The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  The next morning, waking early, Gus saw the mountains. At first, he thought the shapes far to the north might be clouds—storm clouds. Once the sun was well up, he saw that the shapes were mountains. Call saw them, too. Bigfoot still had to be careful of his eyes in full light—he wanted to look, but had to give up.

  “If it’s the mountains, then we’re saved, boys,” he said. “There’s got to be people between here and the hills.”

  They walked all day, though, without food—the mountains seemed none the less distant.

  “What if we ain’t saved?” Gus whispered to Call. “I’m hungry enough to eat tongue, or bugs, or anything I can catch. Them mountains could be fifty miles away, for all we know. I ain’t gonna last no fifty miles—not unless I get food.”

  “I guess you’ll last if you have to,” Call told him. “Bigfoot says we’ll come to villages before we get to the hills. Maybe it will only be twenty miles—or thirty.”

  “I could eat my belt,” Gus said. He actually cut a small slice off his belt and ate it, or at least chewed it and swallowed it. The result didn’t please him, though. The little slice of leather did nothing to relieve his hunger pangs.

  They walked steadily all day, toward the high mountains. They ignored their stomachs as best they could—but there were moments when Call thought Gus might be right. They might starve before they reached the villages. Bigfoot had taken a fever somehow—most of the day he stumbled along, delirious; he seemed to think he was talking to James Bowie, the gallant fighter who had died at the Alamo.

  “We ain’t him, we’re just us,” Gus told him several times, but Bigfoot kept on talking to James Bowie.

  Toward the evening of that day, as the shadows from the mountains stretched across the plain, Gus thought he saw something encouraging—a thin column of smoke, rising into the shadows. He looked again, and again he saw smoke.

  “It’s from a chimney,” he said. “There’s a house with a chimney up there somewhere.”

  Gus saw the smoke, too, and Bigfoot claimed he smelled it.

  “That’s wood smoke, all right,” he said. “I reckon it’s piñon. They use piñon for fires, out here in New Mexico.”

  They hurried for three miles and still weren’t to the village. Just as they were about to get discouraged again, they came over a little rise in the ground and saw forty or fifty sheep, grazing on the plain ahead. A dog began to bark—two sheepherders, just making their campfire, looked up and saw them. The sheepherders were unarmed and took fright at the sight of the three Rangers.

  “I expect they think we’re devils,” Bigfoot said, as the two sheepherders hurried off toward a village, a mile or two away. The sheep they left in care of the two large dogs, both of whom were barking and snarling at the Texans.

  “They didn’t need to run—I’m just glad to be here,” Gus said. In fact, he was so moved by the sight of the distant houses that he felt he might weep. Crossing the prairie he had often wondered if he would ever see a house again, or sleep in one, or ever be among people again at all. The empty spaces had given him a longing for normal things—women cooking, children chasing one another, blacksmiths shoeing horses, men drinking in bars. Several times on the journey, he had thought such things were lost forever—that he would never get across the plain to sit at a woman’s table again. But now he had.

  Call was glad to come to the village, too. He had been hearing about New Mexico for months, and yet, until they spotted the sheepherders, had not seen a single Mexican. He had begun to doubt that there were towns in New Mexico at all.

  “I wouldn’t mind stopping and cooking one of them sheep right now,” Bigfoot said. “I guess that wouldn’t be friendly, though. Maybe they’ll cook one for us, once they see we ain’t devils.”

  “They may think we’re devils, even if we’re friendly,” Gus said. “I could use a barbering, and so could the rest of you.”

  Call knew he was right. They were filthy and shaggy. They had only their guns and the clothes they had on. And they were afoot. Who but devils would emerge from the great plain afoot?

  They gave the sheep a wide berth—the big dogs acted as if they might charge at the slightest provocation; none of them felt in the mood for a dogfight.

  “I have always wondered why people keep dogs,” Bigfoot said. “Now, the Indians, they eat puppies, and a puppy might be tasty. But a big dog is only a step from being a wolf, and it’s foolish to get too close to wolves.”

