Streets Of Laredo

Maria saw old Estela, sitting on the other bank, watching. She was listening for her own children and did not seem to care that two of Maria's children were being drowned before her eyes.

Maria went into the water and shot again. The bullet hit a rock and whined away.

"Let her go!" Maria yelled at her son.

"Who are you to be killing your own sister?" Joey turned his head toward Maria briefly and gave her that cold look he had, the look that made her feel she was not there. Maria had always hated that look. She was his mother and she was there, but not to Joey's eyes--he kept trying to get a better grip on his wiggling sister. Drowning Teresa was what interested him, not the fact that his mother was threatening him with a gun.

Joey was glad his mother had come. He wanted her to see what he was doing. Catching Rafael and Teresa had been easy. He had tied them up and thrown them on his horse while the shoemaker's wife was screaming. It was irritating that Rafael's skull was so thick that even three blows with a rock had not weakened him enough that Joey could drown him. Joey had hobbled Rafael's feet; he could finish him later. He was annoyed with his sister, too. He had not supposed that she was so strong or could struggle so hard. Despite all he could do, she kept getting her head up, gulping air. He could not get a good enough grip on her neck to keep her under. Because of his wounds, he was not strong enough for the task he was trying to do.

Joey was not at all surprised that his mother had come. She had been working with the woman in childbirth, and she was as bloody as a wounded animal. The fact that she had old Call's pistol didn't worry him. His mother wouldn't shoot him, and even if she tried she would miss.

When the drowning was over he would make her take the pellets out. Once that was done he would get his strength and his pride back, and would go near the City of Mexico and rob some trains with rich people on them. His mother had doctored old Call, for he had seen the old Ranger in bed in her house.

Joey had started to kill him, but had felt the same indifference he felt when he let Famous Shoes live. It would be wasting a death to kill such a worthless old person. Who could take pride in killing such old, half-dead people? It was better to do what he was doing: avenge himself on the bloody woman who stood there pointing a pistol at him.

Maria shot one more time. It hit the water near Joey, but he didn't even look up. She had stopped expecting to scare her son. She shot in hopes that someone would hear and come to see what the shooting was about. Even if the drunken vaqueros came, it might be enough; then Joey might stop.

But Joey didn't stop. He had managed to get Teresa's body between his legs, and he tightened his legs and used both hands to shove his sister's head under the water. Maria waded into the water and struck Joey high on the shoulder with her knife. Joey screamed--the wounds on his back were sore. He turned to his mother with a look of hatred. Maria struck again, high on his other shoulder. She only wanted to cut Joey enough so he would let Teresa go. When Joey turned again, Teresa wiggled free and sucked in air.

She kept wiggling until she was out of reach.

Joey grabbed for her, but Teresa was quicker. Even with her feet tied, she was as quick as a fish.

Joey took a few steps toward her, but Teresa was already yards away. In the water she was quicker than he was.

In fury, Joey turned on Maria and drew his own knife. He would kill Rafael with the knife and then chase down Teresa.

Maria saw where her son's eyes were pointed.

She put herself between Joey and Rafael. She still held her knife, but she didn't want to stab her son again. The wounds she had given him were light and were meant to distract him, not hurt him.

She could help him recover and live. She would do it--take out the pellets of heavy shot, wash his wounds, nurse him, if only he would relent.

He must relent, though. She would not give him her other children, his brother and sister.

"Stop this!" Maria cried. "You're hurt, you're weak! Stop this killing! Come home with me and let me wash you. I'll feed you and I'll hide you until you are well." "Wash yourself, whore!" Joey said, in his cold tone. His eyes were like sleet. Maria held her knife high. Joey would not stop. He would not become her good son again. All she could do now was protect Rafael. Joey's cold look made Maria want to give up. Her son should not look at her with his look of sleet--it was a poor return for the care she had given and the love she had borne.

But it was Joey's look, and she could not change him. She had to give up. That way she could protect Rafael and Teresa, and she would protect them, no matter what she had to do.

When Joey came close, Maria raised the knife and tried to cut his arm; anyplace to slow him but not kill him. She saw Joey's knife but didn't feel it strike--not the first time, not the second, not the third.

"Leave your brother alone!" she screamed.

"Leave him alone. Don't hurt your brother!" Joey was trying to push his mother out of the way so he could grab his brother's hair, when the bullet struck him. He turned his head at the shot.

Maria turned, too. They saw Gordo, the butcher, standing on the riverbank with his old carbine.

"Don't kill her, you rascal!" Gordo yelled. "Don't kill her--I might want to marry her!" Across the river, Teresa crawled into the shallows, and old Estela hobbled over and helped her out of the water. Teresa was very frightened. Her mother had been right; Joey was bad. She was worried, for she heard shots and she could not see.

"Where is my mother?" she asked the old woman.

Old Estela's eyes were dim, and she couldn't see the far bank of the river.

"She is over there," old Estela said. "I think I hear her talking to my children." Joey fell backward into the water. Maria cut Rafael free, and the two of them began to drag Joey to the bank where the butcher stood with his gun. Before Maria could get out of the river, she fell, too. She fell across her son's legs, and the river began to swirl her blood away.

Gordo carried Maria home. She was awake, but he saw where she had been stabbed and knew she would not live. It angered him, for he had already begun to think of her as his wife and was looking forward to laying with her. She had eluded him when she was a girl, and now she was going to elude him again by dying. It was an aggravation, such an aggravation that he refused to bring her devil of a son's body to her.

"He's dead, Gordo," Maria said. "Bring him home." The butcher ignored her. He also refused to lift Captain Call and bring him back inside the house. He put Maria on the bed, and as he went out, he spat on Call. Later, the two drunken vaqueros came to Maria's house and they, too, spat on him. One wanted to put a rope around the old man's neck and drag him to death, but the other vaquero argued that it would be better just to let the old man die. He was too famous. If they put a rope on him, the Texans might find out about it and hunt them down.

Teresa picked her way back across the cold river in fear. She was afraid her brother might catch her again and put her head in the cold, swirling river and let it suck her breath away.

Twice when he held her, Teresa had feared that the river was going to suck all her breath away.

But her brother didn't take her. She waded through the cold water, stepping on slick rocks.

Teresa knew the path through the mesquites and was soon home. Rafael was inside, moaning. When Teresa felt his head, she found that it was wet and sticky. Her mother lay on the bed where Se@nor Call had been.

"Where is he, did he leave?" Teresa asked, concerned. Her mother had promised that Se@nor Call would be there when she returned home.

"He is outside," her mother told her, in a voice that was very weak. "Joey hurt me, and Gordo would not help me. Go find Jorge and ask him to come. He can move Se@nor Call back inside. Ask the old sisters if they would come to me." The old sisters and Jorge came. Jorge put Call inside on a blanket. Teresa fixed some frijoles, but only Rafael ate a little. Her mother didn't want any, and Se@nor Call was not speaking. His mind had gone to sleep, as it often did.

Teresa began to be afraid for her mother. She heard her mother's breath, and it was as weak as Se@nor Call's. She was worried that they might both die. She was also afraid that Joey might come back and get her and Rafael. She knew now that Joey was bad, and she was very afraid. Having the water suck her breath had left her with a deep fear.

Maria felt her daughter's fear in the trembling of her small hands.

"Don't be afraid," she said. "Joey's dead. You are safe. Billy will come soon and take care of us. The old sisters will stay until he comes to help." When the vaqueros realized that Joey Garza was dead and that Gordo, a stupid butcher, had killed him, they became bitter. They had had the chance to kill him too, but the bloody woman had pointed a gun at them and prevented them from having the glory of killing the young bandit. In their bitterness, they drank a lot of tequila and convinced themselves that they had shot Joey Garza.

The butcher had only assisted. They found Joey's body in the river and shot it a few more times, then put a rope on it and dragged it through the village streets. In other places, one would believe that a greasy butcher had killed the famous young killer with a rusty carbine. But in Mexico and Texas, the people would think it was two fearless vaqueros who had risked their lives to rid the country of a scourge. Their fame would grow; there would be songs about them. Only in Ojinaga would anyone even suppose that a village butcher had anything to do with it.

The vaqueros left Joey's body outside the cantina and went to Presidio to spread the news. They wanted to find someone to take their picture with the corpse.

Jorge and his brother brought Joey's body to his mother. His body was filthy and dirty and coated with dust from being dragged by the two vaqueros.

Maria begged the old sisters to heat water and help her clean her son. She wanted his body to be clean, and she wanted him dressed in clean clothes, clothes that she had washed herself.

"He's my good boy again ... please make him nice," she asked the old sisters. But the old sisters smoked and sulked and ignored her. They knew the dead boy was of the devil--to touch him might be to catch corruption.

Maria was weak, but she was determined that her son's body would be clean.

"Get out!" she cried at the old sisters.

"Go roll your cigarettes someplace else." She made Teresa heat water. When it was hot, she bathed the wounds on Rafael's scalp, working very slowly. Then she had Teresa and Rafael help her move to where Joey lay.

Teresa brought her a knife, and with it Maria cut off Joey's clothes. She was very weak, and she had to stop often to rest.

Jorge came in for a minute and helped Maria clean Joey's body. He was very grateful to Maria, for his wife was alive and he had a fine son. He didn't know why Maria was still alive.

She had three deep wounds in her chest, and the blood seeped through her dress.

"Mama, you're bleeding," Teresa said. "I feel it on my hands." "Maria, you're hurt," Jorge said, thinking she might not realize how badly she was wounded.

"I want to put clean clothes on my son," Maria said. "I want to do it now." She ignored their fears, the fears of her child and of the shoemaker. She felt very weak, but she wanted her son's body to be clean.

She was not strong enough to dress him, though, and Jorge did not like to touch dead bodies. Jorge began to shake and tremble at the thought of what he was doing. He wanted to be home looking at his fine son. He didn't like moving Joey's stiffening limbs in order to get him into clothes. They got the shirt on him, but that was the best they could do.

"Maria, just cover him," Jorge told her, before he left.

Maria had to stop with the shirt, for she was too weak to do more. She asked Teresa to get a blanket, and they covered Joey. Maria wept and wept for her son's lost life. Teresa felt her mother's tears with her fingers and tried to comfort her, but for Maria there was no comfort. She had tried to be a good mother, but she had not been able to make her son a good person. Joey had been killed while trying to murder his own brother and sister. That he had killed her didn't matter so much; his life had killed her already, his life and her life. Her mistakes had been too many and too profound, though she didn't know exactly when the mistakes had been made or what they were. She had gotten up every morning and made food and washed clothes and seen that her children were clean. She had tried to teach them good behavior, but still it had led to Teresa's blindness, and Rafael's poor mind, and the moment in the river when she had had to turn the knife on her own child.

It was too hard--Maria wanted peace. She wanted to have all the pains and worries bleed quickly away, and to go into a sleep beyond dreams, beyond the need to be awake and wash and cook while knowing every day that so much was wrong.

When Joey was covered, Maria crawled back to her blanket, stopping several times to rest. She saw old Call watching her. That was another strange trick of life--that she should be dying in her own house, in a room with the man who had killed her father and her brother.

