Larry McMurtry - Lonesome Dove

"We traveled together," Call said. He did not want to talk about Gus with the old man, or anyone. He wanted to get on, but he was cordial and rode with the Crow because he felt that if he were discourteous some of the young bucks might try to make sport with him farther south, when he was out of range of the old chief's protection.

Once he struck Wyoming, he rode for eleven days without seeing a soul. The buggy held up well, but Greasy lost flesh from the pace Call kept up. The coffin got some bad jolts crossing the gullies near the Powder River, but the reinforcements held it together.

The first people he saw, as he approached Nebraska, were five young Indians who had gotten liquor somewhere. When they saw he was carrying a dead man they let him alone, though they were too drunk to hunt successfully and begged him for food. None of them looked to be eighteen, and their horses were poor. Call started to refuse, but then he reflected that they were just boys. He offered them food if they would give up their liquor, but at that they grew quarrelsome. One drew an old pistol and acted as if he might fire at him, but Call ignored the threat, and they were soon gone.

He regretted that he had to take Gus to the women, but felt it was part of his obligation to deliver the notes Gus had written when he was dying. The Platte was so full of ducks and geese that he heard their gabbling all day, though he rode a mile from the river.

He thought often of the men he had left up on the Milk, and of the boy. He had not expected the parting to go as it had, and could not get his mind off it. For several hundred miles, down through Montana and Wyoming, he left them all over again in his mind, day after day. He imagined many times that he had said things he had not said, and, from concentrating on it too much as he traveled down the plains, he began to grow confused. He missed being able to sit at the corrals and watch Newt work with the horses. He wondered if the boy was handling the Hell Bitch well and if any more men had left the ranch.

Then, before he had scarcely reined in at Clara's house, where he found Dish Boggett breaking horses with the young sheriff from Arkansas, the woman began a quarrel with him. She had acquired some small shrubs somehow and was out planting them, bareheaded and in overshoes, when he arrived.

"So you're doing it, are you, Mr. Call?" Clara said, when she saw him. She had a look of scorn in her eyes, which puzzled him, since he was merely carrying out the request of the man who had loved her for so long. Of course Dish had told her that Gus wanted his body taken to Texas.

"Well, he asked, and I said I'd do it," Call said, wondering why she disliked him so. He had just dismounted.

"Gus was crazy and you're foolish to drag a corpse that far," Clara said bluntly. "Bury him here and go back to your son and your men. They need you. Gus can rest with my boys."

Call flinched when she said the word "son," as if she had never had a doubt that Newt was his. He himself had once been a man of firm opinion, but now it seemed to him that he knew almost nothing, whereas the words Clara flung at him were hard as rocks.

"I told him that very thing," Call said. "I told him you'd likely want him here."

"I've always kept Gus where I wanted him, Mr. Call," Clara said. "I kept him in my memory for sixteen years. Now we're just talking of burying his body. Take him to the ridge and I'll have July and Dish get a grave dug."

"Well, it wasn't what he asked of me," Call said, avoiding her eyes. "It seems that picnic spot you had in Texas is where he wanted to lay."

"Gus was a fine fool," Clara said. "He was foolish for me or any other girl who would have him for a while. Because it was me he thought of, dying, is no reason to tote his bones all the way to Texas."

"It was because you picnicked in the place," Call said, confused by her anger. He would have thought a woman would feel complimented by such a request, but Clara clearly didn't take it that way.

"Yes, I remember our picnics," she said. "We mostly quarreled. He wanted what I wouldn't give. I wanted what he didn't have. That was a long time ago, before my boys died."

Tears came to her eyes when she said it, as they always did when the thought of her boys struck her. She was aware that she was being anything but hospitable, and that the man didn't understand what she said. She scarcely knew what she meant herself-she just knew that the sight of Woodrow Call aroused in her an unreasoning hate and disgust.

"He wrote you," Call said, remembering why he had come. "There's a letter for you and one for her. He left her his half of our cattle." He untied his saddlebag and brought out the two notes, handing them to Clara.

"I would have sent them with Dish but he left in the winter and there was no knowing if he'd get through," Call said.

"But you always get through, don't you, Captain?" Clara said, with a look so hard that Call turned aside from it and stood by the horses, tired. He was ready to agree with her that Gus had been foolish to make such a request of him.

Then he turned and saw Clara walk over to Greasy, the mule. She stroked the mule along his neck and spoke to him softly before breaking into sobs. She hid her face against the mule, who stood as if planted, though normally he was a rather skittish animal. But he stood while Clara sobbed against his side. Then, taking the notes and not looking at Call, she hurried into the house.

From the lots, Dish and July were watching. Dish felt a little queasy, seeing Gus's coffin. He had not gotten over his nervousness about the dead. It seemed to him quick burial was the best way to slow their ghosts.

July, of course, had heard all about Gus McCrae's death, and his strange request, but had not quite believed it. Now it had turned out to be true. He remembered that Gus had ridden down with him on the Kiowa campfire and killed every single man, while he himself had not been able to pull a trigger. Now the same man, dead a whole winter, had turned up in Nebraska. It was something out of the ordinary, of that he felt sure.

"I knowed the Captain would do it," Dish said. "I bet them boys up on the Milk are good and skeert, now he's gone."

"I hear it's hard winters up there," July said-not that they were easy in Nebraska.

The Captain, as if distracted, walked a little way toward the lots and then stopped. Dish walked out to greet him, followed by July, and was shocked by the change in the man. The Captain looked like an old man-he had little flesh on his face and his beard and mustache were sprinkled with gray.

"Why, Captain, it's fine to see you," Dish said. "How are them northern boys doing?"

Call shook Dish's hand, then July's. "We wintered without losing a man, or much stock either," he said, very tired.

Then he saw that Dish was looking beyond him. He turned and saw that the blond woman had come out of the house. She walked to the buggy and stood by the coffin. Clara's two daughters followed her out on the back porch, a toddling child between them. The girls didn't follow Lorena to the buggy. They watched a minute and then guided the child back in the house.

Dish Boggett would have given anything to be able to go to Lorena, but he knew he couldn't. Instead he led the Captain back down to the lots and tried to interest him in the horses. But the Captain's mind was elsewhere.

When the plains darkened and they went in to supper, Lorena still stood by the wagon. The meal was eaten in silence, except for little Martin's fretting. He was used to being the center of gay attention and couldn't understand why no one laughed when he flung his spoon down, or why no one sang to him, or offered him sweets.

"Oughtn't we to go get Lorie?" Dish asked, at one point, anguished that she was left to stand alone in the darkness.