attention and bared their heads to the rain. A squat man with a hand of cards fanned in his fist came to the door of the Wild Turkey and peered out; a head bobbed above his shoulder. A teamster pulled his mules to the side of Front Street to give the funeral procession free passage. “God walk with you, ma’am,” he said, doffing his hat as Lucy Stoveall went by, eyes on her feet.
Numbed by a great tiredness, she did not see or hear him. When she lifted her feet from the mud, she felt hands clutching at her ankles, trying to hold her back. It was as if she was dragging it all along behind her: horses, wagon, casket, mourners. But the weight of this was nothing compared to the burden of sorrow inside her, heavy, ponderous as lead. She glanced up and saw the Missouri to her right, the river current pulling in the opposite direction to the one in which she trudged. It was slate grey under the overcast sky, and it seemed toLucy that it was threatening to take hold of her and Madge, sweep them back down-current, deny her sister a resting place.
Custis Straw kept his eyes fixed on Lucy, full of wonder at her determination, the way she plodded on in a haze of rain, earnest as a prayer, head bowed to the mud.
Now they were beyond the outskirts of town, ahead a crop of wooden crosses sprouted above the sage and tumbleweed, the needle-grass and wild rye. The two men Straw had hired as gravediggers were leaning on their shovels by a mound of freshly turned earth, jute sacks thrown over their shoulders to stave off the rain.
The casket was unloaded, lowered into the grave. Silence reigned for a moment before a single bird in a nearby bush began to call the sun back out from behind the clouds. Mr. Clumb led them in the singing of yet another hymn.
Straw saw Lucy stoop to the pile of wet dirt heaped beside the grave. She took up a fistful of mud. He watched her hand tighten, dirty rivulets of water streaming from between her fingers, dripping on to her skirt.
“Whence we came, and whither wending;
Soon we must through darkness go,
To inherit bliss unending,
Or eternity of woe.”
She drew back her arm, face working, and hurled the ball of clay down into the pit. It hit the casket lid with dreadful force.
“Mrs. Stoveall,” Clumb admonished sternly, “collect yourself.”
“Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, mud to mud, Preacher,” Lucy scraped out hoarsely. “That’s all there is to say. Cover her.”
When she swung away, blundering blindly through the tilting crosses and rank wet grass, Straw hurried after her. Gaining the muddy track, Lucy broke into a slithering run, lost her footing, slid to her knees.
“Mrs. Stoveall, Mrs. Stoveall, have a care. You go easy now,” Custis murmured as he helped her to her feet. Lucy was sobbing, herface crumpled and red. “Listen,” he said, “listen to me, girl. Where are you bound in this fashion?”
The answer was nowhere. She could not form a reply. A sudden gust cast a spatter of cold rain in their faces. Straw put his arm around her shoulders, drew her into the shelter of his chest. “You come along with me, Mrs. Stoveall,” he whispered. “Let me take you to the Stubhorn.”
The wind and rain returned with a vengeance, driving everyone off Front Street just as Straw and Mrs. Stoveall reached Dooley’s saloon. Straw installed Lucy at a table beside the pot-belly stove, got a fire of cottonwood chunks going, set a kettle to boil, rustled up cups, a bottle of Monongahela whisky and rock sugar for hot toddies. Lucy hadn’t spoken a word since they had left the graveyard; she was sitting hunch-shouldered, hands clamped between her knees, gnawing at her lips, shuddering. For Straw, her condition brought to mind scenes he had witnessed during the war, men who had passed through the worst of trials and then broke apart on a safer shore.
When he handed Lucy the toddy, her shaking hand splashed hot whisky on the table. Straw took the mug from her, held it to her lips, let her
Numbed by a great tiredness, she did not see or hear him. When she lifted her feet from the mud, she felt hands clutching at her ankles, trying to hold her back. It was as if she was dragging it all along behind her: horses, wagon, casket, mourners. But the weight of this was nothing compared to the burden of sorrow inside her, heavy, ponderous as lead. She glanced up and saw the Missouri to her right, the river current pulling in the opposite direction to the one in which she trudged. It was slate grey under the overcast sky, and it seemed toLucy that it was threatening to take hold of her and Madge, sweep them back down-current, deny her sister a resting place.
Custis Straw kept his eyes fixed on Lucy, full of wonder at her determination, the way she plodded on in a haze of rain, earnest as a prayer, head bowed to the mud.
Now they were beyond the outskirts of town, ahead a crop of wooden crosses sprouted above the sage and tumbleweed, the needle-grass and wild rye. The two men Straw had hired as gravediggers were leaning on their shovels by a mound of freshly turned earth, jute sacks thrown over their shoulders to stave off the rain.
The casket was unloaded, lowered into the grave. Silence reigned for a moment before a single bird in a nearby bush began to call the sun back out from behind the clouds. Mr. Clumb led them in the singing of yet another hymn.
Straw saw Lucy stoop to the pile of wet dirt heaped beside the grave. She took up a fistful of mud. He watched her hand tighten, dirty rivulets of water streaming from between her fingers, dripping on to her skirt.
“Whence we came, and whither wending;
Soon we must through darkness go,
To inherit bliss unending,
Or eternity of woe.”
She drew back her arm, face working, and hurled the ball of clay down into the pit. It hit the casket lid with dreadful force.
“Mrs. Stoveall,” Clumb admonished sternly, “collect yourself.”
“Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, mud to mud, Preacher,” Lucy scraped out hoarsely. “That’s all there is to say. Cover her.”
When she swung away, blundering blindly through the tilting crosses and rank wet grass, Straw hurried after her. Gaining the muddy track, Lucy broke into a slithering run, lost her footing, slid to her knees.
“Mrs. Stoveall, Mrs. Stoveall, have a care. You go easy now,” Custis murmured as he helped her to her feet. Lucy was sobbing, herface crumpled and red. “Listen,” he said, “listen to me, girl. Where are you bound in this fashion?”
The answer was nowhere. She could not form a reply. A sudden gust cast a spatter of cold rain in their faces. Straw put his arm around her shoulders, drew her into the shelter of his chest. “You come along with me, Mrs. Stoveall,” he whispered. “Let me take you to the Stubhorn.”
The wind and rain returned with a vengeance, driving everyone off Front Street just as Straw and Mrs. Stoveall reached Dooley’s saloon. Straw installed Lucy at a table beside the pot-belly stove, got a fire of cottonwood chunks going, set a kettle to boil, rustled up cups, a bottle of Monongahela whisky and rock sugar for hot toddies. Lucy hadn’t spoken a word since they had left the graveyard; she was sitting hunch-shouldered, hands clamped between her knees, gnawing at her lips, shuddering. For Straw, her condition brought to mind scenes he had witnessed during the war, men who had passed through the worst of trials and then broke apart on a safer shore.
When he handed Lucy the toddy, her shaking hand splashed hot whisky on the table. Straw took the mug from her, held it to her lips, let her
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