The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  At her request several Rangers immediately began to take off their shirts, but Bigfoot Wallace made no move to remove his, and his was the only shirt large enough to cover much of Matty Roberts.

  “I guess you won’t be sashaying around naked much longer, Matty,” he observed, sipping his chickory.

  “Why not? I ain’t stingy about offering my customers a look,” Matilda said, rejecting several of the proffered shirts.

  Bigfoot nodded toward the north, where a dark tone on the horizon contrasted with the bright sunlight.

  “One of our fine blue northers is about to whistle in,” he informed her. “You’ll have icicles hanging off your twat, in another hour, if you don’t cover it up.”

  “I wouldn’t need to cover it up if anyone around here was prosperous enough to warm it up,” Matilda said, but she did note that the northern horizon had turned a dark blue. Several Rangers observed the same fact, and began to pull on long johns or other garments that might be of use against a norther. Bigfoot Wallace was known to have an excellent eye for weather. Even Matilda respected it—she strolled over to her pallet and pulled on a pair of blacksmith’s overalls that she had taken in payment for a brief engagement in Fredericksburg. She had a tattered capote, acquired some years earlier in Pennsylvania, and she put that on too. A blue norther could quickly suck the warmth out of the air, even on a nice sunny day.

  “Well, we’ve conquered a turtle, I guess,” Major Chevallie said, standing up. “I suppose that Mexican died—I don’t hear much noise from across the river.”

  “If he’s lucky, he died,” Bigfoot said. “It was just three Indians—Comanches, I’d figure. I doubt three Comanches would pause more than one night to cut up a Mexican.”

  About that time Josh Corn and Ezekiel Moody came walking back to camp from the sandhill where they had been standing guard. Josh Corn was a little man, only about half the size of his tall friend. Both were surprised to see a sizable snapping turtle kicking its legs in the air, not much more than arm’s length from the coffeepot.

  “Why’s everybody dressing up, is there going to be a parade?” Josh asked, noting that several Rangers were in the process of pulling on clothes.

  “That Mexican didn’t have no way to kill himself,” Bob Bascom remarked. “He didn’t have no gun.”

  “No, but he had a knife,” Bigfoot reminded him. “A knife’s adequate, if you know where to cut.”

  “Where would you cut—I’ve wondered,” Gus asked, abruptly leaving Call to contemplate the Mexican mustang alone. He was a Ranger on the wild frontier now and needed to imbibe as much technical information as possible about methods of suicide, when in danger of capture by hostiles with a penchant for torture.

  “No Comanche’s going to be quick enough to sew up your jugular vein, if you whack it through in two or three places,” Bigfoot said. Aware that several of the Rangers were inexpert in such matters, he stretched his long neck and put his finger on the spot where the whacking should be done.

  “It’s right here,” he said. “You could even poke into it with a big mesquite thorn, or whack at it with a broken bottle, if you’re left without no knife.”

  Long Bill Coleman felt a little queasy, partly because of the mescal and partly from the thought of having to stick a thorn in his neck in order to avoid Comanche torture.

  “Me, I’ll shoot myself in the head if I’ve got time,” Long Bill said.

  “Well, but that can go wrong,” Bigfoot informed him. Once set in an instructional direction, he didn’t like to turn until he had given a thorough lecture. Bigfoot considered himself to be practical to a fault—if a man had to kill himself in a hurry, it was best to know exactly how to proceed.

  “Don’t go sticking no gun in your mouth, unless it’s a shotgun,” he advised, noting that Long Bill looked a little green. Probably the alkaline water didn’t agree with him.

  “Why not, it’s hard to miss your head if you’ve got a gun in your mouth,” Ezekiel Moody commented.

  “No, it ain’t,” Bigfoot said. “The bullet could glance off a bone and come out your ear. You’d still be healthy enough that they could torture you for a week. Shove the barrel of the gun up against an eyeball and pull—that’s sure. Your brains will get blown out the back of your head—then if some squaw comes along and chews off your balls and your pecker, you won’t know the difference.”

