Lonesome Dove - By Larry McMurtry Page 0,342

its eyes up to her. Might as well tell the man, she thought. She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

“Mr. Johnson, I guess I’ve got another piece of news for you,” Clara said. She looked from the baby’s face to his, seeking resemblances. It seemed to her the foreheads were the same, and though the child had little hair, the little was the same color as July’s. He was not a bad-looking man, just gaunt from his travels, and dirty. She had a notion to make him shave, when he had rested, so she could compare his face with the baby’s. He could use Bob’s razor. One week ago she had stropped it and shaved Bob.

July looked at her as she fiddled with the baby. The tears had left him feeling empty, but his gratitude to the woman just for being there and treating him kindly was so great that he felt he might cry again if he tried to speak. The woman seemed too beautiful and too kind to be true. It was clear she was older—she had fine wrinkles around her mouth—but her skin was still soft and her face, as she wiggled the baby’s little hand with one finger, was very beautiful. The thought of more news troubled him a little, though—probably one of Elmira’s companions had stolen something or made some mischief.

“If that woman was your wife, I guess this child is yours,” Clara said. “She had it the night she was here. Then she left. She was very anxious to get to town. I don’t believe she realized what a fine boy she had. We all took to him right away around this place.”

July had not really looked at the baby. He had supposed it belonged to Clara—she had said her name was Clara. She was watching him closely with her kind gray eyes. But what she said seemed so unlikely that he couldn’t really credit it. Elmira had said nothing to him about wanting a baby, or planning to have one, or anything. To him, so tired he could hardly sit straight, it just meant another mystery. Maybe it explained why Elmira ran away—though it didn’t to him. As for the little boy, wiggling in Clara’s lap, he didn’t know what to think. The notion that he had a son was too big a notion. His mind wouldn’t really approach it. The thought made him feel lost again, as he had felt out on the plains.

Clara saw that he was past dealing with it for the moment.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson,” she said, immediately getting up. “I should be cooking instead of worrying you with things you’re too tired to deal with. You eat and go rest. This boy will still be here—we can discuss it tomorrow.”

July didn’t answer, but he felt he was remiss. Not only was Clara going to a lot of trouble to feed him, she was taking care of a baby that might be his. He tried to think of things he might do or say, but nothing came to mind. Clara went cheerfully about the cooking, holding the baby in her arms most of the time but occasionally plunking him on the table for a minute if she needed both hands for the work.

“Just catch him if he starts to roll,” she said. “That’s all I ask.”

She fed July beefsteak and potatoes and peas. July felt he would be too tired to eat, and yet at the smell of the food his appetite returned and he ate every bite.

“I made Bob build me a windbreak,” she said. “I watched my gardens blow away for ten or twelve years and I finally got tired of it.”

July looked at her questioningly.

“Bob’s my husband,” she said. “He’s injured. We don’t hold out too much hope for him.”

She had strained and heated a little milk, and while July ate she fed the baby, using a big nipple she had fixed over a fruit jar.

“We use this nipple for the colts,” she said. “Sometimes the mares don’t have their milk at first. It’s a good thing this boy’s got a big mouth.”

The child was sucking greedily on the nipple, which was quite large, it seemed to July.

“I’ve been calling him Martin,” Clara said. “Since he’s yours, you may want to change it. I think Martin is a nice name for a man. A man named Martin could be a judge, or maybe go into politics. My girls fancy the name too.”

“I