The children had run outside for a moment. They couldn't stand to hear the weakness in her voice, and they wanted to be away from the fear that their mother might die. They hid among the goats while Rafael tried to find the nanny goat he sometimes suckled. But he was too confused; he could not find her.

Call saw Maria crawling on the floor, dragging herself back to her blanket. He didn't know what had occurred, but he saw that the woman was badly injured. He remembered that the cold boy had come into the room and had looked at him insolently.

Maria did not like having the old man in her house. Taking him in had been another mistake.

If she met her father and her brother on the other side, they would be stern and unforgiving. But Call was kind to Teresa, and perhaps if he lived he would be a friend to her.

Several townspeople came to see Joey's body. Maria lay on her blanket and did not speak. She could not afford to waste what strength she had left. Teresa and Rafael came back and sat with her, one child on either side. They were silent and afraid. Maria hoped that Billy would return soon this time. She needed him to hurry back with Lorena. It was for Lorena that she waited, in pain and in life. Maria was a mother; she had two children alive, two damaged children. She hoped Lorena would be kind enough to take them. There was no one in the village to take them, for the village was too poor. No one would want to feed them or keep them clean or wash their clothes.

Teresa was pretty; men would soon find her and degrade her. Rafael would be teased and tormented. He would go hungry, for his blind sister would not be strong enough to protect him. For them, Maria held herself in life. Teresa brought her posole, but she could not eat. She saw Teresa feeding old Call and heard her whispering to him.

Long hours passed. Maria grew more and more tired, until she was so weak she despaired.

She was about to ask old Call if he would make the request to Lorena for her. Would he ask Lorena if she would take her children? She knew it was a serious request, to ask another woman to raise her children. Lorena had five of her own, and it might be that her husband was dead. But Maria had no one else to ask. She was about to tell Rafael to pull her over nearer to Call, when she heard the horses coming to the house.

Then Billy Williams stood in the doorway; Lorena stood behind him. He came and knelt by Maria. Maria felt grateful to fortune, that she had Billy Williams to assist her. He had come back when he promised. He had many failings, but he also had fidelity--now he had brought her the person she most needed, the woman who might help her children after her death, when she could not mother them anymore.

It was important that he had come back when he said he would--it was the best thing a man had ever done for her.

"Why, Mary, you ain't dyin', are you?" Billy asked. He was stricken in the heart.

He touched Maria's face; it was cold. He had only left for a little more than a day, and now this!

"Go get drunk now, Billy," Maria whispered to him. "But don't forget my children.

Please talk about me when you see them. Give them your memories. Tell them how I danced and laughed, when I was young and pretty ..." "Mary, you're still young and pretty," Billy Williams told her. It took his breath away to think that after all these years, Maria was going.

He would be lost; he wouldn't know what to do.

Maria raised up and gave him a kiss and tugged at his hair for a moment. He still had the long hair of the mountain man.

"Go on, Billy. Go get drunk," Maria whispered, again.

"Oh, Mary ..." Billy sighed.

He wanted to talk more--he wanted to say things he had never said to her. But Maria's eyes were tired and sad.

"You go on ... obey me," Maria told him, quietly, but in a tone that he knew better than to argue with.

"Well ... didn't I always?" he asked.

Lorena wanted the old man to go. She saw the dying woman looking at her, and she knew what Maria wanted to ask. She wanted the old man to go; yet, maybe he had been to Maria what Pea Eye was to her. It was not her place to rush him in his last moments with his love.

Billy Williams rose, looked at Maria once more, and stumbled outside.

Lorena knelt and felt Maria's pulse; it was barely there. That the woman was alive at all was a wonder. But then, it was a wonder that Call still lived. Pea Eye was outside, tied to his horse and in great pain. She wanted to lift him down and bring him in, but she had to hear Maria's request first.

"Would you take them?" Maria asked, with a movement of her head, first toward Rafael and then toward Teresa.

"Yes, I'll take them," Lorena said firmly. She wanted to relieve the woman's deep doubt. Maria had made the request she herself would have had to make to Clara, if things had gone differently. And she might not have even gotten to speak it--she might have had to trust that Clara would receive it in her heart, and respond.

"I've got my husband back now, and I'll take them. I expect we can take care of all the children that come along," Lorena told her. She meant it too; she was firm. She had Pea Eye back, and together they could take care of all the children that came along.

Maria smiled. She looked at Rafael and put her trembling hand on Teresa's face.

"I've got to get my husband in. He's hurt. I'll be right back," Lorena said, softly.

She found Billy Williams outside, crying.

"I just went off for two days," he choked, "and now this." "It was the wrong two days, but you couldn't know that," Lorena said. "Help me get Pea off, will you? He's hurting." They lifted Pea Eye down, carried him into the small house, and put him down beside Call.

"There's not too many more places left to lay sick people or dead people in this house," Billy Williams mumbled. There were Joey and Maria, Call, and now Pea Eye.

Lorena went to Maria and saw that she was gone.

"The count's even now," she said quietly to Billy. "It's two that's sick, and two that's dead." "Oh, Mary," Billy said, when he looked at her. He sat down on the floor and put his head in his arms.

Lorena made Pea Eye as comfortable as she could. He was unconscious, but he would live.

On the ride back, despite his pain, Pea talked and talked, asking questions about their children. The fact that his children were in Nebraska kept slipping from his tired mind. Finally, to satisfy him, Lorena made up little stories about the children and what they were doing.

Then, when she had made her husband as comfortable as she could make him, Lorena went back across the small room, covered Maria, and sat with her two new children, the little girl who had no sight, and the large boy with the empty mind.

In the morning, the vaqueros came back with a photographer they had found in Presidio. They wanted to have their pictures taken with the famous bandit they had killed. They had drunk tequila all night, telling stories about the great battle they'd had with the young killer. They had forgotten the butcher and the mother entirely; in their minds, there had been a great gun battle by the Rio Grande, and the famous bandit had finally fallen to their guns.

Billy Williams had obeyed Maria's last order: he drank all night, sitting outside the room where Maria lay. But the whiskey hadn't touched him, and when the vaqueros came straggling up from the river with the photographer and his heavy camera, loaded on a donkey--he planned to take many pictures and sell them to the Yankee magazines and make his fortune-- Billy Williams went into a deadly rage.

"You goddamn goat ropers had better leave!" he yelled, grabbing his rifle. The vaqueros were startled into immediate sobriety by the wild look in the old mountain man's eyes.

Billy Williams began to fire his rifle, and the vaqueros felt the bullets whiz past them like angry bees, causing them to flee. The photographer, a small man from Missouri named Mullins, fled too--but he could not persuade the donkey to flee. George Mullins stopped fifty yards away and watched Billy Williams cut the cameras off the donkey and hack them to kindling with an axe.

George Mullins had invested every cent he had in the world in those cameras. He had even borrowed money to buy the latest equipment--but in a moment, he was bankrupt. There would be no sales to Yankee magazines, and there would be no fortune.

George Mullins had ridden across the river, feeling like a coming man; he walked back to Texas owning nothing but a donkey.

All day people filed out of the countryside like ants, from Mexico and from Texas, hoping for a look at Joey Garza's body. But Billy Williams drove them all off. He fired his gun over their heads, or skipped bullets off the dust at their feet.

"Go away, you goddamn buzzards!" he growled, at the few who dared to come within hearing distance.

The people feared to challenge him, but they were frustrated. The body of the famous young killer lay almost in sight, and they wanted to see it. They wanted to tell their children that they had seen the corpse of Joey Garza. They hated the old fountain man; he was crazy. What right did he have to turn them away when they had come long distances to look at a famous corpse. He didn't own the body!

"They ought to lock up the old bastard!" one disgruntled spectator complained. He expressed the general view.

But no one came to lock up Billy. Olin Roy arrived out of deep Mexico in time to help Billy dig the two graves. Olin was silent and sad, for he, too, had loved Maria. The old sisters came and dressed Maria's body, but they would not touch Joey. Lorena finished the cleaning that Maria, in her weakness, had begun.

Pea Eye watched with Famous Shoes, who had arrived in the night while Billy Williams sat drinking. The wounds in Joey's back were terrible, and Olin and Billy both believed they would have killed Joey, in time.

"Why, he was just a young boy," Pea Eye remarked. It always surprised him how ordinary famous outlaws turned out to be, once you saw them dead. People talked about them so much that you came to expect them to be giants, but they weren't. They were just men of ordinary size, if not smaller.

"Why, Clarie's bigger than he was," Pea Eye said. All that chasing and all that pain and death, and the boy who caused it hadn't been as big as his own fifteen-year-old.

"He had pretty hands, didn't he?" Lorena said. She felt sad and low. All Billy Williams's yelling and shooting made her nervous. She could not forget Maria's anguished eyes. What a terrible grief, to have a child go bad and never be able to correct it or even know why it happened. She wondered how she would live if one of her sons came to hate her as Joey had seemed to hate Maria.

It was not a direction Lorena wanted to allow her mind to go. She didn't want such darkness in her thoughts, for she had the living to tend to. She busied herself caring for Pea Eye, Captain Call, and the two children. She thought of Maria and her bad son as little as possible. There was no knowing why such things happened. Lorena had good sons, and she knew now how very lucky she was. To have an evil child come from her own womb would be too hard to bear; Lorena didn't want to think about it.

When Pea Eye's mind cleared and he had a good look at the Captain, he was shocked.

Call was almost helpless. He let the little blind girl feed him, but otherwise, he simply lay on his pallet, barely moving. Of course, he could barely move without assistance. He only had one leg and one arm, and could not button or unbutton himself.

"You have to help him make water," Lorena told Pea Eye. "He hates for me to do it, but if somebody don't help him, he'll wet his pallet. Watch him and help him. We don't have any bedding to spare." "Why, Captain, if there was many more people as bunged up as you and me, they'd have to build a crutch factory in the Panhandle, I guess," Pea Eye said. He was trying to make conversation with the silent man. He thought of the part about the crutch factory as a little joke, but Lorena glared at him when he said it, and Captain Call did not reply. He just stared upward.

Later, Pea Eye felt bad about having made the remark. He didn't know why he had even made it, it just popped out. Though his hip pained him a good deal, Pea Eye could not help but feel good. His wife had found him, and they were together again. He wouldn't have to lose her, and he would see his children soon. Lorena was going to wire Clara to send them home when the time came for them all to go north.

The sullen doctor from Presidio had been persuaded to come and set Pea Eye's hip, but only because Lorena had gone to Presidio herself and refused to take no for an answer. She had waited sternly in the doctor's office until he saddled a horse and came back with her. He said Pea would be walking without a crutch in two months, just in time for planting. His shoulder was already almost healed, and the two toes Joey shot off he could do without. Mox Mox and Joey Garza were dead, but he himself had survived. He had also learned his lesson, and learned it well. He would never leave his family again.

"Why'd you have to say that about the crutch factory?" Lorena whispered to him that night. The remark had startled her. Pea Eye had never made a joke in his life--why that one at that time?

