Part 72 (2/2)

”You need a cool rag, then,” she said.

She went back into the house and got a rag and a little water. She made him let her bathe his forehead and temples. He had to admit the cool water felt good.

”Thank you,” he said.

”Oh, you don't have to thank me for a washrag,” Clara said. ”I'm not much of a nurse. It's one of my failings. I'm too impatient. I'll give a person a week or two, and then if they don't improve I'd just about as soon they'd die.

”Not children,” she added, a little later. ”I ain't that harsh with children. I'd rather have them sick five years than to lose one. It's just my observation that nursing don't do that much good. People get well if they're able, or else they die.”

They were silent for several minutes.

”Did you find your wife?” Clara asked. ”It ain't my business, I know, but I'll ask you anyway.”

”Yes,” July said. ”She was at the doctor's.”

”She must not have been very glad to see you,” Clara said.

July wished she would leave him alone. She had taken him in and fed him, saved his wife and cared for his child, and yet he did wish she would just leave him alone. He felt so weak himself that if he hadn't been braced against the porch railing he might have rolled off the steps. He had nothing to say and nothing to offer. And yet there was something tireless in Clara that never seemed to stop. His head hurt so he felt like shooting himself, the baby was squalling overhead, and yet she would ask questions.

”I guess she's still sick,” he said. ”She didn't say much.”

”Did she want the baby?”

”She didn't say,” July said.

”Did she ask any questions about it at all?”

”No,” July admitted. ”She never said a word.”

The baby had stopped crying. They heard a horse splash out of the river-Cholo was coming in late. Even with no moon they could see his white hair as he trotted to the corrals.

”July, I know you're tired,” Clara said. ”I expect you're heartsick. I'm going to say a terrible thing to you. I used to be ladylike, but Nebraska's made me blunt. I don't think that woman wants you or the baby either. I don't know what she does want, but she left that baby without even looking at it.”

”She must have been addled,” July said. ”She had a hard trip.”

Clara sighed. ”She had a hard trip, but she wasn't addled,” she said. ”Not every woman wants every child, and plenty of wives don't want the husbands they took.

”It's your child and her child,” she added. ”But I don't think she wants it, and if she means to prove me wrong she better do it soon.”

July didn't know what she meant and didn't really care. He felt too low to pay any attention.

”I like young things,” Clara said. ”Babies and young horses. I get attached real quick. They don't have to be mine.”

She paused. She knew he wished she'd shut up, but she was determined to say what was on her mind.

”I'm getting attached to Martin,” she said. ”He ain't mine, but he ain't your wife's anymore, either. Young things mainly belong to themselves. How they grow up depends on who gets attached to them. I'll take Martin, if she don't, or you don't.”

”But your husband's sick,” July said. Why would the woman want a baby to care for when she had two girls to manage and a big horse outfit to run?

”My husband's dying,” Clara said. ”But whether he's dead or alive, I'll still raise that child.”

”I don't know what to do,” July said. ”It's been so long since I done anything right that I can't remember it. I don't know if I'll ever get Ellie back to Fort Smith. They might even have hired a new sheriff by now.”

”Finding a job's the least of your problems,” Clara said. ”I'll give you a job, if you want one. Cholo's been doing Bob's work and his too, and he can't keep it up forever.”

”I always lived in Arkansas,” July said. It had never occurred to him that he might settle anywhere else.

Clara laughed. ”Go to bed,” she said. ”I've worried you enough for one night.”

He went, but the next morning at breakfast he didn't look much better or feel much better. He would scarcely talk to the girls, both of whom doted on him. Clara sent them off to gather eggs so she could have a word or two more with July in private.

”Did you understand what I said last night, about raising Martin?” she asked.

July hadn't. He wished she would just be quiet. He had no idea what to do next, and hadn't since he left Fort Smith many months ago. At moments, what he wanted was just to go home. Let Ellie go, if she didn't want to be his wife. Let Clara have the baby, if she wanted him so much. He had once felt competent being a sheriff-maybe if he went back and stuck to it he would someday feel competent again. He didn't know how much longer he could stand to feel such a failure.

”If your wife don't want Martin, do you have a mother or sisters that would want to raise him?” Clara asked. ”The point is, I don't want to keep him a year or two and then give him up. If I have to give him up I'd rather do it soon.”

”No, Ma's dead,” July said. ”I just had brothers.”

”I've lost three boys,” Clara said. ”I don't want to lose another to a woman who keeps changing her mind.”

”I'll ask her,” July said. ”I'll go back in a day or two. Maybe she'll be feeling better.”

But he found he couldn't stand it to wait-he had to see her again, even if she wouldn't look at him. At least he could look at her and know he had found her after all. Maybe, if he was patient, she would change.

He saddled and rode to town. But when he got to the doctor's no one was there at all. The room Ellie had been in was empty, the big man no longer to be found.

By asking around, he found the doctor, who was delivering a baby in one of the wh.o.r.ehouses.

”She's left,” the doctor said. ”I came home yesterday and she was gone. She didn't leave a note.”

”But she was sick,” July said.

”Only unhappy,” Patrick Arandel said. He felt sorry for the young man. Five idle young wh.o.r.es were listening to the conversation, while one of their friends lay in labor in the next room.

”She took it hard when they hung that killer,” he added. ”That and the childbirth neatly killed her. I thought she would would die-she ran one of the highest fevers I've ever seen. It's a good sign that she left. It means she's decided to live a little longer.” die-she ran one of the highest fevers I've ever seen. It's a good sign that she left. It means she's decided to live a little longer.”

The man at the livery stable shook his head when July asked which way they went.

”The wrong way,” he said. ”If they get past them Sioux they're lucky people.”

July felt frantic. He had not even brought his rifle to town, or his bedroll or anything. They had a day's start, though they were traveling in a wagon and would have to move slow. Still, he would lose another half day going back to the ranch to get his gear. He was tempted to follow with just his pistol, and he even rode to the east end of town. But there were the vast, endless plains. They had almost swallowed him once.

He turned back, racing for the ranch. He wore the horse half down, and he remembered it was a borrowed horse, so he slowed up. By the time he got back to Clara's he was not racing at all. He seemed to have no strength, and his head hurt again. He was barely able to unsaddle; instead of going right to the house, he sat down behind the saddle shed and wept. Why would Ellie keep leaving? What was he supposed to do? Didn't she know about the Indians? It seemed he would have to chase her forever, and yet catching her did no good.

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