  The village consisted of about twenty houses, all of them made of brown adobe. Long before the three of them arrived, the whole village had gathered to watch their approach. The men, the women, and the children stood in one group, clearly apprehensive. One or two of the men had old guns.

  “By God, I guess Caleb could conquer this state, if he gets here,” Bigfoot said. “They don’t even have a gun apiece, and I doubt they know how to shoot, anyway.”

  “Don’t be talking of conquering them,” Gus said. The mention of mutton had made him realize how hungry he was. He didn’t want to lose his chance for a good meal because of any foolish talk about military matters. Let the conquering wait until they had eaten their fill.

  “Wave at them, let them know we’re friendly,” Bigfoot said. “They don’t look hostile, but there might be a show-off who wants to impress a gal. That’s usually what starts a fight, in situations like this.”

  They walked into the village slowly, giving evident signs that their intentions were friendly. Some of the little children hid their faces in their mothers’ skirts. Most of the women kept their faces down—only a few bold little girls stared at the strangers. The men stood still as statues.

  “This is when I wish I was better at the Spanish lingo,” Bigfoot said. “I know some words, but I can’t seem to get my tongue around them right.”

  “Just name off some grub,” Gus advised. “Frijoles or tortillas or cabrito or something. I’m mostly interested in getting a meal and getting it soon.”

  They walked on, smiling at the assembled people, until they were at the center of the little village, near the common well. A bucket of water had just been brought up—Bigfoot looked around and smiled, before asking if they might drink.

  “Agua?” he asked. He addressed the question to an old man standing near the well. The old man looked embarrassed—he didn’t raise his eyes.

  “Certainly—you may drink your fill—it’s a very long walk from Texas,” a forceful voice said, from behind them.

  They turned to see ten muskets pointed at them. A little group of militia had been hiding behind one of the adobe houses. The man who spoke stood somewhat to the side. He wore a military cap, and had a thin mustache.

  “What’s this? We just want a drink,” Bigfoot said. He looked chagrined. Once again, they had been easily ambushed.

  “You can have the drink, but I must ask you to lay down your arms, first,” the large man said, firmly.

  “Who are you?” Bigfoot asked. “We just walked in. We’re friendly. Why point a bunch of guns at us?”

  “I am Captain Salazar,” the man said. “Lay down your weapons, and you will come to no harm.”

  Bigfoot hesitated a moment—so did Gus and Call. Although ten rifles were pointed at them, at a distance of no more than thirty feet, they didn’t want to lay down their arms.

  There was dead silence in the village for several moments, while the Rangers considered the order. Captain Salazar waited—he was smiling, but it was not a friendly smile. The soldiers had their rifles ready to fire.

  “Now, this is a fine welcome,” Bigfoot said, hoping to get the man into a conversation. If they talked a minute, he might ease off.

  “Señor, it is not a welcome,” Captain Salazar said. “It is an arrest. Please lay down your arms.”

  Bigfoot saw it was hopeless.

  “If that’s your opinion, I guess it wins the day,” he said. He laid down his guns.

  After a moment, Call and Gus did the same. A soldier ran over and took the weapons.<
br />
  “Help yourselves to the water,” Captain Salazar said.

  23.

  “IF THAT’S THE SHOW, we might as well drink, at least,” Bigfoot said. There were two stone dippers in the water bucket. He filled one, and offered the other to Gus. Call waited until they drank. The ten soldiers had not lowered their muskets. Though he was thirsty, he found it unpleasant to drink with guns pointed at him. While Gus and Bigfoot drank, he inspected the Mexican militia. They were a mixed lot—several were boys not older than twelve or thirteen, but two were old men who looked to be seventy, at least. None of them had the appearance of being formidable fighters—any three Rangers could have scattered them easily, had it not been for the awkward fact that they had the drop. Also, Captain Salazar knew his job and his men. Call knew they would have fired together, had he given the order.

  “I am surprised you chose to make such a long walk, Señores,” Captain Salazar said. “Very few people have walked across the llano. You may be the first, in which case you deserve congratulations.”