"He'll never forgive you for saying it, and I don't blame him," she went on. "You're just hurt, Pea. In two months you'll be as good as new. But the Captain is crippled for life.

He's crippled, for life!

"You better just shut up about crutch factories!" she whispered later, with unusual vehemence.

Pea Eye came to feel that his chance remark was the worst thing he had ever said in his life. His main hope was that the Captain would just forget it. But the Captain said so little to anyone that it was hard to know what he was remembering or forgetting. The Captain just lay there. He only fought when Pea Eye tried to help him relieve himself, struggling with his one weak hand. His struggles unnerved Pea Eye so much that he did a poor job the first time, and he made a mess. This incompetence annoyed Lorena to the point that she ignored the Captain's objections and helped him herself after that.

"You'll have to learn to do things for him, Pea," Lorena said. "He's helpless. He'll have to live with us for a while, I guess. I told Maria I'd take her children, and we've got them to think about, too. We're both going to have all we can do. You better make up your mind to start helping Captain Call. You have to help him now whether he likes it or not. You know the man. You worked for him most of your life. He don't like it when I help him. I don't know whether he just don't like me, or whether it's because I'm a woman, or because I was what I was, once ... I don't know. But we're going to have all we can do, both of us, and the Captain ought to be your responsibility." "Why, that little blind girl takes care of him pretty well herself," Pea said. Indeed, Teresa's attentiveness and the Captain's acceptance of it surprised him. He had never known the Captain to cotton to a child. He had never even come to visit their children, and he and Lorena had five.

Teresa brought the Captain his food and sat by him and fed him. She brought a rag and washed his face when he finished. If he wanted to turn on his side, he let Teresa help him.

Often, she whispered to him and the Captain responded, though in a voice so low that Pea Eye could not pick up the words. The little girl was quick as a lizard. She could be across the room and out the door in a flash, and Pea Eye never saw her bump into anything.

Maria and Joey were buried in the two graves Billy and Olin had dug. Many people came; not for Maria, but so they could say they had seen Joey Garza buried. Billy and Lorena went across the river and got the coffins, plain pine boxes.

They tried to find Mullins, the photographer, and return his donkey, but Mullins was drunk somewhere and could not be located. The collapse of his prospects proved too much for him. Billy Williams was a little abashed; it had all been the vaqueros' fault, not the photographer's. But they could not spend all day looking for a drunken photographer, so they took the donkey back to Mexico.

The old sisters and a few local women came to the burial, but very few men showed up. Gordo, the butcher, walked by sullenly and went home.

He was still angry with Maria for being dead and thus unavailable for marriage.

"There ought to be singing," Lorena said. She knew Pea Eye couldn't sing, and Billy and Olin were unknown quantities when it came to hymn singing. She remembered the songs in Laredo, during the burial of the deputy's young wife. She had learned from Pea that the deputy was dead now, too; it made her want to go live in a country where not so much blood was spilled. She remembered how the whore with the curly hair had poured her heart into the song for the young woman, as if she had known how the deputy's wife must have felt, to want to take her own life. Though not confident of her own voice, Lorena resolved to sing alone if necessary. She began "There's a Home Beyond the River"--after all, the river was right there in sight--and to her surprise, Olin Roy joined her. He had a fine baritone voice. He sang so well that a few of the gawkers from Presidio were moved to join in.

That night, dark feelings burdened Lorena.

She could not get Maria's horrible end to leave her mind. She tried to sleep, but could not. She lay beside Pea Eye on the pallet and began to shake. The feeling came over her that had made her want to die when Blue Duck took her and when Mox Mox prepared to burn her. Evil men or evil circumstances would come and prove stronger than all the good in her life. She had her husband back and would soon have her children with her, but in her fear, she could not help feeling that the reprieve was only temporary. Clara Allen herself had watched all three of her sons die.

Two of Maria's children had afflictions, and the one who had been whole and beautiful was evil. He had murdered many men and, in the end, had even murdered the woman who had carried him in her womb. Lorena couldn't control her fear, for it came from places too deep and too real, from what she had known and what she had seen. She and her family were safe, but only for a time. Her children were still young, and disease could take them. Her boys were still small; one of them could be a Joey. She didn't expect it, but Maria probably hadn't expected it either, when Joey had been the age of Georgie or Ben.

The fear made Lorena restless. She got up, then lay down again. The room was too small to walk in. She could hear Pea Eye's breathing, and the Captain's and Rafael's; the large boy snored in his sleep.

Billy Williams and Olin Roy were outside, drinking and smoking. In her restlessness, Lorena went out. She had never drunk much whiskey, but she wanted something that would dull her feeling--the feeling that there was no safety and that nothing could prevent things happening to her or her loved ones, things that were even worse than what had already happened. She knew she was lucky, for she was healthy, she wasn't dead, none of her children were sick, and her husband's wounds would heal.

But it was only temporary, her luck. The next Mox Mox might find her, or the next plague, or a storm or a fire or a war.

Maria had been a kind woman, but her fate had been far from kind--her fate had been hard and her end terrible. It was a warning; but a warning for a condition which had no cure, or of a threat that there was no guarding against.

Lorena put on Pea Eye's coat and stepped out into the cold night. The two men sat a little distance from the house. They had made a small campfire and were staring into it, passing a bottle back and forth. Lorena walked out to the fire.

Both men saw Lorena coming and felt uneasy.

She had been courteous to both of them and had made Billy Williams an ally forever because of her kindness to Maria. Maria would have died even harder had she not known that Lorena would take care of her children.

Billy and Olin had roamed the border country for most of their lives, and both of them remembered Lorena from other days when she had been a beautiful young whore in Lonesome Dove. Both had visited her. Olin Roy remembered the Frenchman, Xavier Wanz, who had loved Lorena so feverishly that he burned his own saloon and himself with it, in his grief when Lorena went north with the Hat Creek outfit. Neither had supposed they would encounter the woman so much later in life, married to the gangly Pea Eye. She was heavier and her fresh beauty had been worn away by life, but she was the same woman: she was respectable and competent by any standard.

She had amputated Woodrow Call's leg and brought him to safety across more than a hundred miles of desert. Few men would have been equal to that task. Now she was walking toward their campfire, in her husband's big coat. In the heat of action and the sadness of the last days, neither man had thought much about their earlier brief connection with Lorena. But now they wondered, separately, if she would remember that they had been among her many customers, long ago.

"Could you spare me a little of your liquor, gentlemen?" Lorena asked. "I'm feeling chill." "Here, ma'am--we've got a fresh bottle," Billy said, handing it to her. "This one ain't been slobbered on." Lorena took the full bottle and drank.

The whiskey burned her throat, but she sat down by the campfire, tucked the coat around her, and drank anyway. Pea Eye's coat was a heavy gray capote, with a hood for rough weather.

Lorena pulled the hood over her head and drank. The men had fallen silent, which annoyed her a little. It irritated her that men were so uneasy in her company most of the time. She had been courteous to these men--why had they immediately stopped talking when she arrived? Even Pea Eye was sometimes ill at ease in her company, for no reason she could understand. She was doing exactly the same thing as the men: sitting by a campfire drinking whiskey. Why wouldn't they talk?

"I don't mean to impose," Lorena said to them. "You don't have to choke off your conversation just because I'm here." "We wasn't saying much anyway," Billy Williams told her. "We was just chatting about Mary." "Tell me about her," Lorena said. "I didn't have time to get to know her very well." "She was married four times," Billy Williams said. "Three of her husbands got killed, and the other one run off. I never cared much for any of them myself, but it was Mary who took them as husbands, not me.

"Then Joey went bad," he added.

"Was she ever happy?" Lorena asked.

"Mary? Yes, we used to dance a lot," Billy Williams remembered.

"I guess you both cared for her," Lorena said. "Seems like you did, or you wouldn't be here.

Didn't either of you want to marry her?" "Oh, I did," Billy Williams said.

"She wouldn't have me, but we got along anyway." Olin Roy remained silent. His disappointments in regard to Maria were too deep to voice.

"Were any of her husbands good to her?" Lorena wondered.

The two men were silent. They had known little of what went on in Maria's marriages. When she was with Roberto Sanchez, her face had often been bruised; apparently he was rough, though Maria had never mentioned it to either of them. Carlos Garza had been a vaquero, off in the cow camps with other vaqueros. Juan Castro had been cheap; besides her midwifing, Maria had done cleaning for white people across the river when she was married to him. Benito had merely been lazy; he seemed to have no malice in him.

But was Maria ever happy? Both could remember her smile, and the sound of her laughter, and the look on her face when she was pleased as well as when she was displeased. But was Maria ever happy? It was a hard question.

"She had her children," Billy replied. "She was good to her children." Lorena asked no more questions. She felt she had been foolish to inquire. The two men were probably decent, as men went. Both had clearly been devoted to Maria, else why would they be here, reluctant to leave her grave? But how the woman had felt when she closed the doors of her house at night and was alone with one of her husbands and her children, was not something that men could be expected to know. What Maria had felt in the years of her womanhood was lost. Who would know what feelings she had struggled with as she lost four husbands and raised her children? How could men, decent or not, know what made a woman happy or unhappy? She herself had known little happiness until she had persuaded Pea Eye to accept her. Why she felt she might be happy with Pea instead ofwith any of the other men who had sought her hand in the years after Gus McCrae's death was elusive, too. Lorena had thought she'd known what drew her to Pea Eye once, but now, sitting by the campfire in Mexico, she found she couldn't recover her own reckonings in the matter.

She had been right, though, for she had known great happiness with Pea Eye and their children. Probably there was no explaining any of it; probably it had been mostly luck.

The night grew colder, and the stars shone even more sharply in the deep, inky sky. Lorena drank most of the bottle of whiskey. She knew that she would feel like her head was cracking in the morning, but she didn't care. The restlessness she felt had to be conquered; the deep fear inside her had to be dulled. She needed the fire of the whiskey and the numbness that finally came.

Even with the whiskey in her, Lorena could not stop thinking of Maria. She wished she'd had more time with her, time not so filled with violence and pain. There had been no time for the talk of women when there had been so many injured to attend to. Then Maria had become one of the injured herself. She'd had to save her strength for her final request.

Maria's eyes, at the end, haunted Lorena. She wanted to forget Maria's eyes, but she also wanted to know what Maria knew and what she had felt. She wished the two of them could have had even one talk about their lives. She wished it very much, but that wish could not be granted.

The white line of dawn began to show in the east, across the river. Soon, Lorena knew, she would have to go in, drunk or not, rested or not, and start tending to the injured and the children. It was too late for the knowledge she craved; she would never know much about Maria.

That chance--an important one--had been lost forever.

The line of white to the east widened, and the lower stars began to fade. In that direction, only a few steps beyond where the goats were sleeping, Maria Sanchez lay buried, not far from the Rio Grande, in a narrow grave.

Call's greatest embarrassment was that he could not stand up and walk outside to relieve himself. For a time he had no crutch and would have been too weak to use one, even if one had been available. He had to make water in a jug, and often was too weak even to do that properly. He had only his left hand, and his finger joints were still swollen so badly with arthritis that he couldn't work his own buttons.

