The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  Call shook his head—he was still very angry.

  “I’ll eat when my friends can eat,” he said. “What’s this about a long walk? Colonel Cobb just said we’d be going to Mexico—ain’t we in Mexico?”

  “New Mexico, yes,” Salazar said. “But there is another Mexico, and that is where you are going—to the City of Mexico, in fact.

  “That’s where the trial will be held,” he went on. “Or it will be, if any of you survive the long march.”

  “How far is the City of Mexico?” Call asked.

  “I don’t know, Señor,” Salazar admitted. “I have never had the pleasure of going there.”

  “Well, is it a hundred miles?” Call asked. “That’s a long enough walk if we’re just going to be shot at the end of it.”

  Salazar looked at him in surprise.

  “I see you know little geography,” he said. “The City of Mexico is more than a thousand miles away. It may be two thousand—as I said, I have never been there. But it is a long walk.”

  “Hell, that’s too far,” Call said. “I don’t care to walk my feet off, just to get someplace where I’ll be put up against a wall and shot. I’ve done walked a far piece, getting here from Texas. I don’t care to walk another thousand miles, and the boys won’t care to, either.”

  “You may not care to, but you will go,” Salazar said. “You will go, and you will be tried properly. We are not barbarians—we do not condemn men without a fair trial.”

  Call accepted another cup of coffee, but he didn’t eat, nor did he encourage any more conversations with Captain Salazar, or anyone. Across the plain, he could see Gus walking—he had not even reached the company yet, to inform them of Caleb’s treachery. Call wished he could be walking with him, so he could encourage the Rangers to fight, even if to the death. It would be better to die than to submit to captivity again. But Gus was gone, and he was guarded too closely to attempt to follow. He was being watched, not only by the ten soldiers who had been assigned to him but by most of the soldiers still in camp. In the darkness he would have tried it, but the clouds were thinning; it was bright daylight. Patches of sunlight struck the prairie through the thinning clouds. Gus was walking in a patch of light, toward the ridge.

  As Call sat surrounded, trying to control his bitter anger, General Dimasio came out of the white tent, with Caleb Cobb just behind him. The two men, accompanied by the General’s orderlies, walked to the fancy buggy and got in. Call had supposed the General was about to leave—why else hitch the buggy?—but he was shocked when Caleb got in the buggy with the General. The General was drinking liquor, not from a flask but from a heavy glass jar, as they waited for the soldier who was to drive the buggy. Caleb had no jar, but as Call watched, he extracted another cigar from his shirt pocket and carefully readied it for lighting. The soldier who was to drive the team hopped up in his seat, and the buggy swung around to the west. Eight cavalrymen fell in behind it.

  As the General and his guest started out of camp, the General stopped the buggy for a moment, in order to say something to Captain Salazar. Call was sitting only a few yards from where the buggy stopped. The sight of Caleb, his own commander, sitting at ease with the Mexican general, caused his anger to rise even higher. Call got to his feet, watching. Captain Salazar sent a soldier running back to the tent—the General had forgotten his fur lap robe. In a moment the soldier came out of the tent with it, being careful to keep the end of the robe from dragging on the wet ground. The robe was almost as heavy as the soldier who was carrying it.

  Before anyone could stop him, Call stepped closer to the buggy.

  “Where are you running to?” he asked Caleb.

  There was such anger in his voice that the ten soldiers who were guarding him all flinched. Caleb Cobb himself looked surprised and annoyed—he had already consigned Call to the past, and did not appreciate being approached so boldly.

  “Why, to Santa Fe, Corporal,” Caleb said. “General Dimasio says the governor wants to meet me. I think he plans to give me a little banquet.”

  Call decided it would be worth dying just to strike the coward once—at least his body decided it. In a second, he was charging through the startled soldiers—he even managed to snatch a musket as he ran past, but he didn’t get a good grip on it and the musket fell to the ground. He kept running. His wild charge spooked the high-strung buggy horses, both of whom leaped into the air, jerking the driver off the buggy, right under the horse’s feet. It was a light buggy, and Call hit it while it was slightly tipped from the team’s leap. Caleb and the General lurched forward on the buggy seat. Call leapt for Caleb and hit him once. Then, as the buggy was tipping, he grabbed the heavy glass jar the General had been drinking from and smashed Caleb with it, flattening his nose and also his fresh cigar. The jar broke in Caleb’s face—blood and whiskey poured down his chest. Soon four men were squirming in the overturned buggy, which the frantic horses were dragging slowly forward on its side. The driver was caught under one of the wheels and groaned loudly every time the horses moved.

