Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

They spent their time making improvements on the log house, starting a barn and checking the cattle after the frequent storms. Most of the men spent their spare time hunting, and had already brought in more buffalo and elk meat than could be eaten in a winter.

So Call agreed, and Newt stayed at the fort a month, breaking horses. The weather improved. It was cold, but the days were often fine and sunny. Newt’s only scare came when he took a strong sorrel gelding out of the fort for his first ride and the horse took the bit between his teeth and raced out onto the Missouri ice. When the horse hit the ice he slipped and, though he crashed through the ice, fortunately they were in shallow water and Newt was able to struggle out and lead the horse out too. A few soldiers coming in with a load of wood helped him get dry. Newt knew it would have been a different story if the horse had made it to the center of the river before breaking through the ice.

After that, when he took his raw mounts out for a ride, he turned them away from the river as soon as he left the fort.JULY JOHNSON PROPOSED to Clara in the first week of the new year. He had been trying to stop himself from doing just that for months, and then he did it one day when, at her request, he brought in a sack of potatoes. It had been very cold and the potatoes were frozen—Clara wanted them in the warm kitchen to thaw. His son Martin was crawling on the kitchen floor when he came in and Clara was stirring batter for one of the cakes she couldn’t live without. As soon as he sat the frozen potatoes on the table, he did it. “Would you ever marry me?” was the way he put it, and immediately felt a terrible fool for having uttered the words. In the months he had worked for her their relations had been unchanged, and he supposed she would think him drunk or out of his head for raising such a thought.

Instead, Clara did a thing that amazed him—she stuck a finger in the sweet cake batter and held her hand out to him, as if he were just supposed to eat the glob of uncooked cake right off her finger.

“Have a taste, July,” she said. “I think I’ve overdone the cinnamon.” July decided she must not have heard his question. He wondered if she were merely trying to be polite. Though he knew he should have been glad she hadn’t heard it, he felt ready to say it again, and was about to when, Clara stopped him with a look.

“You don’t have to repeat yourself,” she said. “I heard you. Do you want to give me an opinion on this cinnamon or not?” July felt awkward and embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to ask such a question just then—and yet the question would be asked. He didn’t know what to do about the cake batter, but didn’t feel it proper just to lean over and eat it off her finger.

He reached out and took as much of it as he could on one of his own fingers before he sampled it.

“Tastes fine,” he said, but Clara looked annoyed, or scornful, or somehow displeased. He could never tell what her looks meant—all he registered was how uncomfortable they made him.

“I don’t think you’re much of a judge of sweets,” Clara said, heat in her tone but a coldness in her gray eyes.

She ate the rest of the batter off her own finger and went back to stirring the cake. A minute later Lorena walked into the room and picked up the baby. July was hoping she would take the baby out of the kitchen, but instead she sat down at the table and began to sing to him. Then, to make matters worse, both girls came in and began to make over the baby too. Martin was laughing and trying to grab a spoon away from one of the girls. Clara looked at July again, and the look made him feel a fool. He didn’t get an answer to his question and soon had to go back to doing his chores.

That night he wondered if he ought to leave. He could not stay around Clara without nursing hopes, and yet he could detect no sign that she cared about him. Sometimes he thought she did, but when he thought it over he always concluded that he had just been imagining things. Her remarks to him generally had a stinging quality, but he would often not realize he had been stung until after she left the scene. Working together in the lots, which they did whenever the weather was decent, she often lectured him on his behavior with the horses. She didn’t feel he paid close attention to them. July was at a loss to know how anyone could pay close attention to a horse when she was around, and yet the more his eyes turned to her the worse he did with the horses and the more disgusted she grew. His eyes would turn to her, though. She had taken to wearing her husband’s old coat and overshoes, both much too big for her. She wouldn’t wear gloves—she claimed the horses didn’t like it—and her large bony hands often got so cold she would have to stick them under the coat for a few minutes to warm them. She wore a variety of caps that she had ordered from somewhere—apparently she liked caps as much as she liked cake. None of them were particularly suited to a Nebraska winter. Her favorite one was an old Army cap Cholo had picked up on the plains somewhere. Sometimes Clara would tie a wool scarf over it to keep her ears warm, but usually the scarf came untied in the course of working with the horses, so that when they walked back up for a meal her hair was usually spilling over the collar of the big coat. Yet July couldn’t stop his eyes from feasting on her. He thought she was wonderfully beautiful, so beautiful that merely to walk with her from the lots to the house, when she was in a good mood, was enough to make him give up for another month all thought of leaving. He told himself that just being able to work with her was enough. And yet, it wasn’t—which is why the question finally forced itself out. He was miserable all night, for she hadn’t answered the question. But he had spoken the words and revealed what he wanted. He supposed she would think worse of him than she already did, once she thought it over.