  “My, this is a cheery conversation,” Major Chevallie said. “I wish Matilda would come back and remove this turtle.”

  “I’d like to go back and have another look at them tracks,” Bigfoot said. “It was about dark when I seen them. Another look couldn’t hurt.”

  “It could hurt if the Comanches that got that Mexican caught you,” Josh Corn remarked.

  “Why, those boys are halfway to the Brazos by now,” Bigfoot said, just as Matilda returned to the campfire. She squatted down by the turtle and watched it wiggle, a happy expression on her broad face. She had a hatchet in one hand and a small bowie knife in the other.

  “Them turtles don’t turn loose of you till it thunders, once they got aholt of you,” Ezekiel said. Matilda Roberts ignored this hackneyed opinion. She caught the turtle right by the head, held its jaws shut, and slashed at its neck with the little bowie knife. The whole company watched, even Call. Several of the men had traveled the Western frontier all their lives. They considered themselves to be experienced men, but none of them had ever seen a whore decapitate a snapping turtle before.

  Blackie Slidell watched Matilda slash at the turtle’s neck with a glazed expression. The mescal had caused him to lose his vision entirely, for several hours—in fact, it was still somewhat wobbly. Blackie had an unusual birthmark—his right ear was coal black, thus his name. Although he couldn’t see very well, Blackie was not a little disturbed by Bigfoot’s chance remark about the chewing propensities of Comanche squaws. He had long heard of such things, of course, but had considered them to be unfounded rumor. Bigfoot Wallace, though, was the authority on Indian customs. His comment could not be ignored, even if everybody else was watching Matilda cut the head off her turtle.

  “Hell, if we see Indians, let’s kill all the squaws,” Blackie said, indignantly. “They got no call to be behaving like that.”

  “Oh, there’s worse than that happens,” Bigfoot remarked casually, noting that the turtle’s blood seemed to be green—if it had blood. A kind of green ooze dripped out of the wound Matilda had made. She herself was finding the turtle’s neck a difficult cut. She gave the turtle’s head two or three twists, hoping it would snap off like a chicken’s would have, but the turtle’s neck merely kinked, like a thick black rope.

  “What’s worse than having your pecker chewed off?” Blackie inquired.

  “Oh, having them pull out the end of your gut and tie it to a dog,” Bigfoot said, pouring himself more chickory. “Then they chase the dog around camp for awhile, until about fifty feet of your gut is strung out in front of you, for brats to eat.”

  “To eat?” Long Bill asked.

  “Why yes,” Bigfoot said. “Comanche brats eat gut like ours eat candy.”

  “Whew, I’m glad I wasn’t especially hungry this morning,” Major Chevallie commented. “Talk like this would unsettle a delicate stomach.”

  “Or they might run a stick up your fundament and set it on fire—that way your guts would done be cooked when they pull them out,” Bigfoot explained.

  “What’s a fundament?” Call asked. He had had only one year of schooling, and had not encountered the word in his speller. He kept the speller with him in his saddlebag, and referred to it now and then when in doubt about a letter or a word.

  Bob Bascom snorted, amused by the youngster’s ignorance.

  “It’s a hole in your body and it ain’t your nose or your mouth or your goddamn ear,” Bob said. “I’d have that little mare broke by now, if it was me doing it.”

  Call smarted at the rebuke—he knew they had been lax with the mare, who had now effectively snubbed h
erself to the little tree. She was trembling, but she couldn’t move far, so he quickly swung the saddle in place and held it there while she crow-hopped a time or two.

  Matilda Roberts sweated over her task, but she didn’t give up. The first gusts of the norther scattered the ashes of the campfire. Major Chevallie had just squatted to refill his cup—his coffee soon had a goodly sprinkling of sand. When the turtle’s head finally came off, Matilda casually pitched it in the direction of Long Bill, who jumped up as if she’d thrown him a live rattler.

  The turtle’s angry eyes were still open, and its jaws continued to snap with a sharp click.

  “It ain’t even dead with its head off,” Long Bill said, annoyed.

