The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  Captain Salazar listened for a moment.

  “No, it is not Indians,” he said. “It’s cavalry.”

  “Lots of cavalry,” Bigfoot said. “Maybe it’s the American army, coming to rescue us.”

  “I’m afraid not, Señor,” Salazar said. “It’s the Mexican army, coming to march you to El Paso.”

  All the villagers were apprehensive—they were not used to being visited by soldiers, twice in two days. Some of the women crept back inside their little houses. The men, most of them elderly, stood where they were.

  In a few minutes, the horses they had been hearing clipped into town, forty in all. The soldiers riding them were wearing clean uniforms; and all were armed with sabres, as well as rifles and pistols. At their head rode a small man in a smart uniform, with many ribbons on his breast.

  The sun glinted on the forty sabres in their sheaths.

  Beside the cavalry were several men on foot, so dark that Call couldn’t tell whether they were Mexican or Indian. They trotted beside the horses—none of them looked tired.

  The Mexican soldiers who stood with Salazar looked embarrassed. Their own uniforms were torn and dirty—some had no coats at all, only the blankets that had been given them by the people of Las Palomas. Some of them remembered that when they had started out from Santa Fe to catch the Texans they had been as smartly dressed as the approaching cavalry. Now, in comparison to the soldiers from the south, they looked like beggars, and they knew it.

  The small man with the ribbons rode right up to Captain Salazar and stopped. He had a thin mustache that curled at the ends to a fine point.

  “You are Captain Salazar?” he asked.

  “Yes, Major,” the Captain said.

  “I am Major Laroche,” the small man said. “Why are these men not tied?”

  The Major looked at the Texans with cold contempt—the tone of his voice alone made Call bristle.

  The thing that surprised Gus was that the Major was white. He did not look Mexican at all.

  Captain Salazar looked discouraged.

  “I have walked a long way with these men, Major,” he said. “Together we walked the dead man’s walk. The reason they are not tied is because they know I will shoot them if they try to escape.”

  Major Laroche did not change expression.

  “Perhaps you would shoot at them, but would you hit them?” he asked. “I think it would be easier to hit them if they were tied—but that is not my point.”

  Captain Salazar looked up, waiting for the Major’s point. He did not have to wait very long.

  “They are prisoners,” the Major said. “Prisoners should be tied. Then they should be put up against a wall and shot. That is what we would do with such men in France, if we caught them.”

  The Major looked at the dark men who trotted beside the horses. He said something to them—one of the dark men immediately went to the pack mule and came back with a handful of rawhide thongs.

  “Tie him first,” the Major said, pointing at Bigfoot. “Then tie the one who turned over the General’s buggy. Which is he?”

  Salazar gestured toward Call. In a moment, two of the dark men were beside him with the thongs.

  Bigfoot had already held out his hands so that the men could tie them, but Call had not. He tensed, ready to fight the dark men, but before his rage broke Bigfoot and Salazar both spoke to him.

  “Let it be, Woodrow,” Bigfoot said. “The Major here’s ready to shoot you, and it’s too nice a morning to get shot.”

  “He is right,” Salazar said.

  Call mastered himself with difficulty. He held out his hands, and one of the dark men bound him tightly at the wrists with the rawhide thongs. In a few minutes, all the Texans were similarly bound.

  “Perhaps you should chain them, too,” Salazar said, with a touch of sarcasm. “As you know, Texans are very wild.”

  Major Laroche ignored the remark.

  “Where is the rest of your troop, Captain?” he asked.

  “Dead,” Salazar said. “The Apaches followed us into the Jornada del Muerto. They killed some. A bear killed two. Six starved to death.”

  “But you had horses, when you left Santa Fe,” the Major said. “Where are your horses?”

  “Some are dead and some were stolen,” Salazar admitted. He spoke in a dull tone, not looking at the Major, who sat ramrod stiff on his horse.

  When all the prisoners were bound, the Major turned his horse. He looked down once more at Captain Salazar.

  “I suggest you go home, Captain,” he said. “Your commanding officer will want to know why you lost half your men and all your horses. I am told that you were well provisioned. No one should have starved.”

