Lonesome Dove - By Larry McMurtry Page 0,158

his great surprise the farmer took off his hat and turned out not to be a he. Instead the fanner was a good-sized woman wearing man’s clothes. She had brown hair and had sweated through her shirt.

“Well, are you gonna get off and help or are you just going to set there looking dumb?” she asked, wiping her forehead.

“I’m a deputy sheriff,” Roscoe replied, thinking that would be all the explanation that was needed.

“Then take off your star, if it’s that heavy,” the woman said. “Help me cut these roots. I’d like to get this stump out before dark. Otherwise we’ll have to work at night, and I hate to waste the coal oil.”

Roscoe hardly knew what to think. He had never tried to pull up a stump in his life, and didn’t want to start. On the other hand he didn’t want to sleep in the woods another night if he could help it.

The woman was looking Memphis over while she caught her breath. “We might could hitch that horse to the team,” she said. “My mules ain’t particular.”

“Why, this horse wouldn’t know what to do if it was hitched,” Roscoe said. “It’s a riding horse.”

“Oh, I see,” the woman said. “You mean it’s dumb or too lazy to work.”

It seemed the world was full of outspoken women. The woman farmer reminded Roscoe a little of Peach.

Somewhat reluctantly he got down and tied Memphis to a bush at the edge of the field. The woman was waiting impatiently. She handed Roscoe an ax and he began to cut the thick, tough roots while the woman encouraged the team. The stump edged out of the ground a little farther, but it didn’t come loose. Roscoe hadn’t handled an ax much in the last few years and was awkward with it. Cutting roots was not like cutting firewood. The roots were so tough the ax tended to bounce unless the hit was perfect. Once he hit a root too close to the stump and the ax bounced out of his hand and nearly hit the woman on the foot.

“Dern, I never meant to let it get loose from me,” Roscoe said.

The woman looked disgusted. “If I had a piece of rawhide I’d tie it to your hand,” she said. “Then the two of you could flop around all you wanted to. What town hired you to be deputy sheriff anyway?”

“Why, Fort Smith,” Roscoe said. “July Johnson’s the sheriff.”

“I wish he’d been the one that showed up,” the woman said. “Maybe he’d know how to chop a root.”

Then she began to pop the mules again and Roscoe continued to whack at the roots, squeezing the ax tightly so it wouldn’t slip loose again. In no time he was sweating worse than the woman, sweat dripping into his eyes and off his nose. It had been years since he had sweated much, and he didn’t enjoy the sensation.

While he was half blinded by the sweat, the mules gave a big pull and one of the roots that he’d been about to cut suddenly slipped out of the ground, uncurled and lashed at him like a snake. The root hit him just above the knees and knocked him backward, causing him to drop the ax again. He tried to regain his balance but lost it and fell flat on his back. The root was still twitching and curling as if it had a life of its own.

The woman didn’t even look around. The mules had the stump moving, and she kept at them, popping them with the reins and yelling at them as if they were deaf, while Roscoe lay there and watched the big stump slowly come out of the hole where it had been for so many years. A couple of small roots still held, but the mules kept going and the stump was soon free.

Roscoe got slowly to his feet, only to realize that he could barely walk.

The woman seemed to derive a certain amusement from the way he hobbled around trying to gain control of his limbs.

“Who did they send you off to catch?” she asked. “Or did they just decide you wasn’t worth your salary and run you out of town?”

Roscoe felt aggrieved. Even strangers didn’t seem to think he was worth his salary, and yet in his view he did a fine job of keeping the jail.

“I’m after July Johnson,” he said. “His wife run off.”

“I wish she’d run this way,” the woman said. “I’d put her to