The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  “That beats us by one hundred and forty-nine horses, I guess,” he said.

  “Hell, they’ve even got a cannon,” Bigfoot said. “They drug a cannon all this way, thinking we was an army.”

  “We are an army, Mr. Wallace,” Caleb said. “We’re just a small army. It looks like we’re up against superior numbers.”

  “Not all armies can fight,” Shadrach said. “Maybe they’re an army of boys, like these two here. We’re an army of men.”

  Call and Gus stood looking at the assembled Mexicans, wondering what would happen.

  “I guess we need a herd of bears,” Call said. “Ten or twelve big bears could probably scatter them like that one bear scattered that first bunch.”

  Long Bill Coleman began to look around for cover—only there was no cover, only rolling prairie. Shadrach was still coughing, but he had his long rifle in his hand and seemed invigorated by the prospect of battle. Matilda had even acquired a rifle from someone—she planted herself by Shadrach.

  The troop stood together, and watched the two scouts race toward the Mexican camp.

  “Them scouts were Mescalero Apache,” Bigfoot said. “Those hills are their country. The Mexicans must have paid them big, because Apaches don’t usually work for Mexicans.”

  The arrival of the Texans, in plain view on the ridge, put the whole Mexican encampment into a ferment of activity. The cavalrymen raced to saddle their mounts, many of which were skittish and resistant. Everywhere men were loading guns and making ready for war. In the center of the encampment was a huge white tent.

  “I expect that’s where the general sleeps,” Caleb said. “I regret losing my canoe.”

  “Why?” Bigfoot asked. “We’re on dry land.”

  “I know, but if I had my canoe I’d hurry back with it to the nearest river, and I’d paddle down whatever stream it was until I came to the Arkansas, and then I’d paddle down the Arkansas until I came to the Mississippi, and then I’d paddle right on down Old Miss until I struck New Orleans.”

  He stopped and smiled at Brognoli, who stared back, glassy eyed.

  “Once I got to New Orleans I’d stop and buy me a whore,” Caleb went on. “Once I had my fill of whores I’d go back to the pirate life, on the good old gulf, and rob all the ships leaving Mexico. That would be the easy way to get the Spanish silver. They ship most of it to Spain, anyway. It would sure beat traipsing across these goddamn plains.”

  “I think we should count the ammunition, Colonel,” Bigfoot said. “We don’t have any to waste.”

  Caleb ignored this sensible suggestion.

  He sat on his horse, watching the flurry of preparations in the Mexican camp.

  “The truth is, I ain’t felt the same about this enterprise since Corporal McCrae let my dog, Jeb, fall to his death,” Caleb said. “I think I’ll just ride over and have a parley with this army. Do we still have the flag?”

  They had brought along the flag of the Republic of Texas, but no one had seen it in awhile.

  “Why would you need a flag?” Bigfoot asked.

  “Well, we brought the damn rag, why not use it?” Caleb said. “It might impress that general, if there is a general.”

  The flag was finally located, in Johnny Carthage’s kit. At some point he had become the keeper of the flag, but life had been so strenuous that he had forgotten the fact.

  Caleb tied the flag to his rifle barrel, and prepared to leave. The troop was apprehensive, not sure what his intentions were. Half of the men were disposed to run, though running across the prairies on foot, with their stomachs empty, offered a poor prospect, considering that the Mexicans, by Caleb’s count, had one hundred and fifty cavalrymen.

  At the last minute, Caleb looked at Call and nodded.

  “Come with me, Corporal—I need attendants,” he said. “You too, McCrae. Let’s march over there and test this general’s manners. If he’s got any, he’ll ask us to breakfast.”

  “If he does, snatch us some bacon,” Long Bill Coleman said. “I sure would like to have a nice bite of bacon.”

  “Can we take our guns?” Gus asked. He did not want to go among so many Mexicans without his guns.

  “You’re my escort—take your guns,” Caleb said. “An escort’s supposed to march in front. I wish we had a drummer, but we don’t. Let’s get going.”

  Gus and Call started marching straight for the Mexican camp. Caleb paused long enough to light a cigar—he had carefully preserved and rationed his cigars—before coming along behind them.