  For a second, the whole Mexican camp was paralyzed. They all stood stunned while one Texan caused their General’s buggy to tip over. General Dimasio was near the bottom of the pile, and Call was still pounding at Caleb with his bloody fist. After the first shock, though, the Mexicans regained their power of motion—soon fifty rifles were leveled at Call.

  “Don’t shoot!” Captain Salazar yelled, in Spanish. “You’ll hit the General. Use your bayonets—stick this man, stick him!”

  The nearest soldier did manage to bayonet Call in the calf, but before anyone else could stab him, General Dimasio struggled to his feet and ordered them to stop.

  “El Fiero!” he said, looking at Call, whose hands were bleeding as badly as Caleb Cobb’s face.

  Several soldiers, all with their bayonets raised to deal the Texan a fatal wound, were startled by the General’s order, but all obeyed it. The first blow with the whiskey bottle had rendered Caleb unconscious, but Call was still trying to strike him.

  “I think Colonel Cobb’s jaw is broken,” Salazar said; though the man’s face was very bloody, it seemed to him that his jaw had dropped at an odd angle.

  Call wanted to kill Caleb Cobb, but he had no weapon—the few shards of glass around him were all too small to stab with, and before he could get a grip on Caleb’s bloody neck to strangle him, the Mexicans began to drag him off. It was not easy—Call was bent on killing the man, and he flailed so that the soldiers kept losing their grip. Finally, one looped a horsehide rope over one of Call’s legs and they pulled him off. A dozen men piled on him and finally held him steady enough that they could truss him hand and foot. Just before they pulled him off, Call pounded Caleb’s head against the edge of the wagon-wheel seat, opening a split in his forehead. He failed in his purpose, though. Caleb Cobb was damaged, but he was not injured fatally.

  Through the legs of the men standing over him, many of them panting from the struggle, Call saw several Mexicans help Caleb Cobb to his feet. Caleb’s face and forehead were dripping blood, but once he cleared his head, he hobbled through the soldiers and broke into the circle where Call lay tied. Without a word he grabbed a musket from the nearest soldier and raised it high, to bayonet Call where he lay, but Captain Salazar was quicker. Before Caleb struck, he stepped in front of him and leveled a pistol at him.

  “No, Colonel, put down the gun,” Salazar said. “I must remind you that this man is our prisoner, not yours.”

  Call looked at Caleb calmly. He had done his best to kill the man, and was prepared to take the consequences. He knew that Caleb wanted his death—he could see the murderous urge in the man’s eyes.

  With difficulty, Caleb mastered himself. He turned the musket over, as if he meant to hand it back to the soldier he had borrowed it from. But then, in a whipping motion too quick for anyone to stop, he struck with the stock of the musket across both of Call’s bound feet. The blow was so sudden and painful that Call cried out. Caleb immediately
handed the musket back to the soldier he had borrowed it from, and hobbled back toward the buggy.

  Call twisted in pain—through the legs of his captors he could see the buggy being righted. The horses, still jumpy, were being held by three men each. General Dimasio stood by the buggy, talking to Captain Salazar. Now and then, the General gestured toward Call. The company barber had been hastily summoned, to pick the glass out of Caleb’s face and neck. The barber wiped the blood away with a rag as best he could, but several cuts were still bleeding freely—he took the rag from the barber and dabbed at the cuts himself.

  General Dimasio climbed back into the buggy, and Caleb after him. The canopy was sitting a little crookedly. The driver had survived; he turned the buggy, and the eight cavalrymen fell in behind it again, as it left the camp.

  The buggy went at a good clip—soon the General and Caleb Cobb were nearly to the mountains.

