Part 72 (1/2)

The only troublesome thought he had was the result of something the man at the livery stable said. He had been a dried-up little fellow, smaller than Luke. He had asked which way they were going and Zwey pointed east-he knew St. Louis was east.

”You might as well leave your scalps, then,” the man said. ”Have 'em sent by mail, once you get there.”

”Why?” Zwey asked, puzzled. He had never heard of anyone sending a scalp in the mail.

”Because of the Sioux,” the man said.

”We never saw no Indians, the whole way from Texas,” Zwey remarked.

”You might not see the Sioux, either,” the man said. ”But they'll see you. You're a d.a.m.n fool to take a woman east of here.”

Zwey mentioned it to Elmira while he was helping her into the wagon.

”There might be Indians that way,” he said.

”I don't care,” Elmira said. ”Let's go.”

Many nights on the trail from Texas she had lain awake, in terror of Indians. They saw none, but the fear stayed with her all the way to Nebraska. She had heard too many stories.

Now she didn't care. The sickness had changed her-that and the death of Dee. She had lost the fear. A few miles from town they stopped and camped. She lay awake in the wagon much of the night. Zwey slept on the ground, snoring, his rifle held tightly in his big hands. She wasn't sleepy, but she wasn't afraid, either. It was cloudy, and the plains were very dark. Anything could come out of the darkness-Indians, bandits, snakes. The doctor had claimed there were panthers. All she heard was the wind, rustling the gra.s.s. Her only worry was that July might follow. He had followed all the way from Texas-he might follow again. Maybe Zwey would kill him if he followed. It was peculiar that she disliked July so, but she did. If he didn't leave her alone she would have Zwey kill him.

Zwey woke early. The man at the livery stable had worried him. He had been in three Indian fights, but each time he had several men with him. Now it was just he who would have to do all the fighting, if it came to that. He wished Luke hadn't been so quick to rush off to Santa Fe. Luke didn't always behave right, but he was a good shot. The livery-stable man acted as if they were as good as dead. It was morning, and they weren't dead, but Zwey felt worried. He felt perhaps he had not explained things well to Ellie.

”It's them Ogallala Sioux,” he said, looking in the wagon at her. It was a warm morning, and she had thrown off the blankets. ”He said the Army had them all stirred up,” he added.

”I'll stir you up if you don't quit blabbing to me about Indians,” Elmira said. ”I told you yesterday. I want to get gone a good ways before July shows up in town again.”

Her eyes flashed when she spoke, as they had before she got sick. Ashamed to have angered her, Zwey began to stir the fire under the coffeepot.

81.

WHEN JULY CAME BACK FROM TOWN he was so depressed he couldn't speak. Clara had asked him to do a few errands, but the visit with Elmira troubled him so that he had forgotten them. Even after he got back to the ranch he didn't remember that he had been asked to do anything.

Clara saw at once that he had sustained some blow. When she saw him come back without even the mail, it had been on her tongue to say something about his poor memory. She and the girls hungered for the magazines and catalogues that came in the mail, and it was a disappointment to have someone ride right past the post office and not pick them up. But July looked so low that she refrained from speaking. At the supper table she tried several times to get a word or two out of him, but he just sat there, scarcely even touching his food. He had been ravenous since coming off the plains-so whatever the blow was, it was serious.

She knew he was a man who was grateful for any kindness; she had shown him several, and she showed him another by holding her tongue and giving him time to get past whatever had happened in town. But there was something about his silent, sunken manner that irritated her.

”Everything's gloomy,” Betsey said. Betsey was quick to pick up moods.

”Yep,” Clara said. She was holding the baby, who was babbling and gumming his fist.

”It's a good thing we got Martin here,” she said. ”He's the only man we got who can still talk.”

”He don't talk,” Sally said. ”That ain't talk.”

”Well, it's sound, at least,” Clara said.

”I think you're mean,” Sally said. She was quick to attack mother and sister alike. ”Daddy's sick, or he'd talk.”

”All right,” Clara said. ”I'll take that back.” In fact, she could remember a thousand meals when Bob hadn't said a word.

”I think you're mean,” Sally repeated, not satisfied.

”Yes, and you're my equal,” Clara said, looking at her daughter.

July realized it all had something to do with him, but he couldn't get his mind on it. He carried his plate to the sink and thanked Clara for the meal. Then he went out on the front porch, glad it was a dark night. He felt he would cry. It was puzzling; he didn't know what to do. He had never heard of a wife doing any of the things Elmira had done. He sat on the steps of the porch, sadder and more bewildered than he had been even on the night when he got back to the river and discovered the three bodies. There was nothing to do about death, but Elmira was alive. He had to do something-he just didn't know what.

The girls came out and chattered behind him for a while, but he paid them no mind. He had a headache and thought he ought to lie down, except that lying down usually made his headaches worse.

Clara came out, still holding the baby, and sat in a rocker. ”You seem to be feeling poorly, Mister Johnson,” she said.

”Just call me July,” he said.

”I'll be happy to,” she said. ”You can drop the Mrs., too. I think we know one another well enough for first names now.”

July didn't think he knew her very well, but he didn't say it. He didn't think he knew any woman.

”I need to ask you a favor,” she said. ”Could you help me turn my husband, or are you feeling too poorly?”

He would help her, of course. Several times he had helped her with her husband. The man had lost so much weight that July could simply lift him while Clara changed the bedding. The first time it bothered him a good deal, for the man never closed his eyes. That night he worried about what the man might think-another man coming in with his wife. Clara was businesslike about it, telling him what to do when he was slow. July wondered if the man was listening, and what he was thinking, in case he was.

Clara handed him a lantern and they went inside. She left the baby with the girls for a minute. Clara stopped at the door of her bedroom and listened before going in.

”Every time I come I expect he'll have stopped breathing,” she said. ”I always stop and listen.”

The man was breathing, though. July lifted him and Clara removed the sheets.

”Dern it, I forgot the water,” she said, going to the door. ”Sally, bring up the bucket,” she yelled, and in a little while the girl appeared with it.

”Betsey's going to let the baby fall of the bed,” she said. ”She don't know how to hold it.”

”Well, she better learn,” Clara said. ”You girls quit fighting over that baby.”

July felt embarra.s.sed, holding the sick, naked man while his wife sponged him with warm water. It seemed very improper to him. Clara seemed to understand how he felt and made the bed quickly.

”It's just nurse work, Mister Johnson,” she said. ”I tried keeping clothes on him, but it's no good. The poor man can't control himself.”

She stopped and looked at him. ”I forgot I was supposed to call you July,” she said.

July felt that his head would burst. He didn't care what she called him. It hurt so that he could hardly walk straight on the stairs. He b.u.mped into the door at the foot of the stairs. Above them, the baby was squalling.

Clara was about to go and see to the baby, but when she saw July stumble into the door she changed her mind. He went back out on the porch and sank on the steps, as if at the end of his strength. Clara reached down and put her palm against his forehead, which caused him to jump as if he had been struck.

”My goodness, you're shy as a colt,” she said. ”I thought you might be feverish, but you ain't.”

”It's just my head,” he said.