  Shadrach, the oldest Ranger, a tall, grizzled specimen with a cloudy past, walked over to the turtle’s head and squatted down to study it. Shadrach rarely spoke, but he was by far the most accurate rifle shot in the troop. He owned a fine Kentucky rifle, with a cherry-wood stock, and was contemptuous of the bulky carbines most of the troop had adopted.

  Shadrach found a little mesquite stick and held it in front of the turtle’s head. The turtle’s beak immediately snapped onto the stick, but the stick didn’t break. Shadrach picked up the little stick with the turtle’s head attached to it and dropped it in the pocket of his old black coat.

  Josh Corn was astonished.

  “Why would you keep a thing like that?” he asked Shadrach, but the old man took no interest in the question.

  “Why would he keep a smelly old turtle’s head?” Josh asked Bigfoot Wallace.

  “Why would Gomez raid with Buffalo Hump?” Bigfoot asked. “That’s a better question.”

  Matilda, by this time, had hacked through the turtle shell with her hatchet and was cutting the turtle meat into strips. Watching her slice the green meat caused Long Bill Coleman to get the queasy feeling again. Young Call, though nicked by a rear hoof, had succeeded in cinching the saddle onto the Mexican mare.

  Major Chevallie was sipping his ashy coffee. Already the new wind from the north had begun to cut. He hadn’t been paying much attention to the half-drunken campfire palaver, but between one sip of coffee and the next, Bigfoot’s question brought him out of his reverie.

  “What did you say about Buffalo Hump?” he asked. “I wouldn’t suppose that scoundrel is anywhere around.”

  “Well, he might be,” Bigfoot said.

  “But what was that you said, just now?” the Major asked. “It’s hard to concentrate, with Matilda cutting up this ugly turtle.”

  “I had a dern dream,” Bigfoot admitted. “In my dream Gomez was raiding with Buffalo Hump.”

  “Nonsense, Gomez is Apache,” the Major said.

  Bigfoot didn’t answer. He knew that Gomez was Apache, and that Apache didn’t ride with Comanche—that was not the normal order of things. Still, he had dreamt what he dreamt. If Major Chevallie didn’t enjoy hearing about it, he could sip his coffee and keep quiet.

  The whole troop fell silent for a moment. Just hearing the names of the two terrible warriors was enough to make the Rangers reflect on the uncertainties of their calling, which were considerable.

  “I don’t like that part about the guts,” Long Bill said. “I aim to keep my own guts inside me, if nobody minds.”

  Shadrach was saddling his horse—he felt free to leave the troop at will, and his absences were apt to last a day or two.

  “Shad, are you leaving?” Bigfoot asked.

  “We’re all leaving,” Shadrach said. “There’s Indians to the north. I smell ’em.”

  “I thought I still gave the orders around here,” Major Chevallie said. “I don’t know why you would have such a dream, Wallace. Why would those two devils raid together?”

  “I’ve dreamt prophecy before,” Bigfoot said. “Shad’s right about the Indians. I smell ’em too.”

  “What’s this—where are they?” Major Chevallie asked, just as the norther hit with its full force. There was a general scramble for guns and cover. Long Bill Coleman found the anxiety too much for his overburdened stomach. He grabbed his rifle, but then had to bend and puke before he could seek cover.

  The cold wind swirled white dust through the camp. Most of the Rangers had taken cover behind little hummocks of sand, or chaparral bushes. Only Matilda was unaffected; she continued to lay strips of greenish turtle meat onto the campfire. The first cuts were already dripping and crackling.

  Old Shadrach mounted and went galloping north, his long rifle across his saddle. Bigfoot Wallace grabbed a rifle and vanished into the sage.

  “What do we do with this mare, Gus?” Call asked. He had only been a Ranger six weeks—his one problem with the work was that it was almost impossible to get precise instructions in a time of crisis. Now he finally had the Mexican mare saddled, but everyone in camp was lying behind sandhills with their rifles ready. Even Gus had grabbed his old gun and taken cover.