Mostly, Pea Eye helped him. But if Pea Eye was sleeping or had hobbled outside with Maria's children, Lorena came and assisted him matter-of-factly, ignoring his embarrassment and shame. She did it quickly, as she might have dipped water out of a bucket.

"We don't have the bedding to spare, Captain," she said once; it was her only comment on the matter.

At such times, Call wanted to take out his pocketknife and cut his own throat. But someone had taken his pocketknife, and even if he had had it, he doubted he could have made a clean job of it with only his left hand to use.

Call spoke only to the little blind girl, Teresa. She insisted on caring for him and he accepted her help, although sometimes her girlish chatter tired him. She was very helpful to him; also, she was a young child, and blind. She could not see his stumps, or the black bruise that covered most of his chest, where the bullet was that the doctor had not been bold enough to remove. Call wished the man had made an attempt; perhaps then he would have died.

At least Teresa couldn't see him, and she hadn't known him as he had been. She sat by him and fed him, and while she fed him, told him little stories about spiders and rabbits. Her speech was like a birdsong, quick and light. Hearing her voice was Call's only pleasure. He never reproached Teresa or sent her away, even when he was weary or hot with pain. In the mornings he waited patiently for her; as soon as she awoke, Teresa would come over and put her cool hand on Call's forehead to see how bad his fever was.

From the moment Joey Garza's three bullets struck, Call's only escape from pain had been unconsciousness. He clung to sleep, but his dozings became shorter and shorter. On the day he was wounded he had wanted to live; he wanted to finish the job he had been hired to do. He had never left a job unfinished in his life.

Remaining himself, remaining who he was, meant finishing the job he had undertaken.

But as Captain Call floated in and out of fever and hallucination, the first thought that filtered into his consciousness each time he awoke was a sense of irrevocable failure--a failure that could never be redeemed. He could not finish the job; would never finish or even undertake such a job again.

He had failed and was beyond making the failure good.

He deeply regretted not doing exactly what Gus McCrae had done: letting the wounds finish him. His wounds had finished him as the man he had been. He clung to a form of life; but a worthless form. He had never enjoyed letting people wait on him; he had always saddled his own horse, and unsaddled it too.

But now people waited on him all day. Teresa brought him food and spooned it into his mouth.

Lorena changed his bandages. Pea Eye, crippled himself, nonetheless had two hands and helped him into a clean shirt and fresh pants when the time came to change.

Call could not clear his mind sufficiently to bring what had happened into a clear sequence, or even to remember it all. He inquired about Brookshire and was told that his body had been taken to the undertaker's in Presidio, the day Lorena and Billy had gone to procure the coffins for Maria Sanchez and her son. It was still there, awaiting instructions. No one had had time to inform Colonel Terry of all that had occurred.

Some days, Call understood that he had killed Mox Mox; at other times, he thought Charles Goodnight had killed him--at least, Goodnight had been mentioned in connection with the death. He could not get the facts of Deputy Plunkert's demise straight in his mind, nor was it quite clear to him how Brookshire had died.

The confusion only made his sense of failure worse: two men who should never have been with him in the first place, who had been cajoled in!coming by Call's own misjudgments, were now dead. It was a sorry thing.

Call's one consolation was that Pea Eye had wounded Joey Garza, and had finished the job he had been hired to do. He didn't understand about Maria or the butcher, though--what did the butcher have to do with anything? But he did grasp that Joey had killed his mother, and that the feebleminded boy and the little blind girl would be going with them to the Panhandle, when he was able to travel. When that would be, no one seemed to know. Call continued to be very weak. It was a long trip to the railroad, and the trip would have to be made in a wagon. The doctor didn't think Call was up to it yet. Lorena didn't, either.

"I carried him this far and kept him alive," Lorena said. "I want him to survive the trip back. We'll just have to wait until he's stronger."

One day, Lorena went to Presidio and came back with three crutches. One was for Pea Eye; the other two were for Call.

Call could only look at the crutches. He was just at the point where he could sit up without growing faint. Sitting up made it easier for Teresa to feed him. He couldn't use a crutch; not yet.

Pea Eye used his immediately. He pulled himself up and crutched his way around the room.

Pea Eye seemed to be feeling fine. It was known throughout the border country that Pea Eye had fired the shots that stopped Joey Garza. The doctor had let it be known that the shotgun wounds would have killed Joey, in time. The butcher had happened to finish him, but Pea Eye had made possible what the butcher had done. Pea Eye was a hero on both sides of the river.

Lorena saw Captain Call looking sadly at the crutches. The old man scarcely spoke all day, except to the little blind girl. Lorena had ceased to be certain that she had done the old man any favor by working so hard to save him. She had only saved him for grief, it seemed. He was an old man with no prospects; it was clear that he would prefer to be dead. He just didn't know how to be.

"You'll get stronger, Captain," Lorena said. "You'll be using these crutches as good as Pea Eye, one of these days." "I doubt it," Call said. He didn't want the crutches. How could a man on crutches mount a horse?

Later, though, Call realized that he had no need to mount a horse, and nowhere to go on one, if he did mount it. Teresa was telling him one of her spider stories, when the realization struck him.

Sometimes, for a minute or two, Teresa would draw Call into one of her stories. He would begin to be interested in the spider or the lizard or the rabbit Teresa was talking about. It was only a brief relief from thinking about his failure, but even a brief relief was welcome. He lived, or at least he breathed; yet he had no idea what his life would be. Listening to Teresa's stories was better than thinking about the disgrace of his failed attempt to catch Joey Garza, or about the two pointless deaths, or about the indignity of the future. Pea Eye had said he could come and live on the farm, with himself and Lorena and their children.

Call didn't want it. Yet, he had to live somewhere.

"I doubt I could be much help," he said, when Pea Eye made the offer.

Pea Eye doubted it too, but he didn't voice his doubts.

"You don't have to be, Captain--not for a while," Pea Eye told him.

Famous Shoes stayed in Ojinaga for a week.

He wanted the great eye, which was still tied to Joey Garza's saddle. The saddle was in a small shed behind Maria's house. Billy Williams kept an eye on the shed, for he was afraid that people would try to steal anything they could find that had belonged to Joey. Joey was a famous bandit; people would be looking for souvenirs.

Famous Shoes wanted the great eye badly.

He knew that such an instrument, which allowed one to study the plains on the moon, must be very valuable. Yet he had done considerable tracking for the white men, and had only been paid the five dollars that Pea Eye gave him. That came under a different account, in Famous Shoes' reckoning. Pea Eye had given him the five dollars to show him where the big shotgun lay. The wages they owed him for tracking had not been paid.

Captain Call was sick; his mind was not on the debt. No one's mind was on the debt except his own. Billy Williams was grieving for Maria, and he drank too much whiskey. Olin Roy had left. Billy Williams's eyesight was failing. Probably he would want to keep the great eye for himself, if it was called to his attention.

The old Indian waited several days, trying to decide who he should approach about the great eye.

He was tempted to steal it, but white men sometimes became crazy when things they weren't using were stolen from them. They might follow him and shoot him. The saddle had belonged to Joey, Maria's son, and both of them were dead. The great eye belonged to no one, as far as Famous Shoes could see. Taking it would not be stealing; still, he did not want to do anything that would make the white men crazy.

Captain Call did not want to talk to anyone except the little blind girl. He had never liked Famous Shoes anyway, and would find reasons to deny him the great eye if he was asked.

He would say it was worth too much, or that Famous Shoes didn't have that much wages coming.

One day, Famous Shoes decided to approach Pea Eye, who was outside mending a stirrup.

"I want to go to the Madre and visit the eagles," Famous Shoes told him. "If you don't want to pay me my wages in money, I will take the great eye instead." "The great what?" Pea Eye asked.

"The great eye that Joey used," Famous Shoes replied. "It is tied to his saddle." "Oh, that old spyglass," Pea Eye said.

"Nobody's using it--I sure don't want to drag that thing around. I guess you can just have it, if that's what you want." Famous Shoes could scarcely believe his good fortune. Billy Williams was at the cantina.

Lorena had gone to the river with Rafael and Teresa to wash clothes. He went at once to the little shed and took the great eye.

Captain Call had his eyes shut, and he breathed hard, like a sick calf. White men had the habit of staying alive too long, in Famous Shoes' opinion. Captain Call ought to send his spirit on, now. It was time for him to visit the other place. He might find his leg and his arm, if he went there.

Without delay Famous Shoes left for the Madre, carrying the great eye. Now he would be able to see as well as the eagles; now he could track them through the sky.

Pea Eye was through with his crutch before the Captain attempted to use his for the first time.

Call was so sad that it was hard to be around him.

Lorena finally cleaned out the little room that had been Maria's, and made him a bed in there. Too much had to be done, in the other room. She had to cook and clean, tend to the two children, feed Billy and Pea and the Captain--when the Captain would eat.

Having to walk around the silent, suffering old man every time she needed to do something was beginning to get on Lorena's nerves. When they got him home to the farm, Pea would have to build him a room of some kind, away from the house. With two more children in their home, there would have to be some expansion anyway. Lorena accepted that they would have to care for Call--he had no one else--but she didn't want him sitting in her kitchen, hour after hour every day, looking as if he hated life. It would be bad for her children, and her own nerves couldn't take it. She ran a happy household, usually; she was not going to dampen her children's liveliness because of Captain Call's grief.

Once she installed him in Maria's bedroom, things were better. Teresa became his sole attendant: she didn't like for anyone but herself to go into Call's room, and Call didn't welcome others, either. Pea Eye would come in once in a while and attempt to talk to him, but Call scarcely responded. The events of the past weeks were twisted in his mind, like a rope that had not been coiled properly. He wanted to remember things clearly, to backtrack through the pursuit of Joey Garza until he located the moment of failure. But the effort was discouraging; he had followed up the available clues and deployed his resources in what seemed like an intelligent way. Perhaps he should not have let himself be distracted by Mox Mox. If he hadn't, though, Jasper Fant's two children would have died, and others as well, very likely. By most reckonings, Mox Mox was worse than Joey Garza had been.

What it came down to, Call concluded, was this: on the morning when he was injured, his eyesight had failed him. He hadn't once suspected that the buckskin horse was hobbled. He ought to have been alert to that possibility, but all he had seen were two horses grazing. His eyes had simply failed him. Horses moved differently, when they were hobbled. Earlier in his life, his eyes would have detected the difference. As it was, they hadn't.

He should have had spectacles, but it had never occurred to him that his vision had fallen off so. He had always trusted his senses and had not expected any of them to fail him. To reflect that a cheap pair of spectacles might have prevented the loss of his arm and his leg was bitter knowledge, and he could not stop himself from brooding about it. His eyes had cost him himself: that was how he came to view it.

Because of his untrustworthy eyes, he had been reduced to what he was now, a man with two crutches, a man who could not mount a horse.

Some days, all the Captain did was wait for Teresa. When she was with him, he sometimes stopped thinking about his mistakes. Teresa would be outside with the goats and the chickens, and would come back to him with news of their activities. The old hen with the broken beak had caught a large lizard. One of the little goats had stepped in a hole and a snake had bitten it. Now, they were waiting to see if the kid would live or die. Rafael was upset, and they listened to his moaning through Call's little window.

