Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

He was afraid to stand up with the baby squirming so—he might drop him. So he sat, wondering why in the world people wanted children. How could anyone know what a baby wanted, or what to do for them?

But, as abruptly as he had started, the baby stopped crying. He whimpered a time or two, stuck his fist in his mouth, and then simply stared at July again as he had at first. July was so relieved that he scarcely moved.

“Talk to him a little,” Clara said. She stood in the door behind him.

“What do you say?” She made a snort of disgust. “Introduce yourself, if you can’t think of nothing else,” she said. “Or sing him a song. He’s sociable. He likes a little talk.” July looked at the baby, but couldn’t think of a song.

“Can’t you even hum?” Clara asked, as if it were a crime that he had not immediately started singing.

July remembered a saloon song he had always liked: “Lorena.” He tried humming a little of it. The baby, who had been wiggling, stopped at once and looked at him solemnly. July felt silly humming, but since it calmed the baby, he kept on.He was holding the baby almost at arm’s length.

“Put him against your shoulder,” Clara said. “You don’t have to hold him like that—he ain’t a newspaper.” July tried it. The baby soon wet his shirt with slobbers, but he wasn’t crying. July continued to hum “Lorena.” Then, to his relief, Clara took the baby.

“That’s progress,” she said. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.” Dusk came and July didn’t leave. He sat on the porch, his rifle across his lap, trying to make up his mind to go. He knew he ought to. However difficult she was, Ellie was still his wife. She might be in danger, and it was his duty to try and save her.

If he didn’t go, he would be giving up forever. He might never even know if she had lived or died. He didn’t want to be the kind of man who would just let his wife blow out of his life like a weed. And yet that was what he was doing. He felt too tired to do otherwise. Even if the Indians didn’t get him, or them, even if he didn’t get lost on the plains, he might just find her, in some other room, and have her turn her face away again. Then what? She could go on running, and he would go on chasing, until something really bad happened.

When Clara came out again to call him to supper, he felt worn out from thinking. He almost flinched when he heard Clara’s step, for he had a feeling she was ill-disposed toward him and might have something sharp to say. Again he was wrong. She walked down the steps and paused to watch three cranes flying across the sunset, along the silver path of the Platte.

“Ain’t they great birds?” she said quietly. “I wonder which I’d miss most, them or the horses, if I was to move away.” July didn’t suppose she would move away. She seemed so much of the place that it didn’t seem likely.

After watching the birds, she looked at him as if just noticing that he was still there.

“Are you willing to stay?” she asked.

July had rather she hadn’t asked—rather it had been something that just happened. He didn’t feel he had made a decision—and yet he hadn’t left.

“I guess I oughtn’t to chase her,” he said finally. “I guess I ought to let her be.” “It doesn’t do to sacrifice for people unless they want you to,” Clara said. “It’s just a waste.” “Ma, it’s getting cold,” Betsey said from the doorway.

“I was just enjoying the summer for a minute,” Clara said.

“Well, you’re always telling us how much you hate to serve cold food,” Betsey said.

Clara looked at her daughter for a moment and then went up the steps.

“Come on, July,” she said. “These girls mean to see that we keep up our standards.” He put the rifle back in the saddle scabbard and followed her into the house.AS THE HERD wound across the brown prairies toward the Platte, whoring became the only thing the men could talk about. Of course, they always liked to talk about it, but there had been sections of the drive when they occasionally mentioned other things—the weather, cards, the personalities of horses, trials and tribulations of the past. After Jake’s death they had talked a good deal about the vagaries of justice, and what might cause a pleasant man to go bad. Once in a while they might talk about their families, although that usually ended with everyone getting homesick. Though a popular subject, it was tricky to handle.

By the time they were within a week of Ogallala, all subjects other than whoring were judged to be superfluous. Newt and the Rainey boys were rather surprised. They were interested in whoring too, in a vague sort of way, but listening to the grown men talk at night, or during almost any stop, they concluded there must be more to whoring than they had imagined. Getting to visit a whore quickly came to seem the most exciting prospect life had to offer.

“What if the Captain don’t even want to stop in Ogallala?” Lippy asked, one night. “He ain’t much of a stopper.” “Nobody’s asking him to stop,” Needle said. “He can keep driving, if he’s a mind. We’re the ones need to stop.” “I don’t guess he likes whores,” Lippy said. “He didn’t come in the saloon much, that I remember.” Jasper was impatient with Lippy’s pessimism. Any suggestion that they might not get to visit Ogallala was extremely upsetting to him.

“Can’t you shut up?” he said. “We don’t care what the Captain does. We just want to be let off.” Po Campo was also likely to dampen the discussion, once he was free from his cooking chores.

“I think you should all go to the barber and forget these whores,” he added. “They will just take your money, and what will you get for it?” “Something nice,” Needle said.

“A haircut will last you a month, but what you get from the whores will only last a moment,” Po remarked. “Unless she gives you something you don’t want.” From the heated responses that ensued, Newt gathered that whores sometimes were not simply givers of pleasure.

Diseases apparently sometimes resulted, although no one was very specific about them.