Part 81 (2/2)

”Well, time's changed us,” he said, feeling very uneasy in the conversation. Lorena was looking at him solemnly. He had had women look at him solemnly before and it always made him uncomfortable-it meant they were primed to detect any lies.

”I don't think n.o.body could change you, Gus,” she said. ”Maybe you'll want to marry her when you come back.”

”Why, I'll be coming back to you you, Lorie,” Augustus said. ”Of course, by then you might change, too. You might not want me.”

”Why wouldn't I?”

”Because you'll have discovered there's more to the world than me,” he said. ”You'll find that there are others that treat you decent.”

What he said caused Lorena to feel confused. Since the rescue, life had been simple: it had been just Gus. With him gone it might change, and when he came back it might have changed so much that it would never be simple again.

Yet when it had been simple, she had always worried that Gus didn't want it. Maybe he was just being kind. She didn't know-didn't know what things meant, or didn't mean. She had never expected to find, in the whole world, a place where someone would ask ask her to stay-even in her dreams of San Francisco no one had ever asked her to stay. She had seldom even spoken to a woman in her years in Lonesome Dove, and had no expectation that one would speak to her. The fact that Clara had volunteered made everything seem different. her to stay-even in her dreams of San Francisco no one had ever asked her to stay. She had seldom even spoken to a woman in her years in Lonesome Dove, and had no expectation that one would speak to her. The fact that Clara had volunteered made everything seem different.

”Can't you wait till morning to leave?” she asked.

”No, I'm going as soon as I can saddle up,” Augustus said. ”It takes willpower to leave a houseful of ladies just to ride along with some scraggly cowhands. I better do it now, if I'm going to.”

Clara came downstairs to see him off; she held the baby, who was colicky and wakeful. They went outside with Augustus, Lorena feeling trembly, not sure of what she was doing. Cholo was going with him to Ogallala to bring back all the clothes he had bought her.

Clara devoted five minutes to trying to persuade him to settle somewhere on the Platte. ”There's cheap land not three days' ride from here,” she pointed out. ”You could have the whole north part of this state if you wanted it. Why go to Montana?”

”Well, that's where we started for,” he said. ”Me and Call have always liked to get where we started for, even if it don't make a d.a.m.n bit of sense.”

”It don't, and I wish I knew of some way to divorce you from that man,” Clara said. ”He ain't worth it, Gus. Besides, the Montana Indians can outfight you.”

”You bought these here Indians off with horses,” he said. ”Maybe we can buy those in Montana off with beef.”

”It bothers me,” Clara said. ”You ain't a cattleman. Why do you want to be so stubborn? You've come far enough. You could settle around here and be some use to me and Lorie.”

It amused Augustus that his Lorie had been adopted as an ally by his old love. The old love and the new stood by his horse's head, neither of them looking quite calm. Clara, in fact, was getting angry; Lorena looked sad. He hugged them both and gave them each a kiss.

”We've heard Montana's the last place that ain't settled,” Augustus said. ”I'd like to see one more place that ain't settled before I get decrepit and have to take up the rocking chair.”

”You call Nebraska settled?” Clara asked.

”Well, you're here,” he said. ”It won't last long. Pretty soon it'll be nothing but schoolhouses.”

With that he mounted, tipped his hat to them and turned toward the Platte.

The two women stood where they were until the sound of hoofbeats faded. Lorena felt wrong. Part of her felt she should have gone with him, to look after him. But she knew that was foolish: Gus, if anyone, could look after himself.

She was dry-eyed and felt blank, but Clara cried, tears born of vexation, long affection and regret.

”He was always stubborn like that,” she said, attempting to control herself.

”He left so quick,” Lorena said. ”Do you think I should have gone? I don't know what's best.”

”No. I'm glad you stayed,” Clara said. ”You've had enough rough living-not that it can't be rough around here. But it won't be as rough as Montana.”

She put her arm around the girl as they turned toward the house.

”Come on in,” she said. ”I'll show you where to sleep. We've got a nice little room that might suit you.”

89.

WHEN AUGUSTUS RETURNED without Lorena, Dish Boggett felt deeply unhappy. It shocked him that Gus would leave her. Though he had been constantly jealous while she was traveling with Gus, at least she was there. In the evening he would often see her sitting outside the tent. He dreamed about her often-once had even dreamed that she was sleeping near him. In the dream she was so beautiful that he ached when he woke up. That Gus had seen fit to leave her on the Platte made him terribly irritable.