"Do you think it will die?" Teresa asked him.

She had brought him his coffee.

"Probably it will, if it was small," Call said.

"If it dies, I hope it will see my mother," Teresa said. "She is with the dead. My mother will take care of Rafael's goat." "I expect she will," Call replied.

It was almost another month before Captain Call became strong enough to travel the rough wagon road to Fort Stockton. Pea Eye was in a fever of impatience to get home to his children. In all his years with the Captain, he had never known him to be sick. Of course, he realized that being shot three times with a high-powered rifle would set a person back considerably; he had been shot himself and knew what it was to feel poorly. But he was so accustomed to seeing the Captain well and hardy that it was difficult for him to accept the fact that Call simply would not become hardy again.

Pea Eye asked Lorena so often when she thought the Captain would be ready to travel that she finally lost her temper.

"Stop asking me that!" she snapped. "You ask me that five or six times a day and I've been telling you five or six times a day that I don't know. I don't have any idea when he can travel. All you have to do is look at him to know he's not able, yet. When that will change I don't know!" "I won't ask no more if I can help it, honey," Pea Eye replied, meekly.

"You'd better help it!" Lorena told him.

The thought of taking the old, ruined man into her household worried her more and more. Teresa cared for him almost entirely. Call made it clear that he didn't welcome anyone else's help. Her boys were no respecters of others' wishes, though --they had always been curious about Captain Call, and they were not likely to be easily shut out. They would have to build Call a room of his own --but where the money would come from, Lorena didn't know.

Rafael had been more affected by Maria's death than the little girl seemed to be. Lorena had taken a liking to Rafael, and he to her. Every morning he would milk his goats and bring the milk in a little pot for Lorena. Often she noticed Rafael peeking into Maria's old room, looking for his mother; she would see him searching for her outside, amid the goats and chickens and the few sheep; sometimes he would search by the river, where Maria had gone to wash their clothes.

It made Lorena sad, to see the boy looking so forlornly for his mother. He was a large boy, but sweet; his main problem was that he could not attend to himself very well. He was always spilling things on his clothes, or sitting down in puddles, or forgetting to button his buttons in the mornings.

"My mother isn't by the river," Teresa told Lorena. "She is among the dead. Rafael doesn't understand where the dead live." "I don't understand that too well, myself," Lorena said. "I know they're somewhere you can't see them." Later, she felt bad about the remark. She had made it to a little girl who had never seen her mother.

"I dream of my mother," Teresa said. "I dream she is with me and my rooster."

Billy Williams drove them to Fort Stockton, when Call was finally strong enough to make the trip. Billy knew a bartender in Presidio who owned a wagon he didn't need. He persuaded the bartender to lend it for the journey, promising to bring it back loaded with cases of whiskey.

"You ought to come with us to the Panhandle," Pea Eye told him. He and Billy had become fast friends, during the period of Call's convalescence.

"Come to the Panhandle. I'll make a farmer out of you," Pea Eye said.

"Nope, I imagine I'd miss Old Mex," Billy replied.

Gordo, the butcher, was annoyed when the wagon pulled away. Lorena had allowed Rafael to bring two goats. Teresa had her rooster, and three hens. Gordo didn't care how many goats and chickens the gringos took away; he was annoyed because they took the little blind girl. She was almost as pretty as her mother had been, and soon she would be old enough to marry. Of course, she was blind; she might be a poor housekeeper, and she might not cook well. But he could cook for himself, and cooking and housekeeping were not the only things to consider. The butcher thought he might have liked to marry the girl, if the gringos hadn't taken her away.

Call hardly spoke during the wagon ride to Fort Stockton. He held on to the side of the wagon with his one hand. The bullet in his chest still pained him, and it pained him even more when he was jostled, as he was when they crossed the many gullies along the way.

Now and then they met travelers, cowboys mostly. Call dreaded such meetings; he dreaded being seen at all. Fortunately, though, the travelers weren't much interested in him. They were far more interested in Pea Eye. His victory over Joey Garza was the biggest thing to happen on the border since the Mexican War, and none of the cowboys were old enough to remember the Mexican War.

Pea Eye felt embarrassed by all the attention he was getting. What made his embarrassment even worse was that he was getting that attention right in front of the Captain. Pea Eye had always been just a corporal--it was the Captain who had killed Mox Mox and six of his men. He didn't feel right being a hero, not with the Captain sitting right there in the same wagon.

The Captain didn't seem to mind, though. He didn't even appear to be listening most of the time. But Pea Eye was still embarrassed.

"Mox Mox was worse than Joey," Pea Eye told Lorena.

"Yes, he was worse," Lorena agreed.

She started to tell her husband that she had been Mox Mox's captive, but she caught herself.

That had happened before Pea Eye was her husband.

He didn't need to know about it.

They rolled into Fort Stockton beside the railroad. When they came to the dusty, one-room station, they saw a private car sitting by itself on the track.

"I wonder what swell came in that?" Lorena said.

They soon found out. The stationmaster emerged from the little building with a short, white-haired man with a curling mustache and a quick, restless walk. The two came right out to meet the wagon, though by the time they got there, the white-haired man was twenty yards in front of the stationmaster.

"I'm Colonel Terry, I've come to look for Brookshire--why ain't he with you?" the white-haired man said to Pea Eye.

"He started with you, I know that much, because I ordered him to," Colonel Terry said, before Pea Eye could think of a nice way to inform him that Mr. Brookshire was dead.

"It was a foolish order," Call said. The Colonel's manner irritated him. Lately, Call had used his voice so seldom that what he said came out raspy.

"What's that? Who are you, sir?" the Colonel asked.

"I'm Woodrow Call," the Captain replied. "Your man's dead. Mrs. Parker brought the body out, at considerable risk to herself.

Mr. Brookshire's at an undertaker's, in Presidio." "Well, his sister's been raising hell, trying to get us to find him--so much hell that I came here myself," the Colonel said. "Did the man do his duty?" "I reckon he did," Pea Eye said.

"I wouldn't be here driving this wagon, if he hadn't bought that big shotgun." "If he did his duty, then his sister will get the pension," the Colonel told them.

"It was a foolish order," Call repeated.

"Brookshire was no fighting man, and he should not have been sent to chase bandits." He looked at the Colonel and noticed a detail that had escaped him at first: the Colonel's empty right sleeve was pinned neatly to his coat.

"Now hold on, Call--I sent Brookshire to keep the accounts," Colonel Terry said. "You were the man sent to catch the bandit, and from the looks of you, you made a botch of it." Pea Eye nearly dropped the reins. Never in his life had he heard anyone speak so bluntly to the Captain.

To his amazement, Captain Call smiled.

"That's accurate," Call said. "I made a botch of it. But Mr. Parker is an able man, and he finished the job for you." "Grateful," Colonel Terry said, glancing up at Pea Eye briefly. His custom did not run to extended compliments.

"If Brookshire did his job, where's the ledgers?" he asked.

Call didn't answer, and Pea Eye wasn't too sure what the Colonel was referring to.

"Oh, them big account books?" he said, finally. "We used them to start fires, back when it was so cold. We was in a country where there wasn't no kindling, and very little brush." Call looked over the side of the wagon at Colonel Terry. He recalled that after Brookshire's first little panic at the Amarillo station, the man had been an uncomplaining companion. He did not intend to let the Colonel abuse him.

"Where'd you lose your arm?" Call asked him.

"First Manassas," Colonel Terry said.

He looked into the wagon and saw that Call had lost not only an arm, but a leg as well. He had been about to rethink the matter of the pension.

An accountant who burned the account books because of a little weather was not doing his job, in the Colonel's view. At least, he wasn't doing it well enough that his family could simply expect to get his pension. But Captain Call was a frosty sort. It was known that he had killed the manburner, Mox Mox, another sizable threat to the security of paying customers.

Colonel Terry seldom paused for anyone; but Captain Call had a distinguished record, and it seemed he felt strongly about Brookshire. It was not the moment to harp on pensions, paid or unpd, the Colonel decided.

"Brookshire's sister lives in Avon, Connecticut," the Colonel told them. He remembered that the Garza menace had been ended, and the primary goal had been accomplished. Perhaps Brookshire had been some help. The pension was a modest one anyway, enough to keep a widow or an old maid sister, if the widow or the old maid was frugal.

"Well, without those ledgers, it will be damn hard to get the books to balance," he said, annoyed as he always was by irregularities in regard to the accounting.

He surveyed the group in the wagon. There was Call, minus an arm and a leg; there was Mr.

Parker and a handsome blond woman--very handsome, he decided upon taking a second look. Then there was a greasy old fellow in buckskins, and a Mexican boy with shaggy hair and eyes somewhat like a sheep's. There was a pretty little girl who appeared to be blind, plus a bit of a menagerie: two goats, three hens, and a rooster.

Colonel Sheridan Terry--"Sherry Terry," as he was known in the military, because of his thirst for sherries and ports--had an abrupt shift of mood. It seemed to him that the people in the wagon had had too much hard travel, and all of them looked dirty and all of them looked tired.

He gave the blond woman the smile that had won Miss Cora's heart, and the hearts of not a few others, too. The blond woman was a beauty. If she had a wash, she might look better than Cora. The truth was, he had begun to grow a little tired of Cora.

"You people look like you need a wash," he said.

"I expect you've come a fair ways, in that old wagon. I'll make my bath available.

Of course, you're welcome to go first, ma'am--you and the young lady." Lorena had not been paying much attention to the palaver. She was too tired. She ached from her heels to her ears, for the jolting had been continuous for almost two hundred miles. The Colonel's speech was brusque, but then, most men's speech was brusque. She had been half asleep when she heard the Colonel offer his bath. Every time the wagon stopped jolting for even five minutes, Lorena was apt to go into a doze.

She had never been in a private railroad car before, much less had a bath in one. From the outside the car looked pretty fancy--she wished Tessie could see it. Pea Eye had taken to calling Teresa Tessie, and soon they all were doing it--the Captain, too. At least Teresa could feel the warm water and enjoy the bath, though.

"My name is Lorena Parker, and the young lady's name is Teresa," Lorena said. "I can't think of anything we'd be more grateful for than a bath." "Come along, then--it's just a step," Colonel Terry said. He reached up a hand, the left one, the one that had been spared. Lorena took it and stepped down. Then she helped Teresa out of the wagon, and the two of them followed the Colonel. His manner had changed, but not his gait. He was soon twenty yards ahead of Lorena and Teresa. The stationmaster walked with the womenfolk, at a more moderate pace.

"You reckon all Yankees walk that fast?" he asked.

Billy Williams loaded the wagon with whiskey and started back for Ojinaga the next day.

"I ain't been gone but a week, and I already miss Old Mex," he said.

"I still wish you'd come home with us and try farming," Pea Eye said.

"Why?" Lorena asked. "You don't even like farming yourself. If you don't like it, why would you think other people ought to do it?" Pea Eye didn't know what had prompted his invitation. He thought it might have had something to do with the fact that Billy Williams was a bachelor.

