concerned, he was also a dolt with horses. Loving horses as she did, Clara was hard put to know why she could even consider settling in with a man who was no better with them than Bob had been. Of course, the settling-in process was hardly complete, and Clara was in no hurry that it should be. Closer relations would probably only increase her impatience with him.
It amused her that he was so jealous of Dish, who, though friendly, companionable and an excellent hand, was not interested in her at all. His love for Lorena leaped out of every look he cast in her direction, although not one of them penetrated Lorena's iron grief. Clara herself didn't try to touch or change Lorena's grief-it was like Martin's fever: either it would kill her or it wouldn't. Clara would not have been surprised by a gunshot if it had come from Lorena's room. She knew the girl felt what she had felt when her boys died: unrelievable grief. In those times, the well-meaning efforts of Bob or the neighbors to cheer her up had merely affronted her. She hadn't wanted to live, particularly not cheerfully. Kindly people told her that the living must live. I don't, if my boys can't, she wanted to say to them. Yet the kindly people were right; she came slowly back to enjoyment and one day would even find herself making a cake again and eating it with relish.
Watching Lorena, as she sat blank with grief every day, scarcely stirring unless Betsey urged her to, Clara felt helpless. Lorena would either live or die, and Clara felt it might be die. Lorena's only tie to life was Betsey. She didn't care for sweets or men or horses; her only experience with happiness had been Gus. The handsome young cowboy who sent her countless looks of love meant nothing to her. Pleasure had no hold on Lorena-she had known little of it, and Clara didn't count on its drawing her back to life. The young cowboy would be doomed to find his love blocked by Gus in death even as it had been in life. Betsey had a better chance of saving Lorena than Dish. Betsey worried about her constantly and tried to get her mother to do something.
'I can't make Mr. McCrae alive again, which is all she wants,' Clara said. 'What do you think I can do?'
'Make her not so sad,' Betsey pleaded.
'Nobody can do that,' Clara said. 'I can't even make you not sad when you're sad.'
Yet one day she did try. She came upon Lorie standing in the hall, her hair uncombed. She had the look of a beaten dog. Clara stopped and hugged her, as suddenly as she had hugged July Johnson. In him her hug had stirred a fever of hope; in Lorena it stirred nothing.
'I guess you wish you'd gone with him,' Clara said. 'It would have given you a little more time.'
Lorena looked surprised-it was the one thing she had been thinking since the news came.
'I should have,' she said.
'No,' Clara said. 'You would have had a little more time, I grant you, but now you'd be stuck in Montana with a bunch of men who don't care that you loved Gus. They'd want you to love them. Dish. wants it so much that he rode to you through the blizzards.'
The thought of Dish merely made Lorena feel cold. 'He wasted his time,' she said.
'I know that, but don't expect him to realize it,' Clara said.
'He bought me once, when I was a whore,' Lorena said, surprised at the word on her tongue. She had never used it before.
'And Gus didn't?' Clara said.
Lorena was silent. Of course Gus had. She wondered if Clara would ask her to leave, knowing what she had been.
'Dish loved you and took the only way he had to get your attention,' Clara said.
'He didn't get my attention,' Lorena said. 'He didn't get anything.'
'And Gus did the same and got everything,' Clara said. 'Gus was lucky and Dish isn't.'
'I ain't either,' Lorena said.
Clara offered no advice. A few days later, when she was sewing, Lorena came and stood in front of her. She looked no better. 'Why did you ask me to stay, when it was you Gus loved?' she asked. 'Why didn't you ask him to stay? If you had he'd be alive.'
Clara shook her head. 'He loved us both,' she said, 'but Gus would never miss an adventure. Not for you or me or any other woman. No one could have kept him home. He was a rake and a rambler, though you'd have kept him longer than I could have.'
Lorena didn't believe it. She remembered how often Gus had talked of Clara. Of course it no longer mattered- nothing like that mattered anymore, and yet she couldn't keep her mind from turning to it.
'It ain't so,' she said. She had used her voice so little that it sounded weak.
'It
Clara was silent for a moment, looking into the other woman's eyes.
'Bob was too dumb to realize there'd be a struggle,' Clara said. 'Half the time he didn't notice it even when he was in it. So mainly I had the struggle with myself.
'It's been lonely,' she added.
She thought the conversation a good sign. Maybe Lorie was going to come out of it. But it was the last conversation they had for months. Lorena lived through the winter in silence, only speaking to Betsey, who remained as loyal as ever.
Dish Boggett remained loyal too, although Lorena gave him no encouragement. He spent more and more time playing cards with Sally, whose bright girlish chatter he had come to like. Every day he tried his best with Lorena, but he had begun to feel hopeless. She would not even speak to him, no matter how sweetly he asked. She met everything he said with silence-the same silence she had had in Lonesome Dove, only deeper. He told himself that if the situation didn't improve by the spring he would go to Texas and try to forget her.
Yet when spring came Dish told Clara he would be glad to stay and help her with the colts.
100.
IT CAME TO RANKLE CALL that Gus had left his half of the cattle herd to the woman. The woman was down in Nebraska. She was not there helping. Of course, if she had been there helping, there would have been trouble, but that didn't lessen the aggravation of what Gus had done. He could simply have given her money-he had money. As it was, every time Call sold a bunch of stock to the Army he had to put aside half the money for a woman he had never approved of, who might, for all any of them knew, have already forgotten Gus and married someone else, or even gone back to being a whore.
Still, Call had halved the money. However aggravating it was, Gus had meant it, and he would do it, though when he went back with the body he planned to see if he could at least buy her out. He didn't like the thought of being in partnership with a woman, much less a whore-although he conceded that she might have reformed.
He lived in the tent all winter, keeping the men working but taking little interest in the result. Sometimes he hunted, taking the Hell Bitch and riding off onto the plains. He always killed game but was not much interested in the hunt. He went because he no longer felt comfortable around the men. The Indians had not bothered them, and the men did well enough by themselves. Soupy Jones had assumed the top-hand role, once Dish left, and flourished in it. The other men did well too, although there was some grumbling and many small disputes. Hugh Auld and Po Campo became friends and often tramped off together for a day or two so Hugh could show Po Campo some pond where there were still beaver, or some other interesting place he knew about. Lippy, starved for music, played the accordion and spent nearly the whole winter trying to make a fiddle from a shoebox. The instrument yielded a powerful screeching sound, but none of the cowboys were ready to admit that the sound was music.
At Christmas, hungering for pork, they killed Gus's pigs. The most surprising development was that Jasper Fant learned to cook. He took it up mainly out of boredom, but, tutored by Po Campo, his progress was so rapid that when Po Campo went off with Old Hugh the cuisine didn't suffer.
In the early spring, while the weather was still chancy, fifteen horses disappeared one night. It was only by luck that the theft was discovered, for in such a place at such a time horsethieves were the last thing they were expecting. Call had taken the precaution of going with Old Hugh to two or three of the nearest Indian camps to meet the chiefs and do the usual diplomacy, in the hope of preventing the sort of surprise encounter that had
