Larry McMurtry - Lonesome Dove

But now, in a minute, the relief was gone, and he was reminded of all her difficulties, how nothing he did pleased her, not even finding her in Ogallala. He didn't know what more to do or say. She had married him and carried his child, and yet she wouldn't turn her head to look at him.

Maybe it's too soon, he thought, as he stumbled, in a daze of pain and worry, out of the doctor's house. The big man was there watching.

"I'm much obliged for all the help you've given Ellie," he said. "I'll pay you back for any expense."

Zwey said nothing, and July walked away to get his horse.

Ellie saw him ride past the window. She got up and watched him until he was out of sight. Zwey stood watching, too.

"Zwey," Elmira said. "Get the wagon. I want to go."

Zwey was surprised. He had got used to her being in the bed in the doctor's house. He liked standing in the warm sun, watching her. She was so pretty in the bed.

"Ain't you sick?" he asked.

"No, get the wagon," she said. "I want to go today."

"Go which way?" he asked.

"Go," Elmira said. "Go away from here. I don't care where. Over to St. Louis will do."

"I don't know the way to St. Louis," Zwey said.

"Oh, get the wagon, we'll find the way," she said. "There's a road, I guess." She was out of patience with men. They were great ones for asking questions. Even Zwey asked them, and he could barely talk.

Zwey did as he was told. The doctor was gone, treating a farmer who had broken his hip. Elmira thought about leaving him a note, but didn't. The doctor was smart, he would figure out soon enough that she was gone. And before the sun set they left Ogallala, going east. Elmira rode in the wagon on a buffalo skin. Zwey drove. His horse was hitched to the rear of the wagon. She had asked him to take her, which made him proud. Luke had tried to confuse him, but now Luke was gone, and the man who came to see Elmira had been left behind. She had asked him to take her, not the other man. It must mean that they were married, just as he had hoped. She didn't say much to him, but she had asked him to take her, and that knowledge made him feel happy. He would take her anywhere she asked.

The only troublesome thought he had was the result of something the man at the livery stable said. He had been a dried-up little fellow, smaller than Luke. He had asked which way they were going and Zwey pointed east-he knew St. Louis was east.

"You might as well leave your scalps, then," the man said. "Have 'em sent by mail, once you get there."

"Why?" Zwey asked, puzzled. He had never heard of anyone sending a scalp in the mail.

"Because of the Sioux," the man said.

"We never saw no Indians, the whole way from Texas," Zwey remarked.

"You might not see the Sioux, either," the man said. "But they'll see you. You're a damn fool to take a woman east of here."

Zwey mentioned it to Elmira while he was helping her into the wagon.

"There might be Indians that way," he said.

"I don't care," Elmira said. "Let's go."

Many nights on the trail from Texas she had lain awake, in terror of Indians. They saw none, but the fear stayed with her all the way to Nebraska. She had heard too many stories.

Now she didn't care. The sickness had changed her-that and the death of Dee. She had lost the fear. A few miles from town they stopped and camped. She lay awake in the wagon much of the night. Zwey slept on the ground, snoring, his rifle held tightly in his big hands. She wasn't sleepy, but she wasn't afraid, either. It was cloudy, and the plains were very dark. Anything could come out of the darkness-Indians, bandits, snakes. The doctor had claimed there were panthers. All she heard was the wind, rustling the grass. Her only worry was that July might follow. He had followed all the way from Texas-he might follow again. Maybe Zwey would kill him if he followed. It was peculiar that she disliked July so, but she did. If he didn't leave her alone she would have Zwey kill him.

Zwey woke early. The man at the livery stable had worried him. He had been in three Indian fights, but both times he had several men with him. Now it was just he who would have to do all the fighting, if it came to that. He wished Luke hadn't been so quick to rush off to Santa Fe. Luke didn't always behave right, but he was a good shot. The livery-stable man acted as if they were as good as dead. It was morning, and they weren't dead, but Zwey felt worried. He felt perhaps he had not explained things well to Ellie.

"It's them Ogallala Sioux," he said, looking in the wagon at her. It was a warm morning, and she had thrown off the blankets. "He said the Army had them all stirred up," he added.

"I'll stir you up if you don't quit blabbing to me about Indians," Elmira said. "I told you yesterday. I want to get gone a good ways before July shows up in town again."

Her eyes flashed when she spoke, as they had before she got sick. Ashamed to have angered her, Zwey began to stir the fire under the coffeepot.

WHEN JULY CAME BACK FROM TOWN he was so depressed he couldn't speak. Clara had asked him to do a few errands, but the visit with Elmira troubled him so that he had forgotten them. Even after he got back to the ranch he didn't remember that he had been asked to do anything.

Clara saw at once that he had sustained some blow. When she saw him come back without even the mail, it had been on her tongue to say something about his poor memory. She and the girls hungered for the magazines and catalogues that came in the mail, and it was a disappointment to have someone ride right past the post office and not pick them up. But July looked so low that she refrained from speaking. At the supper table she tried several times to get a word or two out of him, but he just sat there, scarcely even touching his food. He had been ravenous since coming off the plains-so whatever the blow was, it was serious.

She knew he was a man who was grateful for any kindness; she had shown him several, and she showed him another by holding her tongue and giving him time to get past whatever had happened in town. But there was something about his silent, sunken manner that irritated her.

"Everything's gloomy," Betsey said. Betsey was quick to pick up moods.

"Yep," Clara said. She was holding the baby, who was babbling and gumming his fist.

"It's a good thing we got Martin here," she said. "He's the only man we got who can still talk."

"He don't talk," Sally said. "That ain't talk."

"Well, it's sound, at least," Clara said.

"I think you're mean," Sally said. She was quick to attack mother and sister alike. "Daddy's sick, or he'd talk."

"All right," Clara said. "I'll take that back." In fact, she could remember a thousand meals when Bob hadn't said a word.

"I think you're mean," Sally repeated, not satisfied.

"Yes, and you're my equal," Clara said, looking at her daughter.

July realized it all had something to do with him, but he couldn't get his mind on it. He carried his plate to the sink and thanked Clara for the meal. Then he went out on the front porch, glad it was a dark night. He felt he would cry. It was puzzling; he didn't know what to do. He had never heard of a wife doing any of the things Elmira had done. He sat on the steps of the porch, sadder and more bewildered than he had been even on the night when he got back to the river and discovered the three bodies. There was nothing to do about death, but Elmira was alive. He had to do something-he just didn't know what.

The girls came out and chattered behind him for a while, but he paid them no mind. He had a headache and thought he ought to lie down, except that lying down usually made his headaches worse.

Clara came out, still holding the baby, and sat in a rocker. "You seem to be feeling poorly, Mister Johnson," she said.