"He's by himself," he told his wife. "We'd be company for him." "You'd be a bachelor yourself, if I wasn't bold," Lorena reminded him.

Colonel Terry's generous mood lasted several days. He insisted that they all ride back to San Antonio as his guests. He arranged a separate passenger car, just for them and the goats and the chickens. The more he saw of Lorena, the more he realized how tired he was of Cora.

Just as they were leaving for San Antonio, the Colonel changed his mind and took them to Laredo instead. He needed to see the governor of Coahuila, and the errand couldn't wait.

"I think Mexico's the coming place," he told Call. "They've got minerals. All they need is railroads." "Did it take you long to learn to get by without your arm?" Call asked. He didn't have much patience with Terry, but he did have some curiosity about the lost arm. The Colonel seemed to function briskly without it. Of course, he owned a railroad and kept a servant with him, to help him dress. Still, Call suspected the Colonel was the sort who would function briskly, servant or no servant.

"It took me five years," Colonel Terry said. "Fortunately, the War was on, and the War took my mind off it. My orderly did most of the work, but I did all the thinking. You can't worry too much about one arm when there's a war going on." Call said nothing. He didn't feel brisk, and didn't expect to. The detour to Laredo didn't bother him, though it did bother Pea Eye and Lorena. They wanted to get home to their children, but he himself had a little business to attend to, in Laredo. He wanted to find Bolivar, and see if he was well enough to come with them to the Panhandle. He could not simply leave the old man with the Mexican family--they were too poor, and he had promised them he would come back and get Bolivar when he could.

In Laredo he asked Pea Eye to hire a buggy. Pea lifted him into it, and they crossed the river into Mexico. Call had some difficulty remembering just where he had left Bolivar, but by making inquiries they finally found the little house.

The woman he had left Bolivar with could not conceal her shock, when she saw how the Captain looked. He was gray, and he seemed so old.

"Oh, Se@nor Call," she said.

"Bolivar died. He died the day you brought him--the day you left to go up the river." "Well, I'll swear," Call said.

He had brought some money. He paid the woman well, but he didn't say a word as Pea Eye drove him back across the Rio Grande. He seemed to sink into himself, so deeply that Pea Eye didn't even try to make conversation. He concentrated on driving the buggy.

"That's about the last of them," Call said in a whisper, as they were driving through Laredo.

"The last, Captain?" Pea Eye asked.

"The last of the Hat Creek boys," Call said.

"Well, Captain, there's me ..." Pea Eye mumbled.

As soon as Colonel Terry left for Saltillo to pay his business call on the governor of Coahuila, Lorena went directly to the telegraph office and sent two wires--one to Clara Allen in Nebraska, and the other to Charles Goodnight. She asked Clara to send her children home when it was convenient, and she asked Charles Goodnight if he would loan her enough money for rail passage for three adults and two children, from Laredo to Quanah. She wanted to ask Mr. Goodnight if he could possibly send a wagon and a cowhand to get them home from Quanah; but in the end, she didn't make that request. If they could just get to Quanah, they could scare up a wagon for themselves. Someone would get them home. It was the money for the tickets she needed most. She hadn't a cent, and neither did Pea Eye. The Captain had given most of his money to a Mexican woman, the one who had kept Bolivar. In any case, Lorena didn't want to borrow from Call. She was willing to take care of him, but she didn't want to be dependent on him for money.

She didn't intend to be in Laredo when Colonel Terry returned from Mexico, either.

When the Colonel had offered to let Lorena and Teresa use his big brass bathtub, he had been courteous and had visited a saloon while they took their baths. But on the long trip to Laredo, the Colonel had begun to find reasons to invite Lorena into his private car. He had discovered that she was a teacher, and no doubt liked to read. He had quite a few books, in his private car. He had a man in New York who kept him supplied, for occasions when he traveled with lady guests. Now and then, he even liked to leaf through a book himself. He had the latest novels and such, and he felt sure he had some that Lorena might enjoy.

Lorena would have liked a book, but she didn't want to go back to the Colonel's private car.

The Colonel visited them in their car, several times a day, and he never missed an opportunity to compliment her, to pat her, to lean too close, to breathe on her neck, or to look her hard in the eye. Lorena surrounded herself with children. She sat between Teresa and Rafael, but the Colonel still patted her, leaned over her, looked at her.

Lorena put her arm around Teresa, when the Colonel was in the car. The one advantage to being blind is that she'll never see men's looks, Lorena thought.

Pea Eye found it surprising that the Colonel would be so friendly. From hearing Brookshire talk about him, he would not have supposed that the Colonel would be friendly at all.

He even had his servant bring them food, from time to time. Giving them a whole car to themselves was plenty generous, Pea Eye thought. He mentioned it to Lorena, but Lorena didn't say a word.

Just before they got to Laredo, Lorena was walking back to the dining car. She was on her way to beg a little stale bread for Teresa's chickens, when Colonel Terry suddenly popped out of a sleeping compartment. He didn't say a word--he just grabbed Lorena's arm and tried to pull her into the compartment. Lorena dropped the bread plate, and it broke. The Colonel was strong: if he had had two hands, Lorena would have had a hard struggle. The Colonel wasn't expecting a struggle of any sort, though he supposed Lorena might fuss a little, as Cora sometimes did. But what did that amount to? Women would fuss a little; it was part of the game.

"Now, missy," he said, but the next moment his hand was pouring blood. Lorena had picked up a piece of the broken plate and had slashed him with it, across the top of his hand. The Colonel let go his hold. Blood was streaming from the wound. She had cut him deep, and from the way she was holding the shard of plate, she would be capable of cutting him again.

"Why, you hellion ..." he barked. "You cut my hand!" "You see that one-legged man in the next car?" Lorena asked him. "You see Captain Call?

I cut his leg off myself, with a bowie knife.

I'll be glad to do the same for your one hand if you ever try to be familiar with me again, Colonel." The Colonel looked scared. Men usually did, if you hurt them a little.

"I've got to see the governor of Coahuila tomorrow," the Colonel said, in a shocked voice. "What am I going to do about this hand? Can't you bandage me, ma'am? I'm pouring blood all over the floor." "You're lucky it wasn't your throat," Lorena said. "One of these days, if I'm not left alone, I'm going to cut a man's throat, I expect." Colonel Terry felt a little faint. Cora might fuss, but she never cut him. When Lorena went past him he drew back, which was wise. If he had touched her again, Lorena felt she might have cut him worse--far worse than she had done already.

Charles Goodnight wired the money, and Clara Allen telegraphed that she was bringing the children home herself as soon as she could get a train.

Lorena felt relieved. She hoped Clara would stay for a while. Clara was the one person she could let herself rest with.

When Lorena came back with the tickets, Pea Eye was startled. The Colonel had assured him that everything would be arranged; he himself would be taking them home to the Panhandle.

Captain Call hadn't spoken, since coming back from Nuevo Laredo. He seemed to have taken the news of Bolivar's death very hard. Pea Eye was surprised at just how had the Captain took the news. When Bolivar had worked for them the Captain had usually been mad at him, the way Pea Eye remembered it. Bolivar was given to clanging the dinner bell with his broken crowbar, whether it was mealtime or not. The Captain hadn't liked it, either. But now he was so sunken that even Tessie couldn't get him to speak.

"The Colonel's due back tomorrow," Pea Eye reminded Lorena. "He's going to be right surprised when he finds out we left ahead of him." "We're going today--don't lose the tickets," Lorena said, handing them to him.

Colonel Terry turned red with anger when he returned from Coahuila and discovered that Lorena and her party had left ahead of him. What was a little cut on the hand? It was only a start-- women's anger sometimes led to better things.

"Who let them go? Was it you, goddamn you?" the Colonel said, glaring at the elderly stationmaster.

"Why, Colonel ... they had tickets," the stationmaster told him. "People with tickets can get on the train ... it's just a matter of having tickets." "Damn the tickets, and goddamn you, you're fired, get off my railroad!" Colonel Terry ordered.

In San Antonio, Lorena stopped for a day to take Teresa to an eye doctor. The stationmaster in Laredo had noticed that the little girl was blind, and told Lorena the name of a doctor in San Antonio who could help people with poor vision. His wife's sister was shortsighted, and had gone to him and got some fine spectacles. Before that, she had been prone to mixing up the sugar and the salt. Her husband, his brother-in-law, had been about to leave her for it.

The eye doctor was a very old man. His name was Lee.

"No kin to the General," he told Lorena.

He boiled his instruments for a long time, before examining Teresa.

"People think I'm kin to the General, but I'm no kin to the General," he said again, while waiting for the instruments to cool.

Teresa held her rooster--the old doctor had allowed it.

"Why, sure, what's the harm in a rooster, unless he pecks," he said.

When he was through, Dr. Lee took Lorena aside and told her that Teresa was incurably blind. Lorena went back to the train with a heavy heart. But Teresa had her rooster, and she seemed happy.

North of Fort Worth, there was a delay. An old man had been crossing the tracks with a wagonful of pigs. The old man was deaf, and he didn't hear the train coming. The wreck killed the old man, and scattered pigs everywhere. One of the wagon wheels jammed under the locomotive, along with a dead sow; it took a long time to clear it. In the railroad station in San Antonio, Lorena had used a little of Mr. Goodnight's money to buy a book by Mr. Hardy. She read it while the train was stopped.

"It's about a girl called Tess," she told Pea Eye, when he inquired.

"I hope she wasn't blind, like our Tessie," Pea Eye replied.

Call looked out the window at the grasslands, as the plains opened around them. Teresa whispered to him, trying to get him to talk; but he could not bring himself to speak, at least not often. There must have been a lot of rain that winter, for the cover was abundant. It would be a good year for the cattle herds.

The Captain could not imagine what he was going to do, in the years ahead. He would have to live, but without himself. He felt he had left himself far away, back down the weeks, in the spot west of Fort Stockton where he had been wounded. He had saddled up, as he would have on any morning. He had ridden off to check two horses, as he would have on any morning, as he had ridden on thousands of mornings throughout his life. He had been himself, a little stiff maybe, his finger joints swollen; but himself. He scarcely heard the gunshots, or felt the first bullet. That bullet and the others hadn't killed him, but they had removed him. Now there was a crack, a kind of canyon, between the Woodrow Call sitting with Teresa on the train and the Woodrow Call who had made the campfire that morning and saddled his horse. The crack was permanent, the canyon deep. He could not get across it, back to himself. His last moments as himself had been spent casually--making a campfire, drinking coffee, saddling a horse.

Then the wounds split him off from that self, that Call--he could remember the person he had been, but he could not become that person again. He could never be that Call again. Even if he had kept his arm and his leg, he knew it would be much the same. Of course, having the arm and the leg would have been a great convenience, for he could earn a living if he had them. He could be far less of a burden. But even if he had kept the arm and leg, he could not have returned to being the Call who had made the campfire and saddled the horse. The first bullet had removed him from that person. That person--that Call--was back down the weeks, on the other side of the canyon of time. There was no rejoining him, and there never would be.