  Major Chevallie was attempting to unhobble his horse, but he had no dexterity and was making a slow job of it.

  “You boys, come help me!” he yelled—from the precipitate behavior of Shadrach and Bigfoot, the most experienced men in the troop, he assumed that the camp was in danger of being overrun.

  Gus and Call ran to the Major’s aid. The wind was so cold that Gus even thought it prudent to button the top button of his flannel shirt.

  “Goddamn this wind!” the Major said. During breakfast he had been rereading a letter from his dear wife, Jane. He had read the letter at least twenty times, but it was the only letter he had with him and he did love his winsome Jane. When the business about Gomez and Buffalo Hump came up he had casually stuffed the letter in his coat pocket, but he didn’t get it in securely, and now the whistling wind had snatched it. It was a long letter—his dear Jane was lavish with detail of circumstances back in Virginia—and now several pages of it were blowing away, in the general direction of Mexico.

  “Here, boys, fetch my letter!” the Major said. “I can’t afford to lose my letter. I’ll finish saddling this horse.”

  Call and Gus left the Major to finish cinching his saddle on his big sorrel and began to chase the letter, some of which had sailed quite a distance downwind. Both of them kept looking over their shoulders, expecting to see the Indians charging.

  Call had not had time to fetch his rifle—his only weapon was a pistol.

  Thanks to his efforts with the mare, the talk of torture and suicide had been hard to follow. Call liked to do things correctly, but was in doubt as to the correct way to dispatch himself, should he suddenly be surrounded by Comanches.

  “What was it Bigfoot said about shooting out your brains?” he asked Gus, his lanky pal.

  Gus had run down four pages of the Major’s lengthy letter. Call had three pages. Gus didn’t seem to be particularly concerned about the prospect of Comanche capture—his nonchalant approach to life could be irksome in times of conflict.

  “I’d go help Matty clean her turtle if I thought she’d give me a poke,” Gus said.

  “Gus, there’s Indians coming,” Call said. “Just tell me what Bigfoot said about shooting out your brains.

  “That whore don’t need no help with that turtle,” he added.

  “Oh, you’re supposed to shoot through the eyeball,” Gus said. “I’ll be damned if I would, though. I need both eyes to look at whores.”

  “I should have kept my rifle handier,” Call said, annoyed with himself for having neglected sound procedure. “Do you see any Indians yet?”

  “No, but I see Josh Corn taking a shit,” Gus said, pointing at their friend Josh. He was squatting behind a sage bush, rifle at the ready, while he did his business.

  “I guess he must think it’s his last chance before he gets scalped,” Gus added.

  Major Chevallie jumped on his sorrel and started to race after Shadrach, but had scarcely cleared the camp before he reined in his horse. Call could just see him, in the swirling dust—the plain to the north of the camp had become a wall of sand.


  “I wonder how we can get some money—I sure do need a poke,” Gus said. He had turned his back to the wind and was casually reading the Major’s letter, an action that shocked Call.

  “That’s the Major’s letter,” he pointed out. “You got no business reading it.”

  “Well, it don’t say much anyway,” Gus said, handing the pages to Call. “I thought it might be racy, but it ain’t.”

  “If I ever write a letter, I don’t want to catch you reading it,” Call said. “I think Shad’s coming back.” His eyes were stinging, from staring into the dust.

  There seemed to be figures approaching camp from the north. Call couldn’t make them out clearly, and Gus didn’t seem to be particularly interested. Once he began to think about whores he had a hard time pulling his mind off the subject.

  “If we could catch a Mexican we could steal his money—he might have enough that we could buy quite a few pokes,” Gus said, as they strolled back to camp.

  Major Chevallie waited on his sorrel, watching. Two figures seemed to be walking. Then Bigfoot fell in with them. Shadrach appeared on his horse, a few steps behind the figures.

  All around the camp Rangers began to stand up and dust the sand off their clothes. Matilda, unaffected by the crisis, was still cooking her turtle. The bloody shell lay by the campfire. Call smelled the sizzling meat and realized he was hungry.