  “Good Lord, look at them,” Gus said, pointing toward the Mexican camp. “We ought to have brought the whole troop as an escort.”

  “I don’t think they’ll shoot us—this is a parley,” Call said, though he wasn’t fully confident on that score. Across the plain the whole Mexican army stood in battle readiness, waiting for them. The one hundred and fifty cavalrymen were mounted—the infantry, hundreds strong, had been assembled in lines by several captains and lieutenants, who rode back and forth yelling instructions. There were men standing by the cannon. An imposing man in a white uniform stood outside the tent, surrounded by aides.

  For once, the law of distance that seemed to govern their travels on the prairies was reversed. Instead of the Mexican army being farther away than it seemed—half a day away would have been fine with Gus—it proved to be closer than it seemed. In no time, Call and Gus were looking right down into the barrel of the cannon—or so it seemed. The first line of soldiers was only a hundred yards away.

  “They won’t kill us,” Call said. “It wouldn’t be worth their while. There’s only three of us, and look at them. They’d be behaving like cowards if they took advantage of us.”

  “But maybe they are cowards,” Gus suggested. “If they shoot off that cannon it will blow us to bits.”

  Now and then they looked back at their commander, Caleb Cobb—he seemed undisturbed, keeping his horse to a walk and smoking his long cigar.

  “Just ignore the army,” he told them. “Head right for that tent. The only person we need to talk to is the jefe.”

  The young Rangers did as instructed, passing between the lines of infantry and the massed cavalry. Both of them looked straight ahead, trying to ignore the fact that hundreds of men around them were all primed to kill them.

  On the ridge behind them, Matilda Roberts gave way to a fit of crying.

  “They’re lost—they’re just boys,” she said. “They’re lost—they’ll kill them for sure.”

  “Now, Matty—it’s just a parley,” Bigfoot said, but Matilda would not be comforted. Her worries overcame her. She put her face in her hands and sobbed.

  Gus was disconcerted, as they approached the General’s tent, to see Captain Salazar standing amid the Mexican officers.

  “I was hoping the bear got him,” Gus said.

  “Well, the bear didn’t,” Call said.

  Seven officers stood around the General, a heavy man with much gold braid on his uniform. He had a curling mustache and held a silver flask in his hand, from which he drank occasionally. Several of the officers surrounding him had sabres strapped to their legs—they looked at the young Rangers sternly, as they continued toward the tent. The only one, in fact, who seemed well disposed toward them was Captain Salazar himself. He stepped forward to greet them, and actually saluted.

  “Congratulations, gentlemen,” he said. “You escaped the bear. Ordinarily, of course, I would shoot you for escaping, but no one could be blamed for running from a grizzly bear. That bear killed my horse and my cook. I have another horse, but I miss the cook.”

  “I guess you soldiers are acquainted,” Caleb said. He dismounted and handed his reins to a Mexican orderly, who took them with a look of surprise.

  “Yes, we traveled together, Colonel,” Captain Salazar said. “Unfortunately our travels were interrupted, as you may have heard.”

  “Oh, the bear, yes,” Caleb said. “You’re Captain Salazar?”

  “At your service,” the Captain
said, saluting again. “Allow me to introduce you to General Dimasio.”

  The large General did not salute—he nodded casually, and gestured toward his tent.

  “We hope you will join us for coffee,” Salazar said, to Caleb. “It is fortunate that we found one another so quickly. General Dimasio does not like to travel on the llano. The fact that you came to greet us will save him much trouble.”

  “Why, that’s lucky, then,” Caleb said. Without a word to Gus or Call, he bent and went into the tent.

  As soon as Caleb Cobb disappeared into the General’s tent, the two Mexican soldiers closed the flaps and stood in front of it, muskets held across their chests. Call and Gus were alone amid hundreds of enemy soldiers, most of whom clearly registered hostility. No guns were pointed at them, and no sabres drawn, but the moment was awkward. Across the plain, on the neighboring ridge, the little knot of Rangers stood watching. To Call’s mind, they looked forlorn. The Mexicans mostly wore clean uniforms; cooking pots simmered on many campfires. The army they were in the midst of was well equipped and well trained, a far cry from the frightened village militia they had encountered in Anton Chico.