The train reached the little station at Quanah after midnight. Teresa slept. Rafael had been moaning; he was having bad dreams. Call could manage his crutches a little, but he was very stiff from the long ride on the hard bench. Pea Eye had to help him up.

Charles Goodnight stood on the platform.

Clara Allen stood there, too. When Lorena looked out the window and saw Clara, her heart leapt.

"Clara's here," she said, to Pea Eye.

"We'll get to see our children." "Oh my Lord!" Pea Eye exclaimed.

Lorena picked up Teresa and kept Rafael close to her side. She didn't want to scare him. He had the smaller of the goats in his arms.

"Hello--we've got two more children now," Lorena said, as she eased Rafael down the steps.

"What a pretty child," Clara said, coming closer to look at Teresa in the light from the station window.

"You must have traveled hard--you got here quicker than us, and we was in Texas to begin with," Lorena said. She freed an arm and hugged Clara. To her eye Clara looked older, and too thin.

Even with Pea Eye's help, Captain Call had difficulty getting down the steps with his crutches. He was embarrassed that he had to be met, and particularly by Clara Allen, who had never liked him. But she had traveled from Nebraska to bring Pea Eye and Lorena their children. That was doing them a considerable favor, he recognized.

"Pea, you've got to go back and get the other goat and Teresa's chickens," Lorena said.

"I don't know what Tessie would do if we left that rooster on the train." "I'll fetch the goat," Goodnight said.

He was glad to have something to help with. The sight of Woodrow Call was a shock to him, though he was no stranger to wounded men. It was not so much the missing limbs as the look on the man's face that bothered him. But it was shadowy, on the platform; perhaps in the daylight he wouldn't look so ruined.

"I'm not much of a hand with fowl," he said.

"Hello, Woodrow." "Yes, hello, Captain," Clara said.

"I'll get the chickens, Charlie." "Why didn't he just die?" she asked Goodnight, when they were on the train.

Goodnight had already picked up the goat, but looked as if he didn't know quite what to do about the chickens.

"I was never much of a hand with fowl," he remarked, again.

"I told you I'd get the chickens," Clara said, annoyed that he had simply ignored her question about Call. Goodnight had happened to be in the station in Amarillo, when she and the children arrived from Omaha. Clara remembered Goodnight from her childhood, for he had known her father well. He had been in Nebraska once and had bought ten horses from her. She went over and said hello.

Since they were going to be on the same train, she thought he might be some help with the little ones, but that proved a false hope. Not only was Goodnight hard to make conversation with, he was as scared of the children as if they had been wildcats.

Clara picked the chickens up by their legs and carried them off the train. The hens and the rooster were outraged--Teresa had never carried them upside down. The hens began to squawk and the rooster to protest.

"What's wrong with my chickens? Don't carry them that way, give them to me," Teresa said. She had realized from the sound that the chickens were upside down.

It was only when Teresa reached for her chickens that Clara realized the little girl was blind.

The five children were asleep in a heap on the floor, in a corner of the station. Clarie had her arms around them all. At the sight of his daughter holding her brothers and her sister, Pea Eye broke down. In his time of danger he had almost given up hope of seeing his children again. Yet there they were, all alive, all sleeping, on the floor of a railroad station. His big daughter was looking after them. It was more than he deserved, more even than he had hoped for, and he began to cry.

Teresa's hens were still squawking, even though she had set them down. They were running around the station; one brown hen jumped up on the stationmaster's desk and scattered his papers.

"Here, scat--who are you?" he said. He was not used to such commotion at that hour. Usually no more than a cowboy or two got off the Fort Worth train.

"Oh, Pa," Clarie said, when she awoke and saw her father. Ben got awake and hugged his father, but waking up proved too much for Georgie and August. Both yawned heavily and went back to sleep. Laurie, the baby, opened her eyes and started to cry. She didn't know who the strange man was, hugging Clarie. Then her mother reached down and took her. There was an old man standing near who had only sticks for legs. Laurie looked at him curiously, as her mother hugged her.

Goodnight had arranged for a cowboy to bring a wagon. The cowboy arrived at sunup, driving the wagon and leading two horses. The boys were awake by then. They chased the hens and played with the goats. They took to Rafael right away but were a little shy with Teresa, who held her rooster in her arms.

"There must be a doctor somewhere who could help that girl see," Clara told Lorena.

Although she had just arrived in Texas, she was already beginning to dread the trip home, by herself. She had grown used to Lorena's children, and to having laughter and fusses in her house. There had been life in her house again; since her daughters left, it seemed to her, there had been no life in her house. It was hard for her, one aging woman, to bring life to a home. Yet how she missed it!

Goodnight mounted one of the horses; the cowboy mounted the other. Pea Eye took the reins of the team. It was still all he could do to keep from bawling, at the sight of his children and the familiar country.

"Many thanks for the loan of the wagon," he said, to Mr. Goodnight.

"You're welcome," Goodnight replied.

He had not quite mastered his shock at the change in Woodrow Call.

"I'll soon repay that loan," Lorena told him. She had not told Pea Eye she had borrowed money. She intended to discuss it with Mr.

Goodnight privately, but there had not been a moment when she could speak to him alone. She was a little worried about Pea Eye's reaction, but Pea Eye let Georgie sit on his lap and pretend to drive the team--he didn't hear the remark about the loan.

"We're branding today," Goodnight said. "In fact, we're branding all this week. When we're done, I'll trot over and check on the bunch of you." He tipped his hat to the two ladies and turned his horse; he rode a few steps and then turned back to Lorena.

"Mrs. Parker, I hope you'll be opening the school again," he said.

"I'll be opening the school again, Mr.

Goodnight," Lorena said to him. "I'll be opening it again soon." "Well, I've got to git," Goodnight said. He had not gotten around to firing Muley, the cook; it was a matter that preyed on his mind, as he and the cowboy loped away.

At first, they put Captain Call in a little granary in the barn. There was no other place for him. The granary was fairly clean; there had never been any grain in it, because they had never been able to afford any, and had so far failed to raise enough to store. The house itself was so crowded that Clara had to sleep in a hallway during her visit.

"This hall is fine," Clara said. "I won't have these boys evicted from their bedroom for an old lady." "I bet they didn't sleep in a hall at your house," Lorena said.

"My house is bigger," Clara admitted.

Everyone was surprised at how quickly Teresa learned her way around the farm. She went to the barn every morning to take Call coffee and bacon, and she learned all the farm animals by sound. She rarely stumbled. Ben fought with her--he wasn't prepared for another girl to be living with them. It hadn't been in his plans. Teresa more than held her own in the fights, though. She was quicker in the head than Ben, and she confounded him with her retorts.

"The doctor in San Antonio said she'd never see," Lorena told Clara.

"He's just one doctor," Clara said.

Call didn't mind bunking in the granary.

Excepting Teresa, who came to him often to bring him food or tell him her stories, he didn't want to see people or be around them. He had a kerosene lamp, but rarely lit it. There was hay in the barn; he didn't want to take a chance at falling asleep, knocking the lamp over, and burning the barn down.

Three old cowboys, one of them a former Ranger, stopped by to see him in the first week.

They wanted to congratulate him on having rid the country of Mox Mox; mainly, though, they just wanted to see him, to talk about old times.

Call was uncomfortable with the men, and he let them do the talking. He felt like an impostor. He was no longer the man who had lived the old times; he was no longer even the man who had killed Mox Mox. That man was not the cripple who lived in a granary, in a barn on the Quitaque. That man lived back somewhere in memory, across a canyon, across the Pecos; that man had been blown away, as Brookshire feared he would be, on the plains of time.

The cowboys felt awkward. The Captain clearly did not want to see them. They regretted coming, and they left, disquieted by what had happened to a man they had once regarded as invincible.

His branding done, Goodnight came. He took a look at Call and the granary, and left. Three days later, two wagons full of lumber arrived, accompanied by six cowboys.

Between sunup and sundown of the next day, they built Call a shack. They had brought with them the few possessions he had left in the little line cabin on the Palo Duro. It was just a shack, but it was better than an oat bin. Pea Eye helped with the work, although he was a poor carpenter.

He soon hit himself with the hammer, raising a blood blister that was so large and painful, Lorena had to eventually cut off the nail.

She was grateful to Goodnight for the shack, for she had felt bad about putting the Captain in the barn. But she worried about the debt.

"I'll pay you back, Mr. Goodnight," she told him. "I expect it'll be a while, though. But we're good for it, eventually. I just don't know when." "I'd take up a collection for Call, but I suppose it would embarrass him," Goodnight said. "He's ruined now, but there are plenty of people in this part of the country who would have been shot or scalped or robbed, if not for him. Or their folks would have been, if not them." Lorena's mind was on the debt. In the back of her mind was the knowledge, which she had not yet shared with Pea, that she was pregnant.

"We intend to pay you back, Mr.

Goodnight," she said again, firmly.

"If Mrs. Allen needs a ride to the depot, and if you'll get word to me, I'll send a cowboy with a buggy," Goodnight said.

Sometimes, if Teresa urged him, Call would hobble to the house for his meals. He and Clara rarely spoke. When the meal was finished, it was Teresa who got Call his crutches and helped him from his chair.

If Teresa was out of the room for five minutes, Call grew visibly anxious. He would look around for her.

"Where's Tessie?" he would ask, if Teresa was absent too long. "Ain't Tessie here?" Teresa always walked with him, holding him lightly by the arm as he went back to his shack.

"He's formed an attachment," Clara said, watching. "It's an attachment to a female, too." "Yes," Lorena said. "He wouldn't last long without Tessie." Clara sighed. She knew she ought to be going home soon. It was time to geld the foals, and put the mares with stud. Yet she hated to leave Lorena's loud, lively household. Sleeping in a hall was better than sleeping in an empty house. Laurie would toddle out in the morning, and cuddle with her. Sometimes little August would come, asking for a story. If August came, Georgie soon followed. She would lay in a heap of children, sometimes for an hour. In Nebraska, August and Georgie had slept in her bed; the little girl usually slept with Clarie.

In the hallway, holding the bright little boy and the babbling girl, Clara daydreamed about changing her life. She realized she had lost touch, just from not touching. Her daughters had produced no grandchildren for her to hold or carry to bed. It didn't seem to her that her own life had ever been entirely normal, but at least during her years of child raising, she had had people with her, in her house and in her bed--people to touch.

Now that was lost. Lorena's children were the first humans she had held in her arms in years. It was not good, for from being lonely too long she had become resigned.

"No beaux?" Lorena asked one morning, when they were sitting in the kitchen, talking. The children had all run outside with Rafael to look for his goats. One of them had strayed, during the night.

Lorena's children had become protective of Rafael, all of them. She didn't harbor much hope for that particular goat, though. The coyotes were too numerous and too hungry.

"No beaux," Clara admitted. "I expect it's just as well. I'm too set in my ways now. I doubt there's a man alive who could put up with me. .

"Even if there is such a man alive, he probably doesn't live in Nebraska," Clara added, a little later.

Lorena thought her old friend looked sad.

"You probably run all the boys off," she said. "You have to be gentle with menfolk, you know.