It was three days before they were alone again. Some soldiers needing horses showed up, and Clara asked them to spend the night. Then Martin got a bad cough and developed a high fever. Cholo was sent to bring the doctor. Clara spent most of the day sitting with the baby, who coughed with every breath. She tried every remedy she knew, with no effect. Martin couldn’t sleep for coughing’. July went into the sickroom from time to time, feeling awkward and helpless. The boy was his child, and yet he didn’t know what to do. He felt in the way. Clara sat in a straight chair, holding the child. He asked in the morning if there was anything special she wanted him to do and she shook her head. The child’s sickness had driven out all other concerns. When July came back that evening, Clara was still sitting. Martin was too weak by then to cough very hard, but his breath was a rasp and his fever still high. Clara was impassive, rocking the baby’s cradle, but not looking at him.“I guess the doctor will be getting here soon,” July said uncertainly.

“The doctor might have been gone in the other direction,” Clara said. “This will be over before he gets here. He’ll have had the ride for nothing.” “You mean the baby’s dying?” July asked.

“I mean he’ll either die or get well before the doctor comes,” Clara said, standing up. “I’ve done all I can. The rest is up to Martin.” Clara looked at him and then, to his shock, walked over and put her head against his chest. She put her arms around him and held him tightly. It was so surprising that July almost lost his balance. He put his arms around her to steady himself.

Clara didn’t raise her head for what seemed like minutes. He could feel her body trembling and could smell her hair.

Then she stepped back from him as abruptly as she had come to him, though she caught one of his hands and held it a moment. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

“I hate it when a child is sick,” she said. “I loathe it. I get too scared. It’s like...” She stopped a minute to wipe the tears off her cheeks. “It’s like there’s something doesn’t want me to get a boy raised,” Clara said, her voice cracking.

July lay awake all night, remembering how it felt to have her take his hand. Her fingers had twined for a moment in his before she let go. It had seemed she needed him, else she wouldn’t have squeezed so. It made him so excited that he couldn’t sleep, yet when he went back upstairs in the morning and stepped into the sickroom, Clara was distant, though it was a fine sunny day and the baby’s fever was down. His breath still rattled, but he was asleep.

“I could bring you up some coffee,” July said.

“No, thanks, I know my way to the kitchen well enough,” she said, standing up. This time she neither hugged him nor took his hand; she walked past him without a look. All he could do was follow her downstairs. Lorena and the girls had already made breakfast and Cholo came in to eat. July didn’t feel hungry. The fact that Clara was displeased took his appetite away. He tried to think why she might be displeased, but could come up with no reasons. He sat numbly through breakfast and went out the door feeling that it would be hard to get his mind on work. He needed to repair the wheel of the big wagon, which had cracked somehow.

Before he could even get the wheel off, he saw Clara coming toward the tool shed. Though it was sunny, it was also very cold—her breath made little clouds. July was afraid the baby might have taken a turn for the worse, but that was not it.

Clara was very angry.

“You’d do better to talk to me when I’m mad,” she said, with no preamble. There were points of red in her cheeks.

“I’m no talker, I guess,” July said.

“You’re not much of anything, but you could be,” she said. “I know you’re smart, because Martin is, and he didn’t get it all from your poor wife. But a fence post is more useful generally than you are.” July took it as a criticism of his work, which he felt he had done scrupulously.