After all, she had been working with him in the store for a decade; she felt she ought to have a right to order a little nice crockery now and then, if she took the notion. If Inez Scull happened to like it she would buy all of it anyway; Inez Scull always bought all of anything she liked, whether it was a swatch of pretty cloth or two new sidesaddles that happened to appeal to her.
George Forsythe, seeing her shaky old butler loaded down with two new sidesaddles, could not resist asking why she needed two.
"Why, one for Sunday, of course," Inez said, with a flounce. "I can't be seen in the same old saddle seven days a week." "But those two are just alike," George pointed out.
"Nonetheless, one is for Sunday--I doubt you'd understand, sir," Inez said, as she swept out of the store.
Clara loved the look and feel of the new stoneware and felt sure her father was wrong in assuming that it wouldn't appeal to local tastes.
After all, Austin was no longer just a frontier outpost, as it had been when her father and mother opened the store. There were respectable women in Austin now, even educated women, and they weren't all as high-handed as Inez Scull. Clara herself didn't care for either Scull--the famous Captain had twice taken advantage of her father's absence to attempt to be familiar with her, once even trying to look down her bodice on a hot day when she had worn a loose dress.
On that occasion Clara slapped him smartly--she considered that she had tolerated quite enough, famous man or not--but the Captain had merely bowed to her and bought himself a speckled cravat. But, like it or not, the Sculls were too wealthy to throw out entirely--had it not been for their profligate spending, her father might, at times when drought dried up the farms and sapped the resources of the local livestock men, have had to worry seriously about the bankruptcy he accused Clara of bringing upon him.
His fits, though, Clara knew, weren't really about the store, or the ordering, or the Eastern crockery; they were about the fact that she was unmarried, and getting no younger. Suitor after suitor had failed to measure up; her twenties were flying past, and yet, there she was, still on her father's hands. She ought, in his view, to have long since become a well-established wife, with a hardworking husband to support her.
Many hardworking men, solid citizens, well able to support a wife, had sat in the Forsythe parlor and made their proposals. All were refused. Some licked their wounds for a few years and came back with new proposals, only to have those rejected too. After two tries and two failures most of the local men gave up and took wives who were less exacting; only Augustus McCrae, and a man named Bob Allen, a rancher who wished to venture up to Nebraska and trade in horses, persisted year after year. In his own mind and everyone else's, Gus McCrae, the proud Texas Ranger, seemed to have the inside track; yet in Clara's mind, though she dearly loved Gus McCrae, the issues were not so clear, nor the resolution so simple.
Still, her father could not be blamed too much for worrying that she might never find--or at least might never accept--a decent mate. Her mother, so sickly that she rarely ventured downstairs, worried too, but said little. The thing they all knew was that there was hardly another respectable young woman in Austin who, at Clara's age, was still unmarried.
In fact, one of the few women Clara's age who .was still single was Maggie Tilton, the young woman who was walking slowly and a little forlornly across the dusty street toward the store. Maggie, though, could not be included in the Forsythes' reckoning, because she was not one of the respectable young women of Austin. Inez Scull might behave like a harlot, while enjoying the prestige and position of being the Captain's wife, but Maggie Tilton .was a harlot. She had survived some rough years in the tents and shacks of Austin, moved to San Antonio for a bit, and then came back to Austin. She had tried to rise but failed and had come back to be where Woodrow Call was --or at least where he was quartered when the rangers were not in the field.
Clara watched, with interest, as Maggie came up the steps and hesitated a moment, as she looked at herself in the glass window; it was as if she had to reassure herself that she looked respectable enough to enter a regular store--Maggie always stopped and looked at herself before she would venture in to buy a ribbon, or a powder for headaches, or any little article of adornment.
In Clara's view Maggie looked plenty respectable. Her clothes were simple but clean, and she was always neat to a fault, as well as being modestly dressed. Madame Scull, for one, could scarcely be bothered to conceal her ample bosom--even Clara's own father, George Forsythe, the former mayor, had trouble keeping his eyes off Inez Scull's bosom, when it was rolling like the tide practically under his nose.
Maggie, though, was always proper to a fault; there was nothing flashy about her appearance. And yet she did what she did with men, with only the sadness in her eyes to tell of it, though that sadness told of it eloquently, at least to Clara. Sometimes Clara wished she could talk to Maggie--she longed to shake her good and tell her to forget about that hardheaded Woodrow Call. In her view Maggie ought to marry some decent farmer, many of whom would have been only too pleased to have her, despite her past.
Sometimes, lying alone at night in her room above the hardware store, a room that had been hers since birth, to which, so far, she had been reluctant to admit any man--though Gus McCrae had impulsively crowded into it once or twice--Clara thought of Maggie Tilton, in her poor room down the hill. She tried, once or twice, in her restlessness, to imagine that she and Maggie had traded places; that she was what Maggie was, a whore, available to any man who paid the money. But Clara would never make the imagining work, not quite. She could picture herself down the hill, in a shack or a tent, but when it came to the business with men she was not able to picture it, not really. Though fervent in her kissing with Gus McCrae--fervent and even bold, riding alone with him into the country, to swim at a particular spring--she still stopped short, well short, of what Maggie Tilton did regularly, for money, in order to survive.