  He gestured to a blacksmith, who stood in front of one of the little shacks. The blacksmith had an anvil and a pile of chains.

  “Put the leg irons on them,” he said.

  “Leg irons,” Gus said. “I thought you said we deserve congratulations. Leg irons ain’t my notion of congratulations.”

  “Which of us gets what he deserves in life?” Salazar said, smiling his unfriendly smile again. “I deserve to be a general but am only a captain, sent to this wretched village to catch invaders.

  “Shoot them if they resist,” he added, turning to the militia.

  Call looked at Bigfoot, who was standing calmly by the well. He had mastered his anger and looked as calm as if he had been listening to a sermon.

  “Do we have to do it?” Call asked. “I hate like hell to be chained.”

  “No, you don’t have to do it,” Bigfoot said. “But it’s be chained or be shot. I’ll be chained myself. I’ve been chained before. It ain’t a permanent condition, like being dead.”

  “Your commander is wise,” Salazar said. “I would rather feed you than shoot you, but I will shoot you if you don’t obey.”

  “I’ll go first, I’ve had more experience with chaining,” Bigfoot said. He walked over, smiled at the blacksmith, and put one of his big feet on the anvil.

  “Hammer careful,” he said. “I’d hate it if you smashed my toes.”

  The blacksmith was a young man. He was very, very careful in his work and soon had leg irons on Bigfoot.

  Captain Salazar came over and gave the irons a close inspection. It was obvious to Call that the man had made himself feared in the village. Though Bigfoot was calm during the chaining, the young blacksmith wasn’t.

  “These are important prisoners,” Salazar said. “You must do your work well. If one of them escapes while they are in this village, I will hang you.”

  Call felt a rage building in him, as the young blacksmith tightened the iron around his ankle. He regretted laying down his gun. He felt it would have been better to die fighting than to submit to the indignity of chains.

  None of the people in the village so much as moved during the whole procedure. The sheepherders did not go back to their sheep. Two old men with hoes stood where they were. The women of the village, many of whom were plump, kept their eyes downcast—yet once or twice, Call thought he saw looks of sympathy in the eyes of the women. One girl not more than twelve looked at him several times. She didn’t dare smile, but she looked. She was a pretty thing, but the sight of a pretty girl could not distract him from the fact that the young blacksmith had just hammered an iron band around his leg.

  “I guess this town ain’t got no jail,” Gus said, to Captain Salazar. “If it had one, I guess you’d just stick us in it.”

  “No, it is a poor village,” Salazar said. “If it had a jail I would put you in it for tonight. But the leg irons are for your march.”

  “What march? We’re just about marched out.”

  “Don’t worry—we don’t start until tomorrow,” Captain Salazar said. “The women will give you lots of posole and you will have all night to rest.”

  “Oh, then we’re off to Santa Fe?” Bigfoot asked. “At least we’ll get to see the town.”

  “No, you are off to El Paso,” Salazar said. “El Paso is in the south. You will never see Santa Fe, I am afraid.”

  “Well, that’s a pity—I’ve heard it’s a fine town,” Bigfoot said. He was being very friendly—too friendly, Call thought. He didn’t intend to be at all friendly to the man—it was clear to him that Salazar would kill them all in an instant if it suited his whim.

  Gus amused himself, during his chaining, by looking over the women of the village. Several seemed disposed to be sympathetic, though none would raise their eyes for more than a second. Two or three of them resumed their cooking, which they did outdoors in round ovens. They were cooking corn tortillas. The smell was a torment to one as hungry as he was, but he tried not to show it.

  Salazar turned to the militia, and pointed to a small adobe house.

  “Put them in there,” he said. “Lock the door and four of you stand watch—these are dangerous men. If you let them get away, I will tie your hang ropes with my own hand.”

  The little house they were shoved into had a door so low that Gus and Bigfoot had to bend almost to their knees to get through it. It was a single room with a mud floor and a small window with bars in it. There was nothing in the room—no pitcher, no bed, nothing. Neither Gus nor Bigfoot could stand erect. Call could, but when he did his hat touched the ceiling.

