“You’ve had nothing to eat. Alice has supper for you, waiting and hot.”
“No, thank you,” Joseph said. “I’ll be riding on.”
“But the night is cold,” insisted Juanito. “Come in and have a drink, anyway.”
Joseph looked at the dull light shining through the windows of the saloon. “I will have a drink,” he said. They tied their horses to the hitching post and went through the swinging doors. No one was there but the bartender sitting on a high stool behind the bar. He looked up as the two entered, and climbed from his stool and polished a spot on the bar.
“Mr. Wayne,” he said in greeting. “I haven’t seen you for a long time.”
“I don’t get in to town often. Whiskey.”
“And whiskey for me,” Juanito said.
“I heard you saved some of your cows, Mr. Wayne?’
“Yes, a few.”
“You’re better off than some. My brother-in-law lost every single head.” And he told how the ranches were deserted and the cattle all dead, and he told how the people had gone away from the town of Our Lady. “No business now,” he said. “I don’t sell a dozen drinks a day. Sometimes a man comes in for a bottle. People don’t like to drink together now,” he said. “They take a bottle home, and drink alone.”
Joseph tasted his empty glass and set it down. “Fill it,” he said. “I guess we’ll be having a desert from now on. Have one yourself.”
The bartender filled his glass. “When the rain comes, they’ll all be back. I’d set a barrel of whiskey in the road, free, if the rain would come tomorrow.”
Joseph drank his whiskey and stared at the bartender questioningly. “If the rain doesn’t come at all, what then?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, Mr. Wayne, and I won’t know. If it doesn’t come pretty soon, I’ll have to go too. I’d put a whole barrel of whiskey out on the porch, free for everyone, if the storms would come.”
Joseph put down his glass. “Good-night,” he said. “I hope you get your wish.”
Juanito followed him closely. “Alice has the dinner hot for you,” he said.
Joseph stopped in the road and lifted his head to look at the misty stars. “The drink has made me hungry. I’ll go.”
Alice met them at the door of her father’s house. I’m glad you came,” she said. “The dinner is nothing but it will be a change. My father and mother have gone visiting to San Luis Obispo since Juanito is back.” She was excited at the importance of her guest. In the kitchen she seated the two men at a snow-white table and served them with red beans and red wine, and thin tortillas and fluffy rice. “You haven’t eaten my beans, Mr. Wayne, since—oh, for a long time.”
Joseph smiled. “They are good. Elizabeth said they were the best in the world.”
Alice caught her breath. “I am glad you speak of her.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Why should I not speak of her?”
“I thought it might give you too much pain.”
“Be silent, Alice,” Juanito said gently. “Our guest is here to eat.”
Joseph ate his plate of beans and wiped up the juice with a tortilla, and accepted another helping.
“He will see the baby?” Alice asked timidly. “His grandfather calls him Chango, but that is not his name.”
“He is asleep,” Juanito said. “Wake him and bring him here.”
She carried out the sleepy child and stood him in front of Joseph. “See,” she said. “His eyes will be grey. That’s blue for Juanito and black for me.”
Joseph looked at the child searchingly. “He is strong and handsome. I am glad of that.”
“He knows the names of ten trees, and Juanito is going to get him a pony when the good years come.”
Juanito nodded with pleasure. “He is a Chango,” he said self-consciously.
Joseph stood up from the table. “What is his name?”
Alice blushed, and then she took up the sleepy baby. “He is your namesake,” she said. “His name is Joseph. Will you give him a blessing?”
Joseph looked at her incredulously. “A blessing? From me? Yes,” he said quickly. “I will.” He took the little boy in his arms and brushed back the black hair from the forehead. And he kissed the forehead. “Grow strong,” he said. “Grow big and strong.”
Alice took the baby back as though he were not quite her own anymore. “I’ll put him to bed, and then we will go to the sitting-room.”
But Joseph strode quickly to the door. “I must go now,” he said. “Thank you for dinner. Thank you for my name sake.”
And when Alice started to protest, Juanito silenced her. He followed Joseph to the yard and felt the cinch for him and put the bit in the horse’s mouth. “I am afraid to have you go, señor,” Juanito protested.
“Why should you be afraid? See, the moon is coming up.”