Clara stopped far shorter with Bob Allen, the large, silent horse trader, despite two years of courtship, Mr. Allen had not yet touched her hand. Augustus, who considered Mr.
Allen an ignorant fool, would never have put up with such restraints. Gus had to touch her and kiss her, to dance with her and swim with her, and was sulky and sometimes rude when she refused him more.
"It's your fault I'm a drunkard and a whorer," Gus told her, more than once. "If you'd just marry me I'd be sober forever, and I'd stay home besides." Clara didn't believe the part about staying home; Gus McCrae was by nature much too restless for her taste. The rangering was just an excuse, she felt. If there were no Indians to chase, and no bandits, Gus would still find reasons to roam. He was not a settled man, nor did she feel she could settle him. He would always be off with Woodrow Call, beyond the settlements somewhere, adventuring.
Still, she felt a little guilty, where Gus was concerned--she knew there was some justice in his complaint. Though she suffered when he was in the whore tents, somehow she could not resign herself, or commit herself, to begin the great business of married life with him. Though Gus moved her in ways no other man ever had or, she feared, ever would, something in her still refused.
Clara tried to look at life honestly, though, and when she thought closely about herself and Gus, and Maggie and Call, she could not feel that her refusals gained her any honor or moral credit. Was she any better than Maggie Tilton, who at least gave an honest service for money paid, and met an honest need?
Clara didn't think she was better, and she knew she was as hard on Gus McCrae--whom she dearly loved--z Woodrow Call was on Maggie Tilton.
Clara didn't like--indeed, couldn't abide-- Woodrow Call. His appearance, even on the mildest errand, brought out a streak of malice in her which she could not restrain. She seldom let him leave her company without cutting him with some small criticisms. Yet Woodrow Call was a much respected ranger, courageous and even in judgment, the last being a quality that Augustus McCrae could not yet lay claim to, though he was as courageo
us as any man. Perhaps Call even loved Maggie, in his way; he sometimes bought her small trinkets, once even a bonnet, and had twice come to fetch medicines for her, when she was poorly. There must be good in the man, else why would Maggie pine so, when he was away? She surely didn't pine for every man who paid her money and used her body.
Still, the one thing Maggie needed most was marriage; it might be the one thing Gus McCrae needed most, as well. But Call couldn't or wouldn't give it to Maggie, and she couldn't give it to Gus. It was a linkage that irked her, but that she could neither ignore or deny.
When Maggie stepped in the door, after giving herself a thorough inspection, Clara smiled at her, and Maggie, surprised as she always was by Clara's frliness, shyly smiled back.
"Why, it's you. How I wish we were sisters," Clara said, surprising herself and startling Maggie so deeply that she blushed. But the store was empty; what harm could the remark do? Besides, it was what she felt--it had always chaffed Clara that she was expected to live by rules she hadn't made; all the rules were made by men, and what dull rules they were! How much pleasanter life would be if she could treat Maggie as she would treat a sister, or, at least, as she would treat a friend.
"Oh, Miss Forsythe, thank you," Maggie said. She knew she had received a great compliment, one so unexpected that it left her abashed and silenced; for years she was to remember Clara's impulsive statement and felt happiness at the memory. She also felt a little puzzlement. Clara Forsythe was the most respected and sought after young woman in Austin. Many of her own customers, the young ones particularly, worshipped Clara; several had even proposed to her.
Maggie could not imagine why a woman in Clara's position would even want her friendship, much less want her for a sister.
Clara realized she had embarrassed her customer and tried to put her at ease by directing her attention to the stoneware.
"We just got these cups and plates from Pennsylvania," she said. "My pa thinks they're too fancy, but I think they're the very thing." Maggie agreed, but she only let her eyes linger on the nice brown crockery for a moment.
She had to be cautious when shopping, so as not to start yearning for fine things she could never afford.
She did like pretty things too much; once her fancy seized on a particular ring or dress or trinket, she could scarcely think of anything else, for days. She especially wanted to impress on Woodrow that she was a good manager. She didn't owe a cent to anyone, and had never asked Woodrow--or any man--fora cent more than she was due. She had long since stopped wanting Woodrow Call to pay her, when he came to her--but he insisted, leaving the money under a plate or a pillow if she refused to take it.
Maggie, just for a moment, wished she could be Clara Forsythe's friend. If they could talk freely she felt sure Clara would understand why she no longer wanted Woodrow's money.
Clara's smile was frank and friendly, but before Maggie could even enjoy her little fancy an old man with a stringy beard came in and stomped right between them.
"Horseshoe nails?" he asked Clara.
"Yes sir, in the back--it's the bin on the right," Clara said.
With a customer in the store Maggie didn't feel she ought to be talking to Miss Forsythe about crockery--mch less about anything else. Besides, the man was a customer of hers as well. His name was Cully Barnstone--he had visited her frequently in the last year. His presence, as he sacked up horseshoe nails, drove home a point that Maggie knew she should not, even momentarily, have forgotten. She and Clara Forsythe weren't sisters, and couldn't be friends.
