the rushing was going on the senator fainted. While the whole town hunkered down, waiting for the scalping Comanches to pour in among them, the senator lay unconscious in the street, bleeding. When the fog lifted, with no one scalped and no Comanches to be seen, the local blacksmith found the senator, still fainted, and, by that time, bled white. The man lived, but he soon stopped being a senator. As Deets understood it, the man decided just to stay home, where he could drink with much less risk.
Now the Captain was wanting him to carry Newt home to his mother, a task he was happy to undertake. He liked Newt, and would have bought him a good little hat to shade him on sunny days, if he could have afforded it. Mainly, though, Deets was just given his room and board and a dollar a month toward expenses--in his present situation he could not afford to be buying little boys hats.
The boy still sat on the fence, watching Pea Eye trying to rope a second gelding, the first one having been firmly snubbed to the post. Call stood watching--not at the boy or the roper; just watching generally, it seemed to Deets.
'Newt wishing he could be a roper,' Deets said. 'A roper like Mr. Pea.' Call had just watched Pea Eye miss the skinny gelding for the fourth time; he was not pleased.
'If he ever is a roper, I hope he's better at it than Pea Eye Parker,' he said, before he walked away.
'Yes, he stays here, when I can keep him out of the saloons,' Maggie said, when Call asked her if Jake was sleeping at her house.
She didn't say it bashfully, either. Newt had an earache; she was warming cornmeal in a sock, for him to hold against his ear. Graciela had told her she ought to drip warm honey in Newt's ear, but Maggie didn't think the earache was severe enough to risk making that big a mess. In fact, she wondered if it was an earache at all, or just a new way Newt had thought of to get himself a little more attention. Newt enjoyed his minor illnesses. Sometimes he could persuade his mother to let him sleep with her when he was a little sick, or could pretend to be. Maggie suspected that this was only a pretend earache, but she warmed the cornmeal anyway. She did not appreciate Woodrow Call's question and didn't bother to conceal how she felt. For years she had concealed most of what she felt about Woodrow, but she had given up on him and had no reason to conceal her feelings anymore.
'Well, I am surprised,' Call said cautiously. He felt on unfamiliar ground with Maggie; possibly infirm ground as well.
She didn't look up when she informed him that Jake was sleeping there.
'I ain't a rock,' Maggie said, in reply, and this time she did look up.
Call didn't know what she meant--he had never suggested that she was a rock.
'I guess I don't know what you're trying to say,' he said cautiously. 'I can see you ain't a rock.' 'No, I doubt you can see it,' Maggie said.
'You're too strong, Woodrow. You don't understand what it's like to be weak, because you ain't weak, and you've got no sympathy for those who are.' 'What has that got to do with Jake bunking here?' Call asked.
Maggie turned her eyes to him; her mouth was set. She didn't want to cry--she had done more than enough crying about Woodrow Call over the years. She might do more, still, but if so, she hoped at least not to do it in front of him. It was too humiliating to always be crying about the same feeling in front of the same man.
'I need somebody here at night,' Maggie said. 'Not every night, but sometimes. I get scared.
Besides that, I've got a boy. He needs someone around who can be like a pa. You don't want to stay with me, and you don't want to be a pa to Newt.' She paused; despite her determination to control herself, her hands were shaking as she spooned the hot cornmeal into the old sock.
It always seemed to come back to the same thing, Call thought. He wasn't willing to be her husband and he wasn't willing, either, to claim Newt as his son. He knew that might give him a limited right to criticize, and he hadn't come to criticize, merely to find out if his suspicion about Maggie and Jake was true. It seemed that it was true; he had merely been honest when he said the fact surprised him.
'If it makes you think the less of me, I can't help it,' Maggie said. 'Jake ain't my first choice--I reckon I don't have to tell you that. But he ain't a bad man, either. He's kind to me and he likes Newt. If I didn't have someone around who liked my son, I expect I would have given up the ghost.' 'I don't want you to give up the ghost,' Call said at once; he was shocked by the comment.
'The rangering does keep me busy,' he adding not knowing what else to say.
'You wouldn't help me if helping me was the last thing in the world you had to do,' Maggie told him, unable to hold back a flash of anger. 'You don't know how to help nobody, Woodrow--at least you don't know how to help nobody who's female.
'You never have helped me and you never will,' she went on, looking him in the eye.
'Jake wants to help me, at least. I try to give him back what I can. It ain't much, but he's young. He may not know that.' 'Yes, young and careless,' Call said. 'It would be a pity if he compromised you.' Without hesitating Maggie threw the panful of hot cornmeal at him. Most of it missed but a little of it stuck to the front of his shirt. Woodrow looked as startled as if an Indian with a tomahawk had just popped out of the cupboard; as startled, and more at a loss. An Indian he could have shot, but he couldn't shoot her and had no idea what to say or do. He was so surprised that he didn't even bother to brush the cornmeal off his shirt.
Maggie didn't say anything. She was determined that he would at least answer her act, if he wouldn't answer her need. She set the pan back on the stove.
'Well, that was wasteful,' Woodrow Call said finally. He recovered sufficiently to begin to brush the cornmeal off his shirt. Maggie didn't seem to be paying much attention to him.
She dipped a cup into the cornmeal and scooped out enough to replace what had been in the pan.
Graciela had been dozing on her little stool at the back of the kitchen--she was often there, making tortillas, such good ones that Newt was seldom seen without a half-eaten tortilla in his hand or his pocket. Something had awakened Graciela, Call didn't know what, for Maggie had not raised her voice before she threw the cornmeal.
Graciela looked shocked, when she saw him with cornmeal on his shirt--she put a hand over her mouth.
'I see that I have upset you,' Call added, perplexed and a good deal shocked himself. One reason he had grown fond of Maggie Tilton, and a big reason he stayed fond, was that she behaved so sensibly. In that respect he considered her far superior to Gus's old love Clara, who never behaved sensibly and was rarely inclined to restrain