  “Gomez killed General Dimasio, Major,” Salazar said. “He killed Colonel Cobb, the man who led these Texans. He is the reason I lost the men and the horses.”

  Major Laroche curled the ends of his mustache once more.

  “No officer in the Mexican army should be beaten by a savage,” he said. “One day perhaps they will let me go after this Gomez. When I catch him I will put a hook through his neck and hang him in the plaza in Santa Fe.”

  “You won’t catch him,” Call said.

  Major Laroche looked briefly at Call.

  “Is there a blacksmith in this village?” he asked.

  No one spoke. The men of the village had all lowered their eyes.

  “Very well,” the Major said. “If there were a blacksmith I would chain this man now. But we cannot wait. I assure you when we reach Las Cruces I will see that you are fitted with some very proper irons.”

  Salazar had not moved.

  “Major, I have no horses,” he said. “Am I to walk to Santa Fe? I am a captain in the army.”

  “A disgraced captain,” Major Laroche said. “You walked here. Walk back.”

  “Alone?” Salazar asked.

  “No, you can take your soldiers,” Major Laroche said. “I don’t want them—they stink. If I were you I would take them to the river and bathe them before you leave.”

  “We have little ammunition,” Salazar said. “If we leave here without horses or bullets, Gomez will kill us all.”

  The priest had come out of the little church. He stood with his hands folded into his habit, watching.

  “Ask that priest to say a prayer for you,” Major Laroche said. “If he is a good priest his prayers might be better than bullets or horses.”

  “Perhaps, but I would rather have bullets and horses,” Salazar said.

  Major Laroche didn’t answer. He had already turned his horse.

  The Texans were placed in the center of the column of cavalry—the cavalrymen behind them drew their sabres and held them ready, across their saddles. Captain Salazar and his ragged troop stood in the street and watched the party depart.

  “Goodbye, Captain—if I was you I’d travel at night,” Bigfoot said. “If you stick to the river and travel at night you might make it.”

  The Texans looked once more at the Captain who had captured them, and the few men they had traveled so far with. There was no time for farewells. The cavalrymen with drawn sabres pressed close behind them.

  Matilda Roberts had not been tied. She passed close to Captain Salazar as she walked out of the village of Las Palomas.

  “Adiós, Captain,” she said. “You ain’t a bad fellow. I hope you get home alive.”

  Salazar nodded, but didn’t answer. He and his men stood watching as the Texans were marched south, out of the village of Las Palomas.

  8.

  MAJOR LAROCHE MADE NO allowance for weariness. By noon, the Texans were having a hard time keeping up with the pace he set. The pause for rest was only ten minutes; the meal just a handful of corn. The mule that the villagers had so carefully provisioned had become the property of the Major’s cavalry. The Texans hardly had time to sit, before the march was resumed. While they ate their hard corn, they watched the Mexican cavalrymen eat the cheese the women of Las Palomas had provided for them.<
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  Gus was puzzled by the fact that a Frenchman was leading a company of Mexican cavalry.

  “Why would a Frenchie fight with the Mexicans?” he asked. “I know there’s lots of Frenchies down in New Orleans, but I never knew they went as far as Mexico.”

  “Money, I expect,” Bigfoot said. “I never made much money fighting—I’ve mostly done it for the sport, but plenty do it for the pay.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Call said. “I’d take the pay, but I’ve got other reasons for fighting.”

  “What other reasons?” Gus asked.

  Call didn’t answer. He had not meant to provoke a question from his companion, and was sorry he had spoken at all.

  “Can’t you hear? I asked you what other reasons?” Gus said.

  “Woodrow don’t know why he likes to fight,” Matilda said. “He don’t know why he turned that buggy over and got himself whipped raw. My Shad didn’t know why he wandered—he was just a wandering man. Woodrow, he’s a fighter.”

  “It’s all right to fight,” Bigfoot said. “But there’s a time to fight, and a time to let be. Right now we’re hog-tied, and we ain’t got no guns. This ain’t the time to fight.”