Clara had never been offered money for the service of love, and never would be. She might have her own difficulties with Augustus McCrae, but she would never experience the shame of being given money by the one man in the world she wanted to give herself to.
Clara was annoyed with old Cully Barnstone, for coming in just when she might have had a ^w of conversation with Maggie; but there was nothing she could do about it. The store was open; anyone who wanted to buy something was free to come in. When Mr. Barnstone came to the counter to pay for his nails, Maggie turned away. She wandered listlessly around for a bit, keeping well to herself; she picked up a bonnet and a little hat but put both back without trying them on. In the end she merely bought a packet of darning needles and some red thread.
"Thank you," she said, when Clara gave her her change.
"There's no news from those wild ranger boys," Clara said. "I suppose they're still up on the plains, freezing their ears." "Yes, it's been sharp weather--I expect they're cold," Maggie said, as she went out the door.
When Pea Eye set out north with the rangers on his first expedition, he was as proud as he had ever been in his life. Mr. Call, who found him in a cornfield, fed him, and persuaded Captain Scull to give him a tryout as a ranger, had emphasized to him that it was just a tryout.
"We need men and I think you'll do," Call told him, rather sternly. "But you watch close and follow orders. I told the Captain I'd vouch for you--don't you disgrace me now and make me regret speaking up for you." "I won't, sir, I'll watch close," Pea Eye said, not entirely sure what he would have to be watching.
"If you get scalped, don't sit around yowling, either," Gus McCrae said. "People survive scalpings fine if they don't yowl." He said it to josh the boy a little, but Pea Eye's big solemn eyes opened a little wider.
"What's the procedure, then?" he asked.
Long Bill Coleman, an experienced man, had told him there were procedures for every eventuality, in rangering.
Pea Eye meant to do all he could to avoid a scalping, but in the event that one occurred he wanted to know what steps he should take--or not take.
"Just sit there calmly and bite a stick," Gus told him, doing his best to keep a straight face. "Somebody will come and sew up your head as soon as there's a lull in the killing." "Why'd you tell him that?" Call asked later, when he and Augustus were cleaning their weapons. "Of course he'll yowl if he gets scalped." "No he won't, because I instructed him not to," Augustus said. "But if I get scalped you'll hear some fine yowling, I bet." On the trek north Pea Eye's job was to inspect the horses' feet every night, to see that no horses had picked up thorns or small rocks that might cause lameness. In the event of a chase a lame horse would put its rider in serious jeopardy; Pea Eye inspected every hoof at night and made sure that the horses were well secured.
Then the sleet came and he had a hard time looking close. In the worst of the storm he could barely see his horse; at night he had to deal with the horses' feet mostly by feel. His hands got so cold when he worked that he was afraid he might have missed something in one hoof or another; but none of the horses went lame.
Deets, the black man, seeing Pea Eye try to inspect the hooves in the dark, brought him a light and stayed with him while he went down the line of horses, picking up their hooves one by one. It was a kind thing, which Pea Eye never forgot. Most of the men stayed as close to the fire as they could get, but Deets left the warmth and came to help him make sure that the horses' feet were sound.
On the fourth day of cold, Pea Eye began to wish Mr. Call had just left him in the cornfield. Proud as he was to be a ranger, he didn't know if he could survive the cold. He got so cold at night and in the bitter mornings that he even forgot to be afraid of scalping Indians, or even death. All he could think of was how nice it would be to be in a cabin with a big fireplace and a roaring fire. It was so cold his teeth ached--he began to try to sneak food into his mouth in small quick bites, so the cold wouldn't get in and freeze his teeth worse than they already were.
Augustus McCrae, who seemed able to ignore the cold, noticed Pea sneaking in the tiny bites and decided a little more joshing wouldn't hurt.
"You ought to duck your chin down into your shirt, if you're going to try and eat in this breeze," he said. "If you ain't careful your tongue will freeze and snap off like you'd snap a stick." "Snap off?" Pea Eye asked, horrified. "How could it snap off?" "Why, from talking," Gus said, with a grin.
"All yo
u have to do is ask for a cup of coffee and your tongue's liable to fall right into the cup." Later Pea Eye told Deets what Mr.
McCrae had said and they debated the matter quietly. Pea was so cautious about opening his mouth that he could barely make himself heard.
"Your tongue's inside your head," Deets pointed out. "It's got protection. Ain't like your finger. Now a finger might snap off, I expect, or a toe." Pea Eye's fingers were so cold he almost wished they would snap off, to relieve the pain, but they didn't snap off. He had been blowing on his fingers, blowing and blowing, hoping to get a little warmth into them, when the Indians attacked and killed Ranger Watson. Pea Eye had been about to step right past the man, in order to take cover behind some saddles, when he heard Jimmy Watson give a small grunt--j a small quick grunt, and in that instant his life departed.
If Pea Eye had not moved just when he did, making for the saddles, the bullet might have hit him --x passed just behind his leg and went only another yard or more before striking Jim Watson dead.