  “They’re a small people, ain’t they?” Bigfoot said, settling himself in a corner. “I expect we could whip a passel of them, if we hadn’t walked into a dern ambush.”

  “Salazar ain’t timid,” Call remarked. “He’s got all these people scared.”

  “Well, all he talks about is hanging people,” Gus said. He settled in another corner. They had been allowed a jug of well water; Gus remembered that posole had been mentioned, but two hours passed and no people arrived. The four guards were standing right outside the little window. They had lowered their muskets and were talking to three girls from the village. One of the girls was the pretty one Call had noticed while he was being chained. Though she chatted with the soldiers, the girl kept looking toward the hut where they were being held.

  Gus, too starved to worry about being shot or hanged, finally lost his temper and yelled at the guards.

  “We’re Texas Rangers, we need to be fed!” he yelled. “Your own captain said to give us posole, so go get it.”

  “They don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bigfoot pointed out. “They don’t know the English language.”

  “They know what posole is,” Gus declared. “That’s not English, that’s Mexican.”

  One of the soldiers went to a house not far away, and said something to an old woman. Soon, the old woman and another came and handed in three hot bowls of posole. When the Rangers emptied them, which they quickly did, the old women brought second helpings.

  “See, it don’t hurt to ask, even if you’re in jail,” Gus said. “They ain’t allowed to just let prisoners starve.”

  “How do you know their rules—you ain’t Mexican,” Call said.

  24.

  THOUGH GUS AND BIGFOOT had been in jail often, Call had never been locked up before—much less locked up and shackled. He found both experiences humiliating. More and more, he regretted laying down his arms. None of the Mexicans looked like good shots. The range was close, of course, but the more he thought over their surrender, the more he wished he had fought.

  “I expect we’d have got at least half of them,” he said.

  “It don’t matter if you got nine out of ten, if the tenth one killed you,” Gus pointed out. “That was good posole. This ain’t the worst jail I’ve ever been in. They don’t feed you nothing half that good in the San Antonio jail.”

  “It’ll take more th
an them ten Mexicans to round up Caleb Cobb,” Bigfoot said. “I expect he’ll show Captain Salazar a trick or two, if the boys ain’t too starved to fight when the fight starts.”

  “This is just a mud building,” Call said. “I imagine we could dig out, if we tried.”

  “Dig out and go where?” Gus asked. “We nearly starved getting this far. Besides, we’re chained.”

  “I know enough blacksmithing to get these chains off in two minutes,” Call reminded him. “I think we ought to try and escape. Somebody needs to warn the boys.”

  “I ain’t going—let Caleb fight his own fights,” Bigfoot said. “Those old women seem friendly. I’m tired from that long walk. I say we lay around here and eat soup for a day or two before we do anything frisky.”

  “There’s a pretty girl or two in this village,” Gus said. “Some of them might take pity on us and let us out.”

  “No, Salazar’s got ’em buffaloed,” Bigfoot said. A minute later, he fell asleep and snored loudly.

  Call still smarted from the humiliation of being caught so easily. They had escaped some very skillful Indians, only to be captured by a motley crew of Mexicans with rusty muskets. He was annoyed with himself, because he had been resolved to practice careful planning and avoid traps, yet he had let the fatigue of their journey wear him down. Anyone ought to have known there might be soldiers in the town—yet, once again, he had failed in alertness.

  “So far we’ve been a disgrace in every encounter,” he told Gus, but Gus was not in the mood for gloomy military critiques.

  “Well, but we ain’t dead,” Gus said. “We still have time to learn. I guess this ain’t the part of New Mexico that’s filled with gold and silver.”

  “I told you not to expect gold and silver,” Call said.

  Soon Gus, too, fell asleep, but Call couldn’t. He stood by the little window most of the night, looking out. There was a high moon over the prairies. Now and then, the sheepdogs barked when a coyote came too close to the flock. The soldiers who were guarding them, all of them just boys, were playing cards by the light of a little oil lantern. They didn’t look capable of killing anyone, unless by accident.