  Captain Salazar strolled over and stood looking down at Call, who was still surrounded by soldiers ready to bayonet him if he gave them an excuse.

  “You are a brave young man, but foolish,” Salazar said. “Your Colonel had no choice but to surrender. His men had no food and no ammunition. If he hadn’t surrendered, we would have killed you all.”

  “I despise him,” Call said. “At least he won’t look so pretty at his damn banquet.”

  “You’re right about that,” Salazar said. “But the governor’s wife will enjoy him anyway. She likes adventurers.”

  “I despise him,” Call said, again.

  “I’m afraid you will not look so good either, once we have whipped you,” Salazar said. “The General admired your mettle so much that he ordered one hundred lashes for you—a great honor.”

  Call looked at Captain Salazar, but said nothing. His feet still pained him badly. He had supposed there would be more punishment coming, too. After all, he had knocked the fat General out of his fancy buggy, turned the buggy over, caused the driver to get partly crushed by a wagon wheel, and bent the canopy of the buggy out of shape.

  “Fifty lashes is usually enough to kill a man, Corporal,” Captain Salazar went on. “You will have to eat heartily before this punishment, if you hope to live.”

  “Why would I need to eat, especially?” Call asked.

  “Because you won’t have any flesh left on your ribs,” the Captain said. “The whip will take it off.”

  Then he smiled at Call again, and turned away.

  29.

  GUS WAS WALKING UP the little slope toward the Ranger troop when suddenly a cheer went up. He looked up to see that the men were all waving their guns and hooting. At first he thought they were merely welcoming him back—but when he looked more closely, he saw that they were looking beyond him, toward the Mexican camp.

  He turned to see what the commotion was about and saw that the General’s buggy had been overturned, somehow—at first he supposed it was merely some accident with the horses. Good buggy horses were often too high strung to be reliable.

  When he saw there was a melee, and that Call was in the middle of it, his stomach turned over. Call was in the overturned buggy, pounding at Caleb Cobb. Then he saw a soldier bayonet Call in the leg—several more soldiers had their bayonets up, ready to stab Call when they could. Gus didn’t want to watch, but was unable to turn away. He knew his friend would be dead in a few seconds.

  But then, to Gus’s surprise, Salazar stepped in and stopped the stabbing. He saw Caleb come over and strike at Call with the musket stock. Why he struck his feet, rather than his head, Gus couldn’t figure. He began to walk backward, up the ridge, so he could continue to watch the drama in the Mexican camp. Salazar came back and seemed to be having a talk with Call, while Call lay on the ground. Gus didn’t know what any of it meant. All he could be sure of was that Caleb Cobb then left the camp with General Dimasio. Call was tied up—no doubt he was in plenty of trouble for attacking the General’s buggy.

  He soon gave up walking backward—the ground was too rough. The boys were close by, anyway—some were coming down the ridge to meet him. The Mexican infantry stood in a ring around them, just out of rifle range.

  “So what’s the orders, why did Caleb leave?” Bigfoot asked, when Gus walked up to the troop.

  “The orders are to surrender our weapons,” Gus said. “Call didn’t like them—I guess that’s why he knocked over that buggy.”

  “Well, he was bold,” Bigfoot said. “I expect they’ll put him up against the wall of a church, like they did Bes.”

  “They would have already, only there’s no church available,” Blackie Slidell said.

  “Where did Caleb bounce off to, with that fat general?” Bigfoot asked.

  Gus didn’t know the answer to that question, or to most of the questions he was asked. He couldn’t get his mind off the fact that Woodrow Call was probably going to be executed, and very soon. He had never had a friend as good as Woodrow Call—it was in his mind that he should have stayed and fought with him, and been killed too, side by side with his friend.

  “Caleb is a damn skunk,” Long Bill Coleman said. “He had no right to surrender for us—what if we’d rather fight?”

  “What happens if we do surrender?” Jimmy Tweed asked. “Will they put all of us up against a church?”

  “Oh, they’d need two churches, at least, for all of us,” Bigfoot said. “That church where they shot Bes was no bigger than a hut. They’d have to shoot us in shifts, if they used a church that small.”