  They marched all afternoon and deep into the night, which was cold. Call kept up, though his foot was throbbing again. Major Laroche sent the dark men ahead to scout. He himself never looked back at the prisoners. From time to time they could see him raise his hand, to curl his mustache.

  In the morning, there was thin ice on the little puddles by the river. The men were given coffee; while they were drinking it Major Laroche lined his men up at rigid attention, and rode down their ranks, inspecting them. Now and then, he pointed at something that displeased him—a girth strap not correctly secured, or a uniform not fully buttoned, or a sabre sheath not shined. The men who had been careless were made to fall out immediately; the Major watched while they corrected the problem.

  When he was finished with his own troops, the Major rode over and inspected the Texans. They knew they were ragged and filthy, but when the Frenchman looked down at them with pitiless eyes they felt even dirtier and more ragged. The Major saw Long Bill Coleman scratching himself—most of the men had long been troubled by lice.

  “Gentlemen, you need a bath,” he said. “We have a fine ceremony planned for you, in El Paso. We will be there in four days. I am going to untie you now, so that you can bathe. We have a fine river here—why waste it? Perhaps if you bathe in it every day until we reach our destination, you will be presentable when we hold the ceremony.”

  “What kind of ceremony would that be, Major?” Bigfoot asked.

  “I will let that be a surprise,” Major Laroche said, not smiling.

  Gus had taken a strong dislike to Major Laroche’s manner of speaking—his talk was too crisp, to Gus’s ear. He didn’t see why a Frenchman, or anyone, needed to be that sharp in speech. Talk that was slower and not so crisp would be a lot easier to tolerate, particularly on a cold morning when he had enough to do just keeping warm.

  “I’m going to release you now, for your bath,” the Major said. “I want you to take off those filthy clothes—we’re going to burn them.”

  “Burn ’em?” Bigfoot said. “Major, we’ve got no other clothes to put on. I admit these are dirty and smelly, but if you burn them we won’t have a rag to put on.”

  “You have blankets,” the Major pointed out. “You can wrap those around you, today. Tomorrow we will reach Las Cruces—when we get there we will dress you properly, so that you won’t disgrace yourselves when we hold the ceremony.”

  He nodded to the dark men, who began to cut the rawhide thongs that bound the Texans.

  With the cavalry behind them, the Texans were marched to the Rio Grande. They were all apprehensive—none of them trusted the French Major. Besides that, they were cold, and the green river looked colder. The frost had not yet melted from the thorn bushes.

  “Strip, gentlemen—your bath awaits,” Major Laroche said.

  The Texans hesitated—no one wanted to start undressing. But Major Laroche was looking at them impatiently, and the cavalry was lined up behind him.

  “I guess you boys think you’re gents,” Matilda said. “I’m tired of stinking, so I’ll be first, if nobody cares.”

  There was a titter from the cavalry, when Matilda began to shed her clothes, but Major Laroche whirled on his men angrily and the titter died. Then he turned back, and watched Matilda walk into the water.

  “Hurry, gentlemen,” the Major said. “The lady has set you an example. Hurry—we have a march to make.”

  Reluctantly, the Texans began to strip, while the Mexican cavalry watched Matilda Roberts splash in the Rio Grande.

  “I reckon it won’t hurt us to get clean,” Bigfoot said. “I’d prefer a big brass tub, but I guess this old river will do.”

  He undressed; so, finally, did the rest of the men. They were encouraged slightly by the fact that Matilda, skinnier than she had been when she lifted the snapping turtle out of the Rio Grande, but still a large woman, splashed herself over and over, rubbing her arms and breasts with sand scooped from the shallows where she stood.

  “It might hurt us if we freeze,” Gus said.

  “Oh, now, it’s just water,” Long Bill said. “If it ain’t froze Matty, I guess I can tolerate it.”

  The water, when Call stepped in, was so cold he felt as if he had been burned. It sent a pain so deep into his sore foot that he thought for a moment the foot might have died. Gradually, though, wading up to his knees, he came to tolerate the water a little better, and began to follow Matilda’s example, scooping sand from the shallow riverbed and rubbing himself. He was surprised at how white the bodies of the men were—their faces were dark from the sun, but their bodies were white as fish bellies.