Juanito looked and cried excitedly, “Look, there’s a ring around the moon!”
Joseph laughed harshly and climbed into the saddle. “There is a saying in this country, I learned it long ago: ‘In a dry year all signs fail.’ Good-night, Juanito.”
Juanito walked a moment beside the horse. “Good-bye, señor. See you take care.” He patted the horse and stepped back. And he looked after Joseph until he had disappeared into the dim moonlit night.
Joseph turned his back on the moon and rode away from it, into the west. The land was unsubstantial under the misty, strained light, the dry trees seemed shapes of thicker mist. He left the town and took the river road, and his contact with the town dropped behind him. He smelled the peppery dust that arose under the horse’s hoofs, but he couldn’t see it. Away in the dark north there was a faint flicker of aurora borealis, rarely seen so far south. The cold stony moon rose high and followed him. The mountains seemed edged with phosphorus, and a pale cold light like a glow-worm’s light seemed to shine through the skin of the land. The night had a quality of memory. Joseph remembered how his father had given him the blessing. Now he thought of it, he wished he had given the same blessing to his namesake. And he remembered that there had been a time when the land was drenched with his father’s spirit so that every rock and bush was close and dear. He remembered how damp earth felt and smelled, and how the grass roots wove a fabric just under the surface. The horse plodded steadily on, head down, resting some of his head’s weight on the bridle. Joseph’s mind went wearily among the days of the past, and every event was colored like the night. He was aloof from the land now. He thought, “Some change is beginning. It will not be long before some new thing is on the way.” And as he thought it, the wind began to blow. He heard it coming out of the west, heard it whisking a long time before it struck him, a sharp steady wind, carrying the refuse of dead trees and bushes along the ground. It was acrid with dust. The tiny rocks it carried stung Joseph’s eyes. As he rode, the wind increased and long veils of dust swept down the moonlit hills. Ahead, a coyote barked a staccato question, and another answered from the other side of the road. Then the two voices drew together into a high shrieking giggle that rode down the wind. A third sharp question, from a third direction, and all three giggled. Joseph shivered a little. “They’re hungry,” he thought, “there’s so little carrion left to eat.” Then he heard a calf moan in the high brush beside the road, and he turned his horse and spurred it up and broke through the brittle bushes. In a moment he came to a little clearing in the brush. A dead cow lay on its side and a skinny calf butted frantically to find a teat. The coyotes laughed again, and went away to wait. Joseph dismounted and walked to the dead cow. Its hip was a mountain peak, and its ribs were like the long water-scars on the hillsides. It had died, finally, when bits of dry brush would not support it any more. The calf tried to get away, but it was too weak with hunger. It stumbled and fell heavily and floundered on the ground, trying to get up again. Joseph untied his riata and roped the skinny legs together. Then he lifted the calf in front of the saddle and mounted behind it. “Now come for your dinner,” he called to the coyotes. “Eat the cow. Pretty soon there will be no more to eat.” He glanced over his shoulders at the bone-white moon, sailing and hovering in the blown dust. “In a little while,” he said, “it will fly down and eat the world.” As he rode on, his hand explored the lean calf, his fingers followed the sharp ribs and felt the bony legs. The calf tried to rest its head against the horse’s shoulder, and its head bobbed weakly with the movement. At last they topped the rise and Joseph saw the houses of the ranch, bleached and huddled. The blades of the windmill shone faintly in the moonlight. It was a view half obscured, for the white dust filled the air, and the wind drove fiercely down the valley. Joseph turned up the hill to avoid the houses, and as he went up toward the black grove, the moon sank over the western hills and the land was blotted out of sight. The wind howled down from the slopes and cried in the dry branches of the trees. The horse lowered its head against the wind. Joseph could make out the pine grove darkly as he approached it, for a streak of dawn was coming over the hills. He could hear the tossing branches and the swish of the needles combing the wind, and the moan of limbs rubbing together. The black branches tossed against the dawn. The horse walked wearily in among the trees and the wind stayed outside. It seemed quiet in the grey place, more so because of the noise around it. Joseph climbed down and lifted the calf to the ground. And he unsaddled the horse and put a double measure of rolled barley in the feed-box. At last he turned reluctantly to the rock.