  “Shut up about the churches, they ain’t going to shoot us,” Gus said. He was annoyed by Bigfoot’s habit of holding lengthy discussions of ways they might have to die. If he had to be dead, he wanted it to occur with less conversation from Bigfoot Wallace.

  “We can have breakfast, as soon as we give up our guns,” he added.

  To the hungry men, cold, wet, and discouraged, the notion of breakfast was a considerable inducement to compromise.

  “I wonder if they’ve got bacon?” Jimmy Tweed asked. “I might surrender to the rascals if I could spend the morning eating bacon.”

  “There’s no pigs over there,” Matilda observed. “I guess they could have brought bacon with them, though.”

  “What do you think, Shad?” Bigfoot asked.

  Shadrach had picked up a little, at the prospect of battle. There was a keen light in his eyes that had been missing since he got his cough and had begun to repeat himself in his conversations. He was walking back and forth in front of the troop, his long rifle in his hand. The fact that they were completely surrounded by Mexican infantry, with a substantial body of cavalry backing them up, was not lost on him, though. He kept looking across the plain and then to the mountains beyond. The plain offered no hope. It was entirely open; they would be cut down like rabbits. But the mountains were timbered. If they could make it to cover, they might survive.

  The problem with that strategy was that the Mexican camp lay directly between them and the hills. They would have to fight their way through the infantry, then through the cavalry, then through the camp. Several men were sickly, and the ammunition was low. Much as he wanted to sight his long rifle time after time at Mexican breasts, he knew it would be a form of suicide. They were too few, with too little.

  “We could run for them hills—shoot our way through,” he said. “I doubt more than five or six of us would make it. We’d give them a scrap, at least, if we done that.”

  “Not a one of us would make it,” Bigfoot said. “Of course they might spare Matilda.”

  “I don’t want to be spared, if Shad ain’t,” Matilda said.

  “You’re a big target, Matty,” Bigfoot observed, in a kindly tone. “They might shoot you full of lead before they even realized you were female.”

  “Why do we have to fight?” Gus asked. “They have us surrounded and we’re outnumbered ten to one—more than that, I guess. We can’t whip that many of them, even if they are Mexicans. If we surrender we won’t be hurt—Caleb said that himself. We’ll just be prison
ers for awhile. And we can have breakfast.”

  “I am damn hungry,” Blackie Slidell said. “A few tortillas wouldn’t hurt.”

  “All right, boys—they’re too many,” Bigfoot said. “Let’s lay our guns down. Maybe they’ll just march us over to Santa Fe and introduce us to some pretty señoritas.”

  “I think they’ll line us up and shoot us,” Johnny Carthage said. “I’m for the breakfast, though—I hope there’s a good cook.”

  The Rangers carefully laid down their weapons, in full view of a captain of the infantry. They piled the guns in a heap, and raised their hands.

  The captain who received their surrender was very young—about Gus’s age. Relief was in his face when he saw that the Rangers had decided not to fight.

  “Gracias, Señores,” he said. “Now come with us and eat.”

  “There’s one good thing about surrendering,” Gus said to Jimmy Tweed, as they were marching.

  “What?” Jimmy asked. “Señoritas?”

  “No, weapons—lots of guns, and they’ve got that cannon,” Gus said. “It ought to be enough to keep off the bears.”

  “Oh, bears,” Jimmy said, casually.

  “You ain’t even seen one,” Gus said. “You wouldn’t be so reckless if you had.”

  30.

  “THE WHIP WAS MADE in Germany,” Captain Salazar said, as Call was being tied to the wheel of one of the supply wagons.

  “I have never been in Germany,” he added. “But it seems they make the best whips.”

  The whole Mexican force had been assembled, to watch Call’s punishment. The Texans were lined up just behind him. Many of them were in a very foul temper, since the promised breakfast had turned out to consist of flavorless tortillas and very weak coffee.

  None of them had had a chance to talk to Call, who was under heavy guard. He was marched by armed men with bayonets fixed to the wagon, where he was tied. His shirt was removed, too. One of the muleteers was to do the whipping—a heavyset man with only one or two teeth in his mouth. The whip had several thongs, each with a knot or two in them. The thongs were tipped with metal.