  While the Texans splashed, Major Laroche decided to drill his troops a little. He put them through a sabre drill, and then had them present muskets and advance as if into battle.

  Wesley Buttons, the youngest and most excitable of the three Buttons brothers, happened to glance ashore just as the cavalry was advancing with their muskets ready. Seeing the advancing Mexicans convinced Wesley that massacre was imminent. They had been expecting death for weeks—from Indians, from bears, from Mexicans, from the weather—and now here it came.

  “Run, boys, they mean to shoot us all!” he yelled, grabbing his two brothers, Jackie and Charlie, by the arms.

  Within a second, panic spread among the Texans, though Bigfoot Wallace at once saw that the Mexicans were merely drilling. He yelled out as loudly as he could, but his cry was lost—half the Texans were already splashing deeper into the river, desperate suddenly to get across.

  The Mexican cavalry, and even Major Laroche, were startled by the sudden panic which had seized the naked men. For a moment the Major hesitated, and in that moment Bigfoot ran toward the shore, meaning to run to where the Major sat on his horse and explain that the men had merely taken a fright.

  Call, Gus, and Matilda were downriver slightly, near the bank where the Mexicans were assembled. Gus had cut his foot on a mussel shell. Call and Matilda were helping him out of the water when the panic started. Long Bill Coleman had already had enough of the freezing water. He had walked back toward the pile of clothes, hoping to find a clean shirt or pants leg to dry himself with.

  “Boys, come back—come back!” Bigfoot yelled, turning to look as he splashed ashore; but only the five or six men nearest him understood the command. One of the dark men had been attempting to burn the Texans’ clothes—he was holding a stick of firewood to a shirt, hoping the filthy garment would ignite.

  At that moment Major Laroche saw Bigfoot coming, and realized the Texans were merely scared.

  He motioned his cavalry forward, disgusted at the delay this foolish act of ignorance would cause him—then, a second later, the cavalry, primed to shoot, and excited by the fact that half the prisoners seemed to be escaping, rushed past the Major before he could stop them, firing at
the fleeing men.

  “No! no! you stupids! Don’t kill them—don’t kill them!” he yelled.

  But his words were lost in the rush of hooves, and the blast of muskets. He sat, helpless and in a cold fury, as his men spurred their horses into the river, some trying to reload their muskets, others slashing at the fleeing Texans with their sabres.

  Bigfoot, Call, Matilda, Gus, Long Bill and a few others struggled back to where the Major sat, hoping he could call off his troops. The dark men at once covered them with their guns. None of them—Texans, the Major, the dark men—could do anything but watch. Both Bigfoot and the Major were yelling, trying to call off the cavalry before all the fleeing Texans were shot or cut down.

  Bigfoot, holding up his hands to show that he meant no harm, walked as close to Major Laroche as the dark men would let him get.

  “Major, ain’t there no way to stop this?” he asked. “Don’t you have a bugler, at least?”

  Major Laroche had taken out a spyglass, and put it to his eye. Some of the naked men had made it across the narrow river, but many of the cavalrymen had crossed it, too, and were pursuing the running Texans through the cactus and scrub, slashing and shooting.

  Major Laroche lowered the spyglass, and shook his head.

  “I have no bugler, Monsieur,” he said. “I had one, but he became familiar with the alcalde’s wife, and the alcalde shot him. It was a great annoyance, of course.”

  When Gus looked back toward the river, all he could see were horses splashing and men trying to wade or swim, trying to escape the Mexican cavalry anyway they could. But there was no way. As he watched, Jackie Buttons tried to dive under the belly of a horse—but the river was too shallow. Jackie came up, his face covered with mud, only to have a cavalryman shoot him down at point-blank range.

  “Oh God, they’re killing the boys—they’re killing them all!” Matilda yelled.

  Quartermaster Brognoli stood beside her, uncomprehending, his head jerking slightly, as it had jerked the whole of the long trek from the Palo Duro. Sometimes Matilda led him, but mostly Brognoli walked alone—now, naked, he watched the destruction of the troop without seeming to understand it.