They aren't tough, like us." "Well, I did scatter a few, I guess," Clara said. "But that was years ago." Rafael stumbled back in, crying; the remains of the goat had been found. The boys all wore long faces. Lorena hugged Rafael, and shushed him. They were planning to acquire a few goats soon, and Rafael could look after them.

The day she was to leave for Nebraska, Clara walked down to say farewell to Call. He was sitting with Teresa outside his shack, whittling a stick. Teresa liked to feel the smoothness of the wood of the sticks, once Call had whittled all the knots away. He had smoothed her a number of little sticks to play with. Teresa touched them with her fingers, and sometimes she held one to her cheek.

"Well, I'm off to the depot, I guess," Clara said. "I wanted to say goodbye, Woodrow." Call had been hoping Clara would come by, before she left. There was something he wanted to ask her.

But he didn't want Teresa to hear his question.

"Tessie, would you go to the house and ask Mrs.

Parker if I could have some coffee?" he asked Teresa. "I woke up with a headache--coffee usually helps." Teresa handed him back the little smoothed stick and started up the path to the house. She was barefooted; the day was warm. She stepped on a grass burr and had to pause for a moment, standing on one leg in order to remove it from her foot.

"I've heard there were schools for the blind," Call said to Clara. "Do you know anything about them?" "Why, no," Clara replied. "Tessie's the first blind person I've ever had in my life.

But I can inquire for you, Woodrow." "I'd appreciate it," Call said.

"I've got a little money saved. If there's a way Teresa can get her education, I'd like to help. I believe she's bright." "You're right about that--she's bright," Clara told him.

"If she goes away, I'm sure we'll all miss her," Call said.

"You most of all, Woodrow," Clara said.

Call didn't answer, but the look on his face said more than Clara wanted to hear or see or know about one human missing another. She shook his hand and turned toward the house.

A moment later, she grew irritated-- unreasonably irritated. She turned back on the path.

"Call Lorena Lorena," she said, loudly.

"You don't have to call her Mrs. Parker now.

"The man's trying, but he just rubs me the wrong way," Clara said, when she marched into the kitchen. Lorena was washing a cut on Georgie's hand. She wasn't paying much attention.

Later, though, she remembered the remark. She wondered what Clara had meant by it, and why she looked so angry when she came in.

The bounty on Joey Garza was never collected. Colonel Terry sent a detective to look into the circumstances of his death, and the detective's research revealed that the fatal shot, the one that finished Joey Garza, had been fired by a Mexican butcher in Ojinaga, Mexico. Besides that, the butcher then claimed that Joey Garza's own mother had stabbed the young bandit, and that Joey had turned the knife on her and killed her, depriving the village of its best midwife.

Citing the careless loss of the ledger books, which made it impossible to compute the costs of the expedition accurately, the railroad halved Brookshire's pension. What was left was sent to his widowed sister in Avon, Connecticut.

The same sister received a long letter from a Mrs.

P. E. Parker, of Quitaque, Texas.

Mrs. Parker assured the grieving sister that the last words Mr. Parker had heard Brookshire say were to remember his sister and send her his love.

Call discovered that he had a gift for sharpening tools. Even with one hand, it was a skill he more than mastered. One day, watching Pea Eye futilely trying to cut a piece of rawhide with a dull knife, Call reached out and took it from Pea. He had a whetstone, and he soon had a good edge on the blade.

From then on, Pea Eye and Lorena brought whatever needed sharpening to the Captain. He sharpened scissors and shovel blades. He sharpened axes and rasps, and scythes and awls, and planing blades. He even improved the slicing edge on the plows.

In time, the neighbors heard of Call's skill and began to ride over with bushel baskets full of knives and hatchets, for him to work on.

Lorena insisted that he order a wooden leg.

They wrote off for catalogues. Finally, Call ordered one--to sharpen some of the larger tools properly, he needed to be able to stand.

When the leg came, Call found that he had to whittle it a bit to secure a smooth fit.

He was shy about it, at first. No one but Teresa could be with him, when he put on his leg or took it off. She learned to tuck his pants leg expertly. She laughed at him if he stumbled, but Call did not mind. The truth was, the leg made a big difference. Now he could stand up and work all day.

Clara Allen promptly sent him some literature on schools for the blind. The best one seemed to be in Cincinnati. Call hadn't mentioned school to Teresa yet; the thought of sending her away was too sharp a pain. But he did discuss the matter with Lorena. Privately, Lorena was torn. She had had another boy, Tommy, and was pregnant yet again. The house was overfull. She and Pea Eye had paid Mr.

Goodnight back for the train fare. She was still running the school by herself, except for Clarie's help with the math. Clarie was engaged to Roy Benson, and would be leaving soon. The farm was doing a little better, but they still had almost no cash money.

Lorena's concern when the school came up wasn't for Teresa, who had not only Maria's look but Maria's strength. Lorena wanted Tessie to have an education, and she wanted her to have a chance to support herself.

But Captain Call had no one but the girl. He scarcely knew Lorena's children; he scarcely knew her, or Pea Eye, even.

He worked all day at his sharpening, but except for Teresa, he had no one. Even looking at the Captain, unless he was with Teresa, was painful.

Often when he was looking at Teresa, Call had tears in his eyes. But otherwise, there was nothing in his eyes--he was an absence.

Lorena feared he would die, if Teresa left.

"Let's wait one more year, Captain," Lorena told him. "Let's wait one more year." "I expect that's best," Call said.

Charles Goodnight and a young cowboy named J.

D. Brown were out looking for a stray bull one day. They finally found the bull on the Quitaque, dead; it had managed to strangle itself with a coil of barbed wire.

Now and again, if he was in the vicinity, Goodnight stopped by to pay his respects to Call and the Parkers.

They found Call standing in his workroom in the barn, sharpening a sickle that a farmer from Silverton had nicked badly while cutting hay. The blind girl was rounding up her chickens.

There must have been fifty chickens, at least, and there were also more goats than Goodnight was accustomed to seeing anywhere. They visited a minute, or tried to. Call scarcely looked up from his work. He had several hatchets and an axe in a bucket beside him that he needed to sharpen, once he finished with the sickle.

Pea Eye was out plowing, but Goodnight and J. D. Brown took a glass of buttermilk with Lorena before they left. Lorena was heavy with child; she paid Goodnight twenty dollars against her debt on the shack he had built for Call.

On the ride back across the gray plains, the young cowboy--he was just twenty--looked rather despondent. Goodnight ignored his despondence for a while, then got tired of it.

What did a healthy sprout of twenty have to be despondent about?

"What's made you look so peaked, J.d.?" Goodnight inquired.

"Why, it's Captain Call, I guess," the young cowboy said. He was glad to talk about it, to get his dark feelings out.

"What about Captain Call?" Goodnight asked.

"Why, wasn't he a great Ranger?" the boy asked. "I've always heard he was the greatest Ranger of all." "Yes, he had exceptional determination," Goodnight told him.

"Well, but now look ... what's he doing?

Sharpening sickles in a dern barn!" J.d.

exclaimed.

Goodnight was silent for a bit. He wished his young cowboys would keep their minds on the stock, and not be worrying so about things they couldn't change.

"Woodrow Call had his time," he said, finally. "It was a long time, too. Life's but a knife edge, anyway. Sooner or later people slip and get cut." "Well, you ain't slipped," J. D.

Brown said.

"How would you know, son?" Goodnight said.

In the fall of the following year, Clara Allen was pawed to death by a piebald stallion named Marbles. Everyone was scared of the stallion except Clara; Marbles, a beautiful animal, was her special pride.

On the morning of the attack three cowboys, including Chollo, her old vaquero, the most experienced man on the ranch, had urged her not to go into the pen with the stud.

"He's mad today ... wait," Chollo told her.

"He's my horse--he won't hurt me," Clara said, shutting the gate behind her. The stallion attacked her at once. Four men leapt into the corral but could not drive him off.

They didn't want to shoot the stallion, for Clara would never forgive them for it, if she lived.

Finally, they shot the horse anyway, but Clara Allen was dead before they could carry her out of the pen.

"It's risky, raising studs," Call said.

"She must have been good with horses, or she wouldn't have lasted this long." Lorena shut herself in her room, when she heard the news. She didn't come out all day. But then the day passed, and dusk fell. Lorena still wouldn't come out. Pea Eye knocked on the door, just a little knock.

"Leave me alone," Lorena said, in a raw voice.

Sadly, Pea Eye turned back down the hall.

"Pea," Lorena said, through the door.

"What, honey?" Pea Eye asked, feeling a little hopeful.

"Feed the children," Lorena said.

Later, when it was bedtime, Pea Eye knocked his little knock on the bedroom door, again.

"Leave me alone, Pea," Lorena said.

"Just leave me alone." "But where'll I sleep?" Pea Eye asked.

"I don't know ... wherever you drop, I guess," Lorena told him.

At a loss and worried, Pea Eye put the children to bed and walked down to the Captain's little shack. Tessie was sitting in the Captain's rocking chair, asleep. The Captain sat on his bed, his leg off, sharpening his pocketknife on a small whetstone.

"Lorie's taking it hard, about Clara," Pea said.

"Well, that's to be expected--Clara took her in," Call said.

There was only one rocking chair. After a minute, Pea Eye sat on the floor. He thought he might go sleep in the oat bin, since the Captain was no longer using it. He thought he might go, after a while. But he was used to his wife and his bed. He wasn't ready for the oat bin, not quite.

"Do you ever think of Brookshire, Captain?" Pea Eye asked.

"I rarely do," Call said.

"It's funny. I got to liking him, just before he was killed," Pea said. "He wasn't a bad fellow, you know." Teresa woke up, gave the Captain a goodnight kiss on the cheek, and went to the house to go to bed. When she left, the Captain made it clear that it was time for him to retire, so Pea Eye picked himself up and went off to the barn. There were several mice in the oat bin, and a small snake, but Pea Eye soon chased them out. He had nothing to sleep on, so he went to the saddle shed and pulled out a couple of old saddle blankets, which he wrapped up in as best he could.

Sometime deep in the night he heard the door to the oat bin creak. Lorena came in and bent over him. She held a lantern.

"I'm better--come on back, honey," she said.

Pea Eye felt itchy. The saddle blankets had been covered with horsehair, as was only natural. Now he was covered with horsehair, too, which wasn't so natural; at least, Lorena wouldn't be likely to think it natural, particularly on a day when she was in a bad mood anyway. He had horsehair absolutely all over him, a fact which made him more than a little nervous. Lorena was picky about their bed. Once she had lifted both her feet and kicked him straight off onto the floor, because he had been cutting his toenails and had neglected to clean the clippings off the sheets to her satisfaction. Horsehair might offend her even worse than toenail clippings had.

But Lorena was going--he saw the lantern swinging, as she left the barn. Pea Eye got up, rather stiffly, and tried to brush as much of the horsehair off himself as he could. In the dark, he knew he was probably making a poor job of it. But Lorena was going; he wanted to catch up.

Pea Eye shut the door of the oat bin, to keep out mice and snakes, and, at moments nervous, at moments relieved--at least she had called him honey--he followed his wife back to their house.

The End