Newt was happy with his new horse, which he named Candy. It was the first real gift he had ever been given in his life, and he talked to anyone who would listen of the wonderful woman on the Platte who knew how to break horses and conduct picnics too. His enthusiasm soon caused the other hands to be jealous, for they had accomplished nothing except a drunk in Ogallala, and had missed the nice picnic and the girls.

Though confident that he had done the right thing in leaving Lorena, Augustus soon found that he missed her more than he had expected to. He missed Clara, too, and for a few days was in a surly mood. He had grown accustomed to sleeping late and sitting outside the tent with Lorena in the mornings. Alone on the long plain, with no cowboys to disturb her, she was a beautiful companion, whereas the cowboys who gathered around Po Campo's cookfire every morning were far from beautiful, in his view.

It was high summer, the days blazing hot almost until the sun touched the horizon. The cattle were mulish and hard to move, stopping whenever possible to graze, Or simply to stand. For several days they trailed west along the Platte, but when the river curved south, toward Colorado, Call pointed the herd northwest.

Po Campo hated to leave the river. The morning they left it he lingered behind so long with the wagon that the herd was completely out of sight. Lippy, who rode on the wagon, found this fact alarming. After all, they were in Indian country, and there was nothing to keep a few Indians from nipping in and taking their scalps.

”What are we waiting on?” Lippy asked. ”We're three miles behind already.”

Po Campo stood by the water's edge, looking across the Platte to the south. He was thinking of his dead sons, killed by Blue Duck on the Canadian. He didn't think often of his sons, but when he did, a feeling of sadness filled him, a feeling so heavy that it was an effort for him to move. Thinking of them in their graves in New Mexico made him feel disloyal, made him feel that he should have shot himself and been buried with them, for was it not the duty of a parent to stay with the children? But he had left, first to go south and kill his faithless wife, and now to the north, while Blue Duck, the killer, still rode free on the llano llano-unless someone had killed him, which Po Campo doubted. Lippy's fears about Indians did not move him-the sight of flowing water moved him, stirring feelings in him which, though sad, were deep feelings. They made him want to sing his saddest songs.

He finally turned and plodded after the herd, Lippy following at a slow walk in the wagon. But Po Campo felt they were wrong to leave the river. He became moody and ceased to have pride in his cooking, and if the cowboys complained he said nothing. Also, he grew stingy with water, which irritated the cowboys, who came in parched and dusty, dying for a drink. Po Campo would only give them a dipperful each.

”You will wish you had this water when you drink your own p.i.s.s,” he said to Jasper one evening.

”I ain't planning on drinking my own p.i.s.s or anybody else's, either,” Jasper said.

”You have not been very thirsty then,” Po said. ”I once drank the urine of a mule. It kept me alive.”

”Well, it couldn't taste much worse than that Ogallala beer,” Needle observed. ”My tongue's been peeling ever since we was there.”

”It ain't what you drink that causes your tongue to peel,” Augustus said. ”That's the result of who you bedded down with.”

The remark caused much apprehension among the men, and they were apprehensive anyway, mainly because everyone they met in Ogallala a.s.sured them they were dead men if they tried to go to Montana. As they edged into Wyoming the country grew bleaker-the gra.s.s was no longer as luxuriant as it had been in Kansas and Nebraska. To the north were sandy slopes where the gra.s.s only grew in tufts. Deets ranged far ahead during the day, looking for water. He always found it, but the streams grew smaller and the water more alkaline. ”Near as bad as the Pecos,” Augustus said.

Call seemed only mildly concerned about the increasing dryness. Indeed, Call was cheerful, easier on the men than was his wont. He seemed relaxed and almost at ease with himself.

”Have you cheered up because I left Lorie behind?” Augustus asked as they were riding together one morning. Far to the south they saw a black line of mountains. To the north there was only the dusty plain.

”That was your business,” Call said. ”I didn't tell you to leave her behind, though I'm sure it's the best thing.”

”I think we ought to have listened to our cook,” Augustus said. ”It's looking droughty to me.”

”If we can make Powder River I guess we'll be all right,” Call said.

”What if Jake lied to us?” Augustus said. ”What if Montana ain't the paradise he said it was? We'll have come a h.e.l.l of a way for nothing.”

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