Larry McMurtry - Lonesome Dove

But through the years they had been so lucky with visitors that Clara had gradually ceased to jump and take fright at the sight of a rider on the horizon. Their tragedies had come from weather and sickness, not attackers. But the habit of looking close had not left her, and she turned with a clean sheet in one hand and watched out her window as the horsemen dipped off the far slopes and disappeared behind the brush along the river.

Something about the riders struck her. Over the years she had acquired a good eye for horses, and also for horsemen. Something about the men coming from the north struck a key in her memory, but struck it so weakly that she only paused for a moment to wonder who it could be. She finished her task and then washed her face, for the dust was blowing and she had gotten gritty coming back from the lots. It was the kind of dust that seemed to sift through your clothes. She Contemplated changing blouses, but if she did that, the next thing she knew she would be taking baths in the morning and changing clothes three times a day like a fine lady, and she didn't have that many clothes, or consider herself that fine. So she made do with a face wash and forgot about the riders. July and Cholo were both working the lots and would no doubt notice them too. Probably it was just a few Army men wanting to buy horses. Red Cloud was harlying them hard, and every week two or three Army men would show up wanting horses.

It was one of those who had brought July the news about his wife, although of course the soldier didn't know it was July's wife when he talked about finding the corpses of the woman and the buffalo hunter. Clara had been washing clothes and hadn't heard the story, but when she went down to the lots a little later she knew something was wrong. July stood by the fence, white as a sheet.

"Are you sick?" she asked. Cholo had ridden off with the soldier to look at some stock.

"No, ma'am," he said, in a voice she could barely hear. At times, to her intense irritation, he called her "ma'am," usually when he was too upset to think.

"It's Ellie," he added. "That soldier said the Indians killed a woman and a buffalo hunter about sixty miles east of town. I have no doubt it was her. They were traveling that way."

"Come on up to the house," she said. He was almost too weak to walk and was worthless for several days, faint with grief over a woman who had done nothing but run away from him or abuse him almost from the day they married.

The girls were devoted to July by this time, and they nursed him constantly, bringing him bowls of soup and arguing with one another over the privilege of serving him. Clara let them, though she herself felt more irritated than not by the man's foolishness. The girls couldn't understand her attitude and said so.

"His wife got butchered up, Ma!" Betsey protested.

"I know that," Clara said.

"You look so stern," Sally said. "Don't you like July?"

"I like July a lot," Clara said.

"He thinks you're mad at him," Betsey said.

"Why would he care?" Clara said, with a little smile. "He's got the two of you to pamper him. You're both nicer than I've ever been."

"We want you to like him," Betsey said. She was the more direct of the two.

"I told you I like him," Clara said. "I know people ain't smart and often love those who don't care for them. Up to a point, I'm tolerant of that. Then past a point, I'm not tolerant of it. I think it's a sickness to grieve too much for those who never cared a fig for you."

Both of the girls were silent for a time.

"You remember that," Clara said. "Do your best, if you happen to love a fool. You'll have my sympathy. Some folks will preach that it's a woman's duty never to quit, once you make a bond with a man. I say that's folly. A bond has to work two ways. If a man don't hold up his end, there comes a time to quit."

She sat down at the table and faced the girls. July was outside, well out of hearing. "July don't want to face up to the fact that his wife never loved him," she said.

"She ought to have loved him," Sally said.

"Ought don't count for as much as a gnat, when you're talking about love," Clara said. "She didn't. You seen her. She didn't even care for Martin. We've already given July and Martin more love than that poor woman ever gave them. I don't say that to condemn her. I know she had her troubles, and I doubt she was often in her right mind. I'm sorry she had no more control of herself to run off from her husband and child and get killed."

She stopped, to let the girls work on the various questions a little. It interested her which they would pick as the main point.

"We want July to stay," Betsey said finally. "You'll just make him run off, being so stern, and then he'll get butchered up too."

"You think I'm that bad?" Clara asked, with a smile.

"You're pretty bad," Betsey said.

Clara laughed. "You'll be just as bad, if you don't reform," she said. "I got a right to my feelings too, you know. We're doing a nice job of taking care of July Johnson. It just gripes me that he let himself be tromped on and can't even figure out that it wasn't right, and that he didn't like it."

"Can't you just be patient?" Sally said. "You're patient with Daddy."

"Daddy got his head kicked," Clara said. "He can't help how he is."

"Did he keep his bond?" Betsey asked.

"Yes, for sixteen years," Clara said. "Although I never liked his drinking."

"I wish he'd get well," Sally said. She had been her father's favorite and grieved over him the most.

"Ain't he going to die?" Betsey asked.

"I fear he will," Clara said. She had been careful not to let that notion take hold of the girls, but she wondered if she was wrong. Bob wasn't getting better, and wasn't likely to.

Sally started to cry, and Clara put her arms around her.

"Anyway, we have July," Betsey said.

"If I don't run him off," Clara said.

"You just better not!" Betsey said, eyes flashing.

"He might get bored and leave of his own accord," Clara volunteered.

"How could he get bored? There's lots to do," Sally said.

"Don't be so stern with him, Ma," Betsey pleaded. "We don't want him to leave."

"It won't hurt the man to learn a thing or two," Clara said. "If he plans to stay here he'd better start learning how to treat women."

"He treats us fine," Sally pointed out.

"You ain't women yet," Clara said. "I'm the only one around here, and he better spruce up if he wants to keep on my good side."

July soon returned to work, but his demeanor had not greatly improved. He had little humor in him and could not be teased successfully, which was an irritant to Clara. She had always loved to tease and considered it an irony of her life that she was often drawn to men who didn't recognize teasing even when she was inflicting it on them. Bob had never responded to teasing, or even noticed it, and her powers in that line had slowly rusted from lack of practice. Of course she teased the girls, but it was not the same as having a grown man to work on-she had often felt like pinching Bob for being so stolid. July was no better-in fact, he and Bob were cut from the same mold, a strong but unimaginative mold.

When she came down from washing her face, she heard talk from the back and stopped dead on the stairs, for there was no doubt who was talking. The chord of memory that had been weakly struck by the sight of the horsemen resounded through her suddenly like an organ note. No sound in the world could have made her happier, for she heard the voice of Augustus McCrae, a voice like no other. He sounded exactly as he always had-hearing his voice so unexpectedly after sixteen years caused her eyes to fill. The sound took the years away. She stood on the stairs in momentary agitation, uncertain for a second as to when it was, or where she was, so much did it remind her of other times when Augustus would show up unexpectedly, and she, in her little room over the store, would hear him talking to her parents.