'Maggie's honest, that's the point, Woodrow,' Gus reminded him. Though drunk, he meant to see that Woodrow Call did not evade the responsibilities of fatherhood.
'I know she's honest,' Call replied. 'That don't mean she's right about everything. Honest people make mistakes too.
'I'm honest, and I've made plenty,' he added.
'I even make mistakes,' Long Bill admitted, ruefully. 'And I'm as honest as the day is long.' 'Pshaw, you ain't!' Gus said. 'I expect you told Pearl you was standing guard at night, so you lied within the hour. Ain't that true?' 'It's not so much a lie as that Pearl don't need to know everything,' Long Bill replied. It was true that he lied to Pearl about his evenings in the saloon, but he didn't think Pearl minded. In fact she might even prefer to have him out of the house until it was time for them to sleep. Otherwise, they would have nothing to do but sit in their chairs or lay in their bed and brood about the fact that they were no longer husband and wife as they had been.
'The point is, Maggie ain't a mistake,' Gus told Call. 'She's a blessing and you're dumb not to see it.' 'I am right fond of Maggie,' Call said.
'But that don't mean the child is mine. I'd just like to know if there's a way she can be sure about the father.' Gus, in a poor mood anyway, was annoyed by the very tone of Woodrow Call's voice.
'If I say it's yours and Bill says it's yours and Maggie says it's yours, then that ought to be enough for you,' he said hotly. 'Do you need the dern Governor to say it's yours?' 'No,' Call said, making an earnest effort to stay calm about the matter. 'I just want to know for sure. I expect any man would want to know for sure. But you can't tell me for sure and Bill can't either. I don't know what the Governor has to do with it.' Silence followed. Augustus saw no point in pursuing the matter further. He had been in many arguments with Woodrow Call but had never, so far as he could recall, succeeded in changing his mind. Long Bill must have felt the same. He stared at his whiskey glass and said nothing.
Call got up and left. He had taken to walking by the river for an hour or more at night, but, on this occasion, had left his rifle in the bunkhouse and strolled back to get it. Since the raid no one ventured out of town, day or night, without a rifle.
'Woodrow's hard to convince, ain't he?' Long Bill said, once Call left.
Augustus didn't reply. Instead he reached in his pocket and took out a letter he had received the day before, from Clara. He had already memorized the letter but could not resist looking at it again:
Dear Gus, I write in haste from St. Louis--tm a boat will take us up the Missouri River. I trust that you are safe. If you are in Austin when you get this letter you will have heard that Ma and Pa were killed in the big raid.
I only got the news two days ago. Of course it's hard, knowing that I will never see Ma and Pa again.
As you are my oldest and best friend I would like you to do this for me: go and see that they are well buried in the cemetery, there by Grandma Forsythe. I would appreciate it if you would hire someone to care for their graves. It is not likely, now that I am a married woman, that I will return that way for many years, but it would be a comfort for me to know that their graves are being cared for. Perhaps a few flowers, bluebonnets maybe, could be planted above them in the spring. My Ma was always taken with bluebonnets.
I hope you will do this for me, Gus, and not be bitter about Bob. Once we are settled in Nebraska I'll send money for the caretaker.
It's hard to write you, Gus--we've always just talked, haven't we? But I mean to practice until I get the hang of it. And you need to write me too, so that I'll know you're safe and well.
Your friend, Clara
She don't know, Augustus thought, as he carefully folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. Merely seeing her writing caused such yearning to swell up in him that he didn't think he could stand it. Despite himself tears welled in his eyes.
'I reckon we can tell about that baby of Maggie's once it's born,' Long Bill said. He spoke mainly to cover his friend's embarrassment--merely getting a letter from Clara had brought tears to his eyes.
Gus, though, didn't seem to be listening.
He put the letter back in his pocket, scattered some money on the table, and left.
Long Bill sat alone for a while, drinking, though he knew it was about time he went home to Pearl. No doubt she'd be in bed with her Bible, trying to pray away troubles that just weren't willing to leave. Gus's girl had married someone else, as women would. Maggie Tilton had become pregnant, as women would. But his wife had been shamed by seven Comanche warriors, causing her to lose a baby that had been legally and pleasurably conceived.
Now he wasn't sure that there would be any more such pleasure for himself and Pearl. Her ample flesh, which had once drawn him to her night after night, now repelled him. He didn't mind that Pearl kept her legs squeezed together. Every night now he scooted farther and farther from her, in the bed. Even her sweat smelled different to him now.
He didn't know what to do, but one thing he did not intend to do was resign from the rangers, which was the very thing Pearl wanted most. That very morning, before starting in about it, Pearl had run out in the yard and grabbed up a fat hen that he wasn't even too sure was their hen; she had wrung its neck before he could even raise the question of whose hen it might be, and then started talking about the rangers.
'Pearl, I wish you'd stop talking about me quitting the rangers,' he told her bluntly.
He didn't think he could survive his sorrows without the companionship of the boys in the troop; besides that, he had to make a living and had few marketable skills. How did the woman expect him to feed her if he quit the job he was best at? They'd have to poach some neighbor's chicken every day if he did that.
'But Bill, I need you to quit, I can't help it!' Pearl said.
'Don't be complaining at me today, Pearl,' he said. 'I've got to help Pea Eye shoe the horses, and that's tiring work.' He had just come down the stairs in time to see the chicken die.
Pearl was already gutting it--she flung a handful of guts toward the woodpile where several hungry cats soon descended on them.
