'Well, rat poison. She drank most of it in water,' Tinkersley said. 'They found her by the river. She wasn't quite dead at the time. It was the doctor who noticed that her drawers were torn, and that somebody had hit her a lick or two. They found a little ribbon from her dress in a cell in the jail, and that's what nailed the sheriff.' Lorena regretted that the train had come in when it did. She would rather not have known about the death of Mrs. Plunkert. They had never met, of course, but Lorena had been alone, in south Texas, in rooms that were no more than jails, with men who were no different from the sheriff, and who were certainly no better. She had no way out then, and only one way to survive; many times, it had seemed to her a close bargain. In even worse times, when she was taken by Blue Duck and given to the men of Ermoke's band, and then threatened with burning by Mox Mox, she had been reduced to one wish: that there was some way to be dead, and be dead quickly. Although the circumstances of Mrs.
Plunkert's travail might seem lighter, Lorena knew they had not seemed at all light to the young woman who had so promptly taken her own life. Mrs. Plunkert must have felt that her happiness and her husband's happiness were forfeit anyway. She had become hopeless. Lorena knew enough about hopelessness. She did not want to be reminded of it, not even a hopelessness experienced by a young woman she had never met.
What the death of Mrs. Plunkert meant was that hopelessness was always there. There was never a way or a time one could be safe from it. If Pea Eye died, or one of her children, she knew she would have to feel it again.
'Lorie, you don't know her, you ain't expected to attend the funeral,' Tinkersley said.
'I want to attend the funeral, but I'd rather you didn't accompany me,' Lorena said.
'But you didn't know the woman,' Tinkersley said. He felt a sudden deep need to stay with Lorena. Seeing her had reminded him of the regret he had nursed for years, when he'd left her and lost her. He had even journeyed to the little town of Lonesome Dove, where he heard she worked, hoping to get her back. But he came too late. She had left with the cow herd and the cowboys, for Montana.
Now, through a miracle, she had stepped off the train in Laredo, right in front of him. He didn't want to leave her. When she told him she didn't want him to accompany her to the funeral, he fell back a few steps, but he didn't let Lorena out of his sight.
The cemetery was just a plain piece of ground, dusty, without a bush or a tree to lessen its plainness. Most of the grave markers were wooden, and many of them had tilted over, or fallen flat altogether. One of the whores, the smallest, a slip of a girl with curly brown hair, had a beautiful soprano voice.
When she sang 'Amazing Grace,' her voice rose over all the other singers, the other five whores and the few churchwomen. Her voice was clear as the air. They sang 'Rock of Ages,' and then 'Will the Circle Be Unbroken.' Three hymns at a funeral was unusual, Lorena thought. Yet, despite the cutting wind, the mourners seemed reluctant to leave. When the women finished the last song, they looked around, wondering if they should sing more. It was odd, Lorena thought, that no one was hurrying away.
The young whore with the beautiful voice finally spoke to one of the churchwomen, and the women began to sing 'There's a Home Beyond the River.' The young soprano poured her heart into the song.
No doubt she had an inkling of how Mrs.
Plunkert had felt. That, at least, was Lorena's view. The girl's voice was so strong and pure that it silenced the other singers. One by one, the other whores and the churchwomen fell silent, and the beautiful voice of the whore with the curly hair soared on, in lonely lament for the lost life of a woman the young whore had not known, and perhaps had not even met.
When the song ended, the mourners turned away from the grave, and an old Mexican man with a shovel began to push in dirt around the coffin.
'At least she had a right pretty funeral,' Tinkersley said. He fell in with Lorena as she was hurrying back to the station, anxious to secure her valise. Tinkersley was seeking to make small talk, or any talk, that would persuade her to allow him to stay with her for a while.
'Get away from me, Tinkersley,' Lorena said. 'You done nothing but hurt me, when we was together. I don't want you to be walking with me.
I'm here to find my husband.' 'But, I bought you pretty dresses,' Tinkersley protested. 'I took you to the fanciest shop in San Antonio.' 'So you could sell me for a higher price,' Lorena reminded him. 'Get away from me. I don't like remembering none of that.' 'Lorie, I was just hoping we could visit,' Tinkersley said. 'I know I done you badly.
I came back to find you, but you were gone north with Gus McCrae.' Lorena didn't speak to Tinkersley again.
She just ignored him. He walked with her, pleading, until they were nearly back to the station, but Lorena didn't say another word. She scarcely noticed him, in his slick coat, nor did she listen to his excuses or his pleas.
She felt a great longing to be with her husband.
Most men would make excuses all day and all night for their failings, but Pea never did. When Pea did something that hurt her feelings, he accepted his error and suffered for it until she had to take him in hand and try to coax him and tease him back into a good humor. She had to convince him, each time, that what he had done was only a small error, not the unforgivable act he believed it to be. Marriage was often vexing, that was all.
Now, with the funeral over, she wanted to gather such information about where Captain Call might be as she could. She wanted to catch up with Pea and bring him home, before one of the bad men in the world did something to hurt him.
It was not until that night, in her small, chill room in the drafty hotel, that Lorena's thoughts returned to the dead woman and the funeral.
She remembered the young whore who could sing soprano, and a deep sadness came with the memory.
In a building not far away, the young whore with the beautiful voice was back being a whore. The churchwomen who had spoken to her at the funeral wouldn't allow themselves to speak to her in their day-to-day lives. She was just one of Tinkersley's whores, as Lorena herself had been, once.
The only thing that was true in the four hymns the girl had sung was the music itself, Lorena thought.
Neither the whore nor the dead woman over whose grave she'd sung had received any grace at all, to draw
