enough. “Good. Very good.”
She asked him something, then went to the stove, got a cup, and pointed at an old enamel coffeepot.
“Please.”
She brought him a cup and he took a sip. It was bitter, but it cut the grease of the food in a good way, so he drank the whole thing.
Then he thanked her again and lay back, closing his eyes, listening to the familiar sounds of somebody working in a kitchen. Homey sounds, gentle sounds.
He had just spent a long winter and most of a year in hard camps where he’d found a certain satisfaction, almost joy, in becoming part of nature so that he could see and hear and smell the world as it was meant to be. Now he was immensely surprised to find that he’d missed home terribly.
He had become a man—standing six feet two inches, pushing 190 pounds—but he found himself acting like a little boy, choking up when he heard the sounds of home.
Martha had her back to him, and he turned his face away to get control of his emotions. When he turned back, she was there, smiling, with another cup of coffee and another piece of the dark bread, this time covered with molasses.
“Thank you,” he said, sipping the hot coffee and eating the bread. “Thank you, Ma—” He had nearly said Mammy. “Martha.”
But she had turned away and seemed to be making a stew.
His dozing turned to deep sleep again.
The next morning he awakened to the sun and an urgent need to find an outhouse. He was alone. Moving veryslowly, he swung his legs ever so gently over the side of the bed and eased his feet down to the floor.
The pain in his thigh was sharp, but not as intense as the day before. Holding to the end of the bed, he stood on his one good leg. He was still naked, and he did not fool himself into thinking he could pull his pants on yet, so he wrapped the blanket around his body. Hopping along the wall, now and then touching his left foot to the floor, he made his way to the door, a simple plank hung on leather hinges. When he pushed it open, he was hit with a blast of sunlight. The heat felt good. He squinted at the brightness and saw a low barn in front of him, made of logs and mud, and a neatly built rail corral that held several horses and mules, his Roman nose and the little mule among them. They looked sleek and well watered.
He saw no people, but off to the left was the outhouse, so he skip-hopped over. If he’d had a cane or crutch, he’d have done all right.
The outhouse was equipped with a sack of corncobs, which was new to him, but he quickly figured out how the corncobs worked.
After hopping back to the house, he was exhausted and lay back down. He wasn’t sleepy. It was just that his leg needed rest. He was pleased when Peter came in. Bass’s clothes had been next to the bed on a bench, but he had noticed that his revolver and rifle were not there. Peter was carrying them and put them down next to the bed.
“You fought us.”
“What? I fought you? When?”
“You … riding with Betty. Come very fast. We see wolves and try to take Betty from you. Try to help. You …crazy. Call us Comanche. Scream and fight. We take guns. Now all right to have guns. Here.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t remember any of it. Did I hurt anybody?”
Peter laughed. “Only self … swing so hard, fall from horse. We bring you here. I heat iron and close cut.”
“I remember that. I thought I was dreaming.…”
“You have dream songs. Sang about mother … called for her many times. Mammy, Mammy. Sang about fighting man … sounds like bad man. Sang about Comanches. Bad. Comanches bad … bad for all people. Sometimes Comanches even bad for Comanches.”
Bass thought of the Garnett girls. For a time both men sat in silence; then Peter moved the clothes over and sat down on the bench next to Bass’s bed. He clearly wanted to say something and was searching for a way to begin.
“Is something wrong?” Bass asked.
“You … sing in sleep. Fight song. Dream song. Is all right. But … you
She asked him something, then went to the stove, got a cup, and pointed at an old enamel coffeepot.
“Please.”
She brought him a cup and he took a sip. It was bitter, but it cut the grease of the food in a good way, so he drank the whole thing.
Then he thanked her again and lay back, closing his eyes, listening to the familiar sounds of somebody working in a kitchen. Homey sounds, gentle sounds.
He had just spent a long winter and most of a year in hard camps where he’d found a certain satisfaction, almost joy, in becoming part of nature so that he could see and hear and smell the world as it was meant to be. Now he was immensely surprised to find that he’d missed home terribly.
He had become a man—standing six feet two inches, pushing 190 pounds—but he found himself acting like a little boy, choking up when he heard the sounds of home.
Martha had her back to him, and he turned his face away to get control of his emotions. When he turned back, she was there, smiling, with another cup of coffee and another piece of the dark bread, this time covered with molasses.
“Thank you,” he said, sipping the hot coffee and eating the bread. “Thank you, Ma—” He had nearly said Mammy. “Martha.”
But she had turned away and seemed to be making a stew.
His dozing turned to deep sleep again.
The next morning he awakened to the sun and an urgent need to find an outhouse. He was alone. Moving veryslowly, he swung his legs ever so gently over the side of the bed and eased his feet down to the floor.
The pain in his thigh was sharp, but not as intense as the day before. Holding to the end of the bed, he stood on his one good leg. He was still naked, and he did not fool himself into thinking he could pull his pants on yet, so he wrapped the blanket around his body. Hopping along the wall, now and then touching his left foot to the floor, he made his way to the door, a simple plank hung on leather hinges. When he pushed it open, he was hit with a blast of sunlight. The heat felt good. He squinted at the brightness and saw a low barn in front of him, made of logs and mud, and a neatly built rail corral that held several horses and mules, his Roman nose and the little mule among them. They looked sleek and well watered.
He saw no people, but off to the left was the outhouse, so he skip-hopped over. If he’d had a cane or crutch, he’d have done all right.
The outhouse was equipped with a sack of corncobs, which was new to him, but he quickly figured out how the corncobs worked.
After hopping back to the house, he was exhausted and lay back down. He wasn’t sleepy. It was just that his leg needed rest. He was pleased when Peter came in. Bass’s clothes had been next to the bed on a bench, but he had noticed that his revolver and rifle were not there. Peter was carrying them and put them down next to the bed.
“You fought us.”
“What? I fought you? When?”
“You … riding with Betty. Come very fast. We see wolves and try to take Betty from you. Try to help. You …crazy. Call us Comanche. Scream and fight. We take guns. Now all right to have guns. Here.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t remember any of it. Did I hurt anybody?”
Peter laughed. “Only self … swing so hard, fall from horse. We bring you here. I heat iron and close cut.”
“I remember that. I thought I was dreaming.…”
“You have dream songs. Sang about mother … called for her many times. Mammy, Mammy. Sang about fighting man … sounds like bad man. Sang about Comanches. Bad. Comanches bad … bad for all people. Sometimes Comanches even bad for Comanches.”
Bass thought of the Garnett girls. For a time both men sat in silence; then Peter moved the clothes over and sat down on the bench next to Bass’s bed. He clearly wanted to say something and was searching for a way to begin.
“Is something wrong?” Bass asked.
“You … sing in sleep. Fight song. Dream song. Is all right. But … you
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