Nothing ever changed much at the Mathisons. The old, well-made things never wore out; if they broke they were mended stronger than they were before. Pump handles wore down to a high polish, door sills showed deeper hollows. But nothing was allowed to gather the slow grime of age. Only when you had been gone a couple of years could you see that the place was growing old. Then it looked smaller than you remembered it, and kind of rounded at the corners everywhere. Mart rode toward it this time with a feeling that the whole place belonged to the past that he was done with, like the long search that had seemed to have no end, but had finally run out anyway.
They didn’t mean to be here long. Amos meant to ride on to Austin at once, to clear up the killings at Lost Mule Creek; and if he got held up, Mart meant to go there alone, and get it over. He didn’t know what he was going to do after that, but it sure would be someplace else. He believed that he was approaching the Mathisons for the last time. Maybe when he looked over his shoulder at this place, knowing he would never see it again, then he would feel something about it, but he felt nothing now. None of it was a part of him any more.
The people had aged like the house, except a little faster and a little plainer to be seen. Mart saw at first glance that Aaron was almost totally blind. Tobe and Abner were grown men. And Mrs. Mathison was a little old lady, who came out of the kitchen into the cold to take him by both hands. “My, my, Martie! It’s been so long! You’ve been gone five—no, it’s more. Why, it’s coming on six years! Did you know that?” No; he hadn’t known that. Not to count it all up together that way. Seemingly she didn’t remember they had been home twice in the meantime.
But the surprise was that Laurie was still here. He had assumed she would have gone off and married Charlie MacCorry long ago, and she had quit haunting him once he swallowed that. She didn’t come out of the house as he unsaddled, but as he came into the kitchen she crossed to him, drying her hands. Why did she always have to be at either the stove or the sink? Well, because it was always coming time to eat again, actually. They were close onto suppertime right now.
She didn’t kiss him, or take hold of him in any way. “Did you—have you ever—” Resignation showed in her eyes, but they were widened by an awareness of tragedy, as if she knew the answer before she spoke. And his face confirmed it for her. “Not anything? No least trace of her at all?”
He drew a deep breath, wondering what part of their long try needed to be told. “Nothing,” he said, finally, and judged that covered it all.
“You’ve been out so long,” she said slowly, marveling. “I suppose you talk Comanche like an Indian. Do they call you Indian names?”
“I sure wouldn’t dast interpret the most of the names they call us,” he answered automatically. But he added, “Amos is known to ’em as ‘Bull Shoulders.’ ”
“And you?”
“Oh—I’m just the ‘Other.’ ”
“I suppose you’ll be going right out again, Other?”
“No. I think now she was dead from the first week we rode.”
“I’m sorry, Martie,” She turned away, and for a few minutes went through slow motions, changing the setting of the table, moving things that didn’t need to be moved. Something besides what she was doing was going through her mind, so plainly you could almost hear it tick. Abruptly, she left her work and got her coat, spinning it over her shoulders like a cape.
Her mother said, “Supper’s almost on. Won’t be but a few minutes.”
“All right, Ma.” Laurie gave Mart one expressionless glance, and he followed her, putting his sheepskin on, as she went out the door to the dog-trot.
“Where’s Charlie?” he asked, flat-footed, once they were outside.
“He’s still in the Rangers. He’s stationed over at Harper’s, now; he’s done well enough so he could politic that. But we don’t see him too much. Seems like Rangers live on the hard run nowadays.” She met his eyes directly, without shyness, but without lighting up much, either.
A small wind was stirring now, shifting the high overcast. At the horizon a line of blood-bright sunset light broke through, turning the whole prairie red. They walked in silence, well apart, until they had crossed a rise and were out of sight of the house. Laurie said, “I suppose you’ll be going on to Austin soon.”
“We’ve got to. Amos put up a thousand head—Of course, the Rangers can’t collect until a judge or somebody declares Debbie dead. But they’ll do that now. We got to go there, and straighten it out.”
“Are you coming back, Martie?”
The direct question took him off guard. He had thought some of working his way up toward Montana, if the Rangers didn’t lock him up, or anything. They were having big Indian trouble up there, and Mart believed himself well qualified to scout against the Sioux. But it didn’t make much sense to head north into the teeth of winter, and spring was far away. So he said something he hadn’t meant to say. “Do you want me to come back, Laurie?”
“I won’t be here.”
He thought he understood that. “I figured you’d be married long before now.”
“It might have happened. Once. But Pa never could stand Charlie. Pa’s had so much trouble come down on him—he always blamed himself for what happened to your folks. Did you know that? I didn’t want to bring on one thing more, and break his heart. Not then. If I had it to do over—I don’t know. But I don’t want to stay here now. I know that. I’m going to get out of Texas, Mart.”
He looked stupid, and said, “Oh?”
“This is a dreadful country. I’ve come to hate these prairies, every inch of ’em—and I bet they stretch a million miles. Nothing to look forward to—or back at, either—I want to go to Memphis. Or Vicksburg, or New Orleans.”
“You got kinfolk back there?”
“No. I don’t know anybody.”
“Now, you know you can’t do that! You never been in a settlement bigger’n Fort Worth in your life. Any gol dang awful thing is liable to happen to you in a place like them!”
“I’m twenty-four years old,” she said bitterly. “Time something happened.”
He searched for something to say, and came up with the most stilted remark he had ever heard. “I wouldn’t want anything untoward to happen to you, Laurie,” he said.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I’ve been long gone. But I was doing what I had to do, Laurie. You know that.”
“For five long years,” she reminded him.
He wanted to let her know it wasn’t true that he hadn’t cared what happened to her. But he couldn’t explain the way hope had led him on, dancing down the prairie like a fox fire, always just ahead. It didn’t seem real any more. So finally he just put an arm around her waist as they walked, pulling her closer to his side.
The result astonished him. Laurie stopped short, and for a moment stood rigid; then she turned toward him, and came into his arms. “Martie, Martie, Martie,” she whispered, her mouth against his. She had on a lot of winter clothes, but the girl was there inside them, solider than Estrellita, but slim and warm. And now somebody began hammering on a triangle back at the house, calling them in.
“Oh, damn,” he said, “damn, damn—”
She put her fingers on his lips to make him listen. “Start coughing soon’s we go in the house. Make out you’re coming down with a lung chill.”
“Me? What for?”
“The boys put your stuff in the bunk house. But I’ll work it out so you’re moved to the grandmother room. Just you, by yourself. Late tonight, when they’re all settled in, I’ll come to you there.”
Jingle-jangle-bang went the triangle again.