Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

She wasn’t a lady like Clara. She had never even met a lady like Clara, and in the space of a day had come to admire her more than she had ever admired anyone excepting Gus. Clara had shown her nothing but courtesy and had made her welcome in her house, whereas other respectable women had always shunned her because of the way she lived.

Sitting in the kitchen with the girls and the baby, Lorena felt happy in a way that was new to her. It stirred in her distant memories of the days she had spent in her grandmother’s house in Mobile when she was four. Her grandmother’s house had been like Clara’s—she had gone there only once that she could remember. Her grandmother had put her in a soft bed, the softest she had ever slept in, and sung songs to her while she went to sleep. It was her happiest memory, one she treasured so, that in her years of traveling she grew almost afraid to remember it—someday she might try to remember it and find it gone. She was very afraid of losing her one good, warm memory. If she lost that, she felt she might be too sad to go on.

But in Clara’s house she wasn’t afraid to remember her grandmother, and the softness of the bed. Clara’s house was the kind of house she thought she might live in someday—at least she had hoped to when she was little. But when her parents sickened and died, she lost hope of living in such a house. Mosby’s home had been nothing like it, and then she had started living in hotels or little rooms. She slowly stopped thinking of nice houses and the things that went with them, such as little girls and babies.

So when Clara came downstairs and asked her to stay, it felt like being given back something—something that had been lost so long that she had ceased to think about it. Just before Clara and Gus came in, the girls had been nagging her to teach them how to sew. Lorena could sew fairly well. The girls complained that their mother never took the time to teach them. Their mother, about whom they were full of gripes, was more interested in horses than in sewing.

The girls were not at all surprised when Clara asked Lorena to stay.

“Oh, do,” Sally said. “We could learn to sew if you would.” “We could sew new dresses, we never get any,” Betsey said.

Lorena looked at Gus. He seemed flustered, and he seldom was flustered. She thought he might be bothered by the thought of her staying.

“Would you come back, Gus?” she asked. It seemed all right to ask him in front of Clara and the girls. Clara, after issuing the invitation, had started making coffee.

Augustus saw that she wanted to stay. If asked that morning if such a thing could occur, he would have said it was impossible. Lorena had clung to him since the rescue. But being at Clara’s, even for so short a space, had changed her. She had refused to go to Ogallala, and was frightened of the thought of going into a store, but she wasn’t frightened of Clara.

“I sure will come back,” he said, smiling. “A ladies’ man like me could hardly be expected to resist such a passel of ladies.” “Good, that’s settled, but I warn you, Lorie, these girls will wear you down,” Clara said. “You may wish you were back in a cow camp before it’s all over. I’m going to turn them over to you, you know. All they want to do is quarrel with me, and I’m tired of it. You can argue with them, and I’ll break horses.” After the coffee, Clara made the girls go to bed, and tactfully went up herself, so that Augustus and Lorena could have a moment alone. She saw that Augustus was a little shocked that she had so easily persuaded the girl away from his side.

Lorena felt embarrassed—she had not expected to be asked to stay, or to want to, and yet both things had happened.

She was afraid at first that Gus might have his feelings hurt. She looked at him a little fearfully, hard put to explain the strange desire she had to stay at Clara’s. Only that morning she had been resolved to stay with Gus at all costs.

“I’ll go if you want, Gus,” she said. “But it’s so nice here, and they’re friendly.” “I’m happy for you to stay,” Augustus said. “You’ll be a help to Clara, and you’ll enjoy those girls. You’ve spent time enough in that dirty tent of Wilbarger’s. Winter’s said to be hard in Montana, too.” “I didn’t think I’d want to stay,” Lorena admitted. “I never thought about it till she asked. Don’t you still want to marry her, Gus?” “No,” Augustus lied.

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t,” she said. Now that she knew Clara a little, it seemed perfectly natural that Gus would want to marry her.

“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 nobody 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, 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 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 damn 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.