Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

The girls were disappointed at that turn of events. They seldom had company and wanted a better look at the men.

“Make ’em come in, Ma,” Sally whispered. She was particularly fascinated by the one with the scarred face.

“I can’t just order men around,” Clara said. “Anyway, you’ve met buffalo hunters before. Smelled them too. These don’t smell much different from any of the others.” “One of them’s big,” Betsey observed. “Is he the lady’s husband?” “I don’t think so, and don’t be a busybody,” Clara said. “She’s worn out. Maybe tomorrow she’ll feel like talking.” But the girls were to hear Elmira’s voice long before morning. The men sitting in the wagon heard it too—long screams that raked the prairie night for hours.

Once again, Clara had reason to be glad of Cholo, who was as good with women as he was with horses. Difficult births didn’t frighten him as they did most men, and many women. Elmira’s was difficult, too—the exhausting journey over the plains had left her too weak for the task at hand. She fainted many times during the night. Clara could do nothing about itexcept bathe her face with cool water from the cistern. When day came, Elmira was too weak to scream. Clara was worried—the woman had lost too much blood.

“Momma, Daddy’s sick, he smells bad,” Sally said, peeking for a moment into the sickroom. The girls had slept downstairs on pallets, so as to be farther from the screams.

“Just leave him be, I’ll take care of him,” Clara said.

“But he’s sick—he smells bad,” Sally repeated. Her eyes were fearful.

“He’s alive—life don’t always smell nice,” Clara said. “Go make us some breakfast and take some to those men. They must be hungry.” A few minutes later, Elmira fainted again.

“She’s too weak,” Cholo said.

“Poor thing,” Clara said. “I would be too, if I came that far. That baby isn’t going to wait for her to get strong.” “No, it’s going to kill her,” Cholo said.

“Well then, save it, at least,” Clara said, feeling so downcast suddenly that she left the room. She got a water bucket and walked out of the house, meaning to get some water for Bob. It was a beautiful morning, light touching the farthest edges of the plains. Clara noticed the beauty and thought it strange that she could still respond to it, tired as she was and with two people dying in her house—perhaps three. But she loved the fine light of the prairie mornings; it had resurrected her spirits time after time though the years, when it seemed that dirt and cold and death would crush her. Just to see the light spreading like that, far on toward Wyoming, was her joy. It seemed to put energy into her, make her want to do things.

And the thing she wanted most to do was plant flowers—flowers that might bloom in the light. She did plant them, ordering bulbs and seeds from the East. The light brought them up, and then the wind tore them from her. Worse than the dirt she hated the wind. The dirt she could hold her own with, sweeping it away each morning, but the wind was endless and fierce. It renewed itself again and again, curling out of the north to take her flowers from her, petal by petal, until nothing remained but the sad stalks. Clara kept on planting anyway, hiding the flowers in the most protected spots she could find. The wind always found them too, in time, but sometimes the blooms lasted a few days before the petals were blown away. It was a battle she wouldn’t give up on: every winter she read seed catalogues with the girls and described to them the flowers they would have when spring came.

Coming back with the bucket from the cistern she noticed the two dirty, silent men sitting on the wagon—she had walked past them without a thought on her way to the well.

“Is it born yet?” Luke asked.

“Not yet,” Clara said. “She’s too tired to help much.” The large man followed her with his eyes but said nothing.

“You’ve got too much fire in that stove, you’ll burn everything,” Clara said, when she saw how the girls were progressing with breakfast.

“Oh, Ma, we can cook,” Sally said. She loved to get her mother out of the kitchen—then she could boss her younger sister around.

“Is that woman real sick?” Betsey asked. “Why does she yell so much?” “She’s working at a hard task,” Clara said. “You better not burn that porridge, because I want some.” She carried the bucket up to the bedroom, pulled the smelly sheets out from under Bob, and washed him. Bob stared straight up, as he always did. Usually she warmed the water but this morning she hadn’t taken the time. It was cold and raised goosebumps on his legs. His big ribs seemed to stick out more every day. She had forgotten to bring fresh sheets—it was a constant problem, keeping fresh sheets—so she covered him with a blanket and walked out on her porch for a minute. She heard Elmira begin to moan, again and again. She ought to go relieve Cholo, she knew, but she didn’t rush. The birth might take another day. Everything took longer than it should, or else went too quick. Her sons’ lives had been whipped away like a breath, while her husband had lain motionless for two months and still wasn’t dead. It was wearying, trying to adjust to all the paces life required.

After she had stood for a moment on the cool porch, she went down the hall, just in time to hold Elmira down and watch Cholo ease a baby boy from her bloodied loins.

The baby looked dead, and Elmira looked as if she were dying—but in fact both lived. Cholo held the little boy close to his face and blew on it, until finally the child moved and began to cry, a thin sound not much stronger than the squeak of a mouse. Elmira had passed out, but she was breathing.Clara went downstairs to heat some water and saw that the girls had taken breakfast to the two men. They were standing around while the men ate, not to be denied the novelty of conversation, even if only with two buffalo hunters, one of whom wouldn’t talk. It made her want to cry, suddenly, that her children were so devoid of playmates that they would hang around two sullen men just for the excitement of company. She heated the water and let the girls be. Probably the men would go on soon, though Luke seemed to be talking to the girls happily. Maybe he was as lonesome as they were.

When she went up with the hot water Elmira was awake, her eyes wide open. She was pale, almost bloodless, no color in her cheeks at all.

“It’s a miracle you got here,” Clara said. “If you’d had that baby down on the plains I doubt either one of you would have lived.” The old Mexican had wrapped the infant in a flannel robe and brought it to Elmira to see, but Elmira didn’t look at it. She didn’t speak and she wouldn’t look.

She didn’t want the baby. Maybe it’ll die, she thought. Dee won’t want it either.

Clara saw the woman turn her eyes away. Without a word she took the infant from Cholo and walked downstairs with it, out into the sunlight. The girls still stood by the wagon, though the men had eaten. She shielded the baby’s eyes with the robe and carried it over to the group.

“Oh, Ma,” Betsey said—she had never seen a newborn child. “What’s its name?” “The lady’s too tired to worry about naming it just now,” Clara said. “It’s a boy, though.” “It’s lucky we got here, ain’t it?” Luke said. “Me and Zwey would have had no idea what to do.” “Yes, it’s lucky,” Clara said.