  “Well, here we are,” Gus said. He found the silence uncomfortable.

  “Yes, for now,” Captain Salazar said. He was the only Mexican whose manner was friendly.

  “Would you like breakfast?” he asked. “As you can see, we have plenty to eat. We even have eggs.”

  Gus was about to accept, happily—he felt he could eat thirty or forty eggs, if he were offered that many—but Call immediately rejected Salazar’s offer.

  “No sir, much obliged,” Call said. “We’ve et.”

  “In that case, at least let me offer you coffee,” Salazar said.

  “I’ll have some coffee, thanks,” Gus said at once, fearing that his friend would decline even that.

  Salazar motioned to an orderly, who soon brought each of them coffee in small cups.

  “Why did you say we et?—you know we ain’t et since we killed those prairie chickens,” Gus said. “You could have let them feed us—they’ve got plenty.”

  “Our men ain’t got plenty,” Call reminded him, glancing toward the little group on the distant ridge. “I won’t sit down and stuff myself with these enemies when our men are about ready to eat their belts.”

  “It ain’t our fault they didn’t get to be escorts,” Gus said. “Escorting’s hard work—here we are with a thousand men ready to kill us. Maybe they will kill us. If I have to die I’d just as soon do it with something in my stomach.”

  “No,” Call said. “Just shut up and wait. Maybe Colonel Cobb will buy food for the troop and then we can all eat.”

  Caleb Cobb was in the General’s tent for over an hour. Not a sound came through the canvas. Gus and Call had nothing to do but wait. Captain Salazar soon went off to attend to some duty, leaving the two of them standing there amid their foes. The cups of coffee had been tiny; no one else offered them anything.

  While they stood and waited, though, the Mexican cavalry divided itself into two groups, and moved out. One wing went south of the group of Rangers; the other wing flanked the Rangers to the north.

  Then the massed infantry began the same maneuver. Several hundred men marched north of the Rangers—another several hundred marched south. The Rangers stood as they were, watching these developments helplessly.

  “I wish our boys would take cover—only where’s the cover to take?” Gus asked. “Pretty soon they’ll be surrounded.”

  “You’re right about the cover,” Call said. “There ain’t none to take.”

  “I wish the Colonel would come out—I’d like to know he’s still alive,” Gus said. The fact that no sound had come from the General’s tent had begun to worry him.

  “I expect he’s alive—we’d have heard it if they shot him,” Call said.

  “Well, they might have cut his throat,” Gus said. “Mexicans are handy with knives.”

  He had scarcely said it before the flaps of the tent opened and Caleb Cobb stepped out, wearing the same pleasant expression he had worn when he went in.

  “Corporal McCrae, did they feed you?” he asked.

  “They offered,” Gus said. “Corporal Call declined.”

  “Oh, why’s that? I had an excellent breakfast myself. The eggs were real tasty.”

  “I won’t eat with skunks when my friends are starving,” Call said.

  “I see—that’s the noble point of view,” Caleb said. “I’m better at the selfish point of view, myself. You’ll seldom see me neglect my own belly. My friends’ bellies are their lookout.”

  “I’d just as soon leave,” Call said. “I’ve been stared at long enough by people I’d just as soon shoot.”

  “That’s brash, under the circumstances,” Caleb said. “You can’t go, though.”

  “Why not?” Call asked.

  “Because I just surrendered,” Caleb said. “I’ve a promise that if we lay down our arms not a man will be killed. I’ve done laid down mine—handed them to the General’s orderly.”

  Gus was startled, Call angry. It was infuriating to have their own leader simply walk into a fancy tent with a fat general and surrender, without giving any of his men a chance to have their say.

  “I expect to keep my weapons, unless I’m killed,” Call said, in a tight voice.

  “You can’t keep them, Corporal—you have to give them up,” Caleb said, with a menacing glance. “When I give an order I expect to have it obeyed. You’re a young man. I won’t have you dying over this foolishness.”

  “I’d rather die right now, fighting, than to be put in irons again,” Call said. “I won’t be put in irons.”

