Egypt, at least. Who says he's in Mexico?" "It's a thirdhand rumour," Augustus said.

"A miner heard it from a Mexican, and the Governor heard it from the miner." "Does the news disturb you, Gussie?" she asked, smiling at him suddenly and taking his arm as they walked. Then she lifted his hand and gave his finger a hard bite; she set her teeth into it and looked at him as she bit.

"I suppose we'll have to leave off trotting if Inish shows up," she said. "He's a very jealous man. I have no doubt he'd find a reason to hang you if he knew we'd been doing all this fine trotting." "Well, but who would tell him?" Augustus asked. He had never known quite such a devilish woman. Clara Forsythe could be extremely vexing, but her contrariness was done mostly in play, whereas Inez Scull's devilment had anger in it, and defiance, and even lust; it wasn't a thing done in play, as Clara's was. Inez had just bitten his finger so hard there was blood on her front teeth. He wiped his finger on his pants leg and walked on with her toward the big house.

"I might tell him myself if you displease me," Inez said. "I do rather like to be the center of attention when I choose a man, and I can't say you're lavish with your attention. My Jakie was much more attentive, while he lasted." "Jake Spoon, that pup!" Gus said.

"Why, he is barely dry behind the ears." "I wasn't interested in his ears, Captain," Mrs. Scull said. "I've a notion that you're not sorry that Inish is returning." "Ma'am, I didn't say he was returning," Gus said. "I just said he's in Mexico–y didn't let me finish my report." "Why wouldn't he return, if he's in Mexico?" Inez asked. "I hardly think those brown whores would interest him for long." "We heard he was a captive," Gus told her. "We think the Black Vaquero caught him." "Oh well, no one keeps Inish a captive long, he's too troublesome," Inez said. "You don't really like me, do you, Gussie?" "Ma'am, I'm walking along with you–ain't that a sign that I like you?" Augustus asked. He wanted to curse her, though, for being so bold as to ask such a question. The fact was, he didn't like her; it was just that he had an emptiness in him, an emptiness that hadn't been there until Clara left. It was the emptiness that brought him up the hill to Madame Scull. Being with her invariably left a bad taste in his mouth, yet he kept coming.

"You coward, why can't you say it? You despise me!" Inez said, with bitter scorn. "You'd be happy to see Inish back. Then you could just drink whiskey all day and moon about that Forsythe girl.

I'm jealous of that girl, I can tell you that.

I've more to offer than any girl who works in a store, and yet you've had her on your mind the whole time I've known you." Gus didn't answer. He wondered how women so easily found out what men were feeling.

He had never so much as mentioned Clara's name to Inez Scull–how did she know it was Clara on his mind? Women could smell feelings as a dog could smell a fox. He had just told Madame Scull that her husband was a prisoner of the cruelest man in Mexico, and yet she hadn't turned a hair. She was far more disturbed by the fact that he loved Clara Forsythe and not her.

Even in their passion, though he seemed to be there, he wasn't, and Mrs. Scull knew it.

"Well, I better just go," he said. "I mainly came up to give you the news." "Liar," Inez said, slapping him. "You're a liar and a coward–if I hadn't dropped my bullwhip I'd cut you to ribbons. You didn't come up to tell me about Inish. You came here because I know more about certain things than any whore you can afford on your puny little salary." She was red in the face again–Gus's nervous young horse was backing away.

"You and your village maiden, I despise you both!" Inez said. "You and your calf love. You come to me, though, with your mangy grin–and Inish will come for the same reason, when he's through wandering." "What's the reason?" Augustus asked, annoyed by the woman's violent tone–a tone that even scared his horse.

"Lust, sir ... free lu/!" Inez said.

"Do you hear me? Lu/!" She yelled the last so loudly that anyone within half a mile could have heard her. It made him nervous. Lust was one thing–telling the whole town about it was something else. He decided he could leave, but when he stepped toward his horse Madame Scull struck at him with the coiled bullwhip.

"There, go along, you coward," she said. "In your whole life you'll never find a woman who will make herself so free–and yet you're too callow to appreciate it." With that she turned and stalked off toward her mansion, while Gus stroked and soothed his agitated mount. He thought of following Madame Scull into the house, but, in the end, mounted and rode back down the hill toward town.

The first person he saw when he reached the lots was young Jake Spoon, idle as usual, though there was plenty of work available. Deets, Pea Eye, and Long Bill Coleman were struggling to subdue a stout young gelding, so they could shoe him. Jake, though, sat on an empty nail keg playing a game of solitaire, using an overturned wheelbarrow for a table. It evidently didn't bother Jake to play while others worked, a fact that annoyed Gus so that he walked over and kicked the nail keg out from under–it sent him sprawling. Then, not satisfied, he bent over, grabbed Jake by his curly hair, and knocked his head against the ground a time or two.

Jake saw from Gus's face that he was very angry–he had no idea why Gus had chosen to take it out on him, but he knew better than to resist. Gus McCrae was fully capable of doing worse.

"There, you better play possum or I'll have your damn gizzard," Gus said.

The three men struggling with the mustang noticed the little altercation. They stopped what they were doing, to watch, but there was nothing more to see. A little wind swirled through the lots, blowing several of Jake Spoon's cards off the wheelbarrow. Gus left Jake on his back in the dust and walked over to the horseshoeing crew.

"Jake's a lazy one, ain't he?" Long Bill said. "The whores like him, though. They fancy that curly hair." "Jakie," Mrs. Scull called him, Gus remembered. Probably she too had fancied his curly hair. The thought brought the bad taste back to his mouth.

Jake Spoon picked himself up, but cautiously. He left the windblown cards to lie in the dust. Gus McCrae looked as if he were in the mood to give someone a thorough licking. The men resumed working with the horse, but they kept one eye on Gus, who stood with his back to them. It was clear that it wouldn't take much to set him off.

But when Gus turned it was to motion for Deets to come with him.

"You, there," he said to Jake, "leave them cards alone and help the boys shoe that horse." Long Bill started to protest the order.

Deets was handy with a hasp and a horseshoe nail, and there was nothing in the way of labor that Jake was handy with. But he saw that Gus was upset, and held his tongue.

Augustus walked Deets out of town to where the cemetery lay, in a curve of a stream. They could hear the water rushing before they reached the stream.

Once amid the live oaks that bordered the river Gus felt a little relief from his sour mood, a mood mostly caused by Inez Scull. He didn't like the woman, but she exuded a strong nectar, too strong to easily ignore.

Deets followed Gus quietly, glad to be relieved of the horseshoeing. When they came to the cemetery he took off his hat, an old felt Captain Call had given him only the day before.

It had belonged to one of the rangers killed in the raid. Deets was mighty proud of his hat, but he took it off quickly when they came to the graveyard. It wouldn't do to be disrespectful of the dead.

Augustus walked him carefully through the fresh graves until he came to those of Clara's mother and father. He knew Deets couldn't read the names on the wooden crosses, so he wanted him to take care to note exactly where the two graves were.