Part 44 (1/2)
war up here that folks has got it through 'em the nesters ain't been gittin' what was comin' to 'em. The big ranches 'll all be split up to flinders inside of five years.”
”Yes, the cattle days is pa.s.sin', along with the folks that was somebody in this country once. Well, Banjo, we had some good times in the old days; we can remember them. But changes will come, we must expect changes. You don't need to pack up and go on account of that. I ain't goin' to leave.”
”I've made up my mind. I'm beginnin' to feel tight in the chist already for lack of air.”
Both sat silent a little while. Banjo's elbows were across his knees, his face lifted toward the window. The wind was falling, and there was a little breaking among the low clouds, baring a bit of blue sky here and there. Banjo viewed this brightening of the day with gladness.
”I guess it's pa.s.sin',” he said, going to the window and peering round as much of the horizon as he could see, ”it wasn't nothing but a little shakin' out of the tablecloth after breakfast.”
”I'm glad of it, for I don't think it's good luck to start out on a trip in a storm. That there Nola she's out in it, too.”
”Gone up the river?”
”Yes. It beats all how she's takin' up with them people, and them with her. She's even bought lumber with her own money to help some of 'em build.”
”She's got a heart like a dove,” he sighed.
”As soft as a puddin',” Mrs. Chadron nodded.
”But I never could git to it.” Banjo sighed again.
Mrs. Chadron shook her head, with an expression of sadness for his failure which was deeper than any words she knew.
”The loss of her pa bore down on her terrible; she's pinin' and grievin' too hard for a body so young. I hear her cryin' and moanin'
in the night sometimes, and I know it ain't no use goin' to her, for I've tried. She seems to need something more than an old woman like me can give, but I don't know what it is.”
”Maybe she needs a change--a change of air,” Banjo suggested, with what vague hope only himself could tell.
”Maybe, maybe she does. Well, you're goin' to take a change of air, anyhow, Banjo. But what're you goin' to do away out there amongst strangers?”
”I was out there one time, five years ago, and didn't seem to like it then. But since I've stood off and thought it over, it seems to me that's a better place for me than here, with my old friends goin' or gone, and things changin' this a-way. Out there around them hop and fruit ranches they have great times at night in the camps, and a man of my build can keep busy playin' for dances. I done it before, and they took to me, right along.”
”They do everywheres, Banjo.”
”Some don't,” he sighed, watching out of the window in the direction that Nola must come.
”She's not likely to come back before morning--I think she aims to go to the post tonight and stay with Frances,” she said, reading his heart in his face.
”Maybe it's for the best,” said Banjo.
”I guess everything that comes to us is for the best, if we knew how to take it,” she said. ”Well, you set there and be comfortable, and I'll stir Maggie up and have her make you something nice for dinner.
After that I want you to play me the old songs over before you go.
Just to think I'll never hear them songs no more breaks my heart, Banjo--plumb breaks my heart!”
As she pa.s.sed Banjo she laid her hand on his head in a manner of benediction, and tears were in her eyes.
The sun was out again when they had finished lunch, coaxing autumn on into November at the peril of frosted toes. Mrs. Chadron had brightened considerably, also. Even bereavement and sorrow could not shake her fealty to chili, and now it was rewarding her by a rubbing of her old color in her face as she sat by the window and waited for Banjo to tune his instruments for the parting songs.
Her workbasket was beside her, the bright knitting-needles in the unfinished sock. It never would be completed now, she knew, but she kept it by her to cry over in the twilight hours, when thoughts of Saul came over her with their deep-harrowing pangs.