  “Why, no—there’ll be no fetters this time,” Caleb said. “This is a peaceable surrender the General and I have worked out. Nobody on either side needs to get hurt. As soon as the boys over there on the ridge have given up their weapons, we can all sit down and have breakfast like friends.”

  “You mean we can just go home, as long as we ain’t armed?” Gus asked.

  “No, not home—not right away,” Caleb said. “You’ll all be visiting Mexico, for a spell.”

  “We’ll be prisoners, you mean?” Call asked. “You mean we’ve marched all this way just to be prisoners?”

  Caleb Cobb turned to one of the Mexican officers, and said a few words in Spanish. The officer, a young skinny fellow, looked startled, but he immediately took his sidearm and handed it to Caleb, who leveled it at Call.

  “Corporal, if you’re determined to be dead I’ll oblige you myself,” he said. “I shot Captain Falconer for disobedience and I’ll shoot you for the same reason.”

  He cocked the pistol.

  “Woodrow, give up your guns,” Gus said, putting a hand on Call’s arm. He could see that his friend was tight as a spring. He had never intervened in Woodrow Call’s conflicts before, but he felt that if he didn’t try this time, his only true friend would be shot before his eyes. Caleb Cobb was not a man to make idle threats.

  Call shook off Gus’s hand. He was ready to leap at Caleb, even if it meant his death.

  Gus quickly stepped between the two men, handing over his pistol and rifle as he did. The nearest Mexican officer took them.

  “Give it up, Woodrow,” he repeated.

  “Corporal McCrae, you’re more sensible than your pal,” Caleb said. “Corporal Call ain’t sensible, but if he’ll take your advice and hand over them weapons, we’ll all get out of this without loss of life.”

  Call saw, with bitter anger, that his situation was hopeless. Even if he sprang at Caleb and knocked the pistol aside, a hundred Mexicans would shoot him before he could flee.

  “I despise you for a coward,” he said to Caleb; but he handed over his guns.

  Caleb shrugged, and turned to Captain Salazar, who had come out of the tent in time to witness the little standoff.

  “Captain, would you oblige me and put this man under heavy guard until he cools off?” Caleb asked
. “He’s too brash for his own damn good.”

  “Certainly, Colonel,” Salazar said. “I’ll assign six men.”

  Caleb looked at Call again—the young Ranger was quivering, and the look in his eyes was a look of hatred.

  “Assign ten, Captain,” Caleb said. “Six men could handle him, if he decides to break out. But this is the man who shot Buffalo Hump’s son—he’ll fight, if he sees any room.”

  “I don’t care if you do call yourself colonel,” Call said. “You had no right to surrender us.”

  Caleb Cobb ignored him—he gave the skinny young officer the sidearm he had just borrowed.

  “Gracias,” he said. “Corporal McCrae, I want you to walk back over to that ridge where the troop is and tell them to give up their guns. Tell them they won’t be hurt, and tell them they’ll be fed as soon as they surrender.”

  “I’ll go, Colonel, but they may not like the news,” Gus said.

  Caleb gestured toward the Mexican army, which had quickly surrounded the little group on the ridge. The infantry had formed a tight ring, with the cavalry massed in two lines outside it.

  “We’re not having an Alamo or a Goliad, not here,” Caleb said. “Colonel Travis was a fool, though a brave fool. At least he had a church to fight in—we don’t even have a tree to hide behind. This little war is over.”

  “Go along—tell them that,” he added. “The sooner you go, the sooner they’ll get breakfast.”

  “Woodrow, hold steady,” Gus said, before leaving. “It won’t help nobody for you to get killed.”

  Caleb Cobb went back into the General’s tent. Nearby, three soldiers were hitching a team of sorrel mares to a fine buggy with a canvas canopy over it.

  Gus gave Call’s arm a squeeze, and started walking back toward the ridge where the troop waited. He had assumed a few Mexicans would go along to keep an eye on him, but none did. He walked out of the Mexican camp alone, through the blowing grass.

  A group of ten soldiers, led by Captain Salazar, surrounded Call and marched him about a hundred yards from the General’s tent.

  “Sit, Corporal—rest yourself,” Salazar said. “You have a very long walk ahead. Perhaps now that this foolish invasion is over, you would care to eat.”