The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  Call watched too, silent. The men had been fools to run, when the cavalry had only been practicing; but it was a folly that could not be corrected now. Charlie Buttons crawled out on the opposite shore, and was at once hacked down by two soldiers. He fell back in the river and the river carried him downstream, spilling blood into the water like a speared fish.

  “Major, can’t you stop them?” Bigfoot yelled again. “There won’t be a man of them left.”

  “I am afraid you are right,” Major Laroche said. “It will mean a much smaller ceremony, when we reach El Paso. I expect the alcalde will be disappointed, and General Medino too.”

  “Ceremony! ceremony! Those men weren’t nothing but scared,” Bigfoot said. There were floating bodies and swirls of blood all over the surface of the green water. John Green, a short Ranger from Missouri, managed to wrest a sabre from one of the cavalrymen, but when he tried to stab the soldier he missed, and stabbed the horse in the belly. The horse reared and fell, smashing John Green and the soldier he had tried to stab; the horse continued to flounder, but neither John nor the soldier rose again.

  “Monsieur, I have no bugler, as I said,” Major Laroche remarked, watching them coolly. “My men are soldiers and they smell blood. It would take a cannon shot to stop them now, and I was not provided with a cannon.”

  Across the river, Call and Gus could see men running. Some of them had managed to get a hundred yards or more from the river, but there were several cavalrymen for every Texan and none escaped. Guns fired, and sabres flashed in the bright sunlight. The few Texans on the east bank of the river watched the final stages of the massacre silently. Gus felt weak in the stomach—Call felt numb. Matilda Roberts had gone blank. She stared across the river, but her gaze was fixed on nothing. Long Bill Coleman stopped looking. He sat down and heaped sand on his naked legs, as a child might. Major Laroche smoked.

  Finally, when all the Texans were dead, the Mexican troops began to return. Some had gone almost a mile west of the river, in their pursuit of the Texans. Some were still in the water, stabbing or shooting at any white body that seemed to have life in it. Major Laroche looked at the sun, and finally rode his horse down to the river. He didn’t yell or gesture; he merely sat there, but one by one, his men noticed him. Slowly, they came to themselves. One or two looked embarrassed. They looked to the east bank, and saw that only a few Texans were left alive. A young soldier had just thrust his sabre into one of the floating bodies—Call knew the man only as Bob. The sabre stuck in Bob’s breastbone, and the young cavalryman was unable to pull it out. He yanked harder and harder, lifting Bob’s body completely out of the water at one point. But the sabre was stuck—he could not pull it free, and he was aware that the Major was watching him critically as he smoked.

  “Poor Bob, he’s gone, and that boy can’t get him off his sword,” Bigfoot said. He walked down to the water, and motioned for the soldier to pull the body to shore. Nervously, the young cavalryman did as Bigfoot asked. The body trailed a ribbon of blood, which was quickly carried downstream.

  When the soldier drew the body to shore, Bigfoot took it and carried it a few yards up the bank. He motioned for Call and Gus to come help him, and they did. The young Rangers held the cold body of the dead man steady—Bigfoot carefully put his foot on the dead man’s chest and, with a great heave, pulled the sabre out.

  “Why, that wasn’t near as hard as getting that Comanche lance out of your hip,” Bigfoot observed. He handed the sabre to the young soldier, who took it with a hangdog look.

  Major Laroche slowly rode his horse across the river, looking upstream and down, as he counted the corpses. Then he rode up on the west bank and began to bring back his soldiers. As they rode back across the river, they swished their bloody sabres in the water before shoving them back in their scabbards. While they were crossing, the horse with the sabre stuck in its belly floundered out of the river and stumbled past Call and Gus. Call made a lucky grab, and pulled the sabre free. For a moment, looking at the bodies of his friends dead on the far bank or in the river, he felt a rage building. Four Mexican soldiers were in the river, coming right toward him; Call looked at them, the sabre in his hand. The soldiers saw the look and were startled. One of them raised his musket.

  “Don’t, Woodrow,” Gus said, as another of the soldiers lifted his gun. “They won’t just whip you this time. They’ll kill you.”

  “Not before I kill a few of them,” Call said.

  But he knew his friend was right. The Mexican cavalry, led by the stern Major, was coming back across the Rio Grande. He could not fight a whole cavalry without giving up his life. The rage was in him, but he did not want to give up his life. When the Major rode up, Call held the sabre out to him; the Major took it without comment.

  Gus was looking across the river. The Mexicans had made no effort to bring back the bodies of the dead Texans—some of those killed in the river had floated downstream, almost out of sight. Jackie Buttons’s body was stuck on a snag, near the far bank. Jackie floated on his back, the green water washing over his face.

  “I’ll miss Jackie,” Gus said, to Matilda. “He was slow at cards—maybe that’s why I liked him so.”

  Matilda was still naked, mud on her legs. “I wish I’d never looked, when the killing started,” she said. “I don’t like to look at killings, not when it’s boys I know.”

  “Matty, I don’t either,” Gus said. He was wishing that the body of Jackie Buttons would come loose from its snag and float on down the river. He had often cheated Jackie at cards—not for much cash, but steadily, over the months of their travels—now, he regretted it. He knew Jackie Buttons was a little slow minded—it would have been better just to deal the cards fairly. Perhaps, now and again, Jackie would have won a hand or two.

  But he had not dealt the cards fairly, and in all their playing, Jackie Buttons had not won a single hand. Now he never would, because he was floating on his back in a river, water coursing over his dead eyes and through his open mouth.

  “Oh, dern,” he said, and began to cry. He cried so hard he knelt down, covering his face with his arm. He was hoping that when he looked up again the body of the comrade he had cheated would be gone.

  Matilda came out of her trance, and put her hand on Gus’s shoulder.

  “Are you crying for one of them, or for all of them?” she asked.

  “Just for Jackie,” Gus said, when he was calmer. “I cheated him at cards. He wasn’t no cardplayer, but every single time I played him I cheated.”

  “Well, Jackie won’t mind now,” Matilda said. “But you ought to stop dealing them cards so sly, Augustus. Someday you’ll meet somebody who’ll be as quick with a gun as you are with an ace.”

  “No, I won’t,” Gus said. “I’m always slyer than anybody, when it comes to cards.”

  Matilda looked over at Call—he had given up his sabre, but not his rage. He looked as he had looked the day he turned the General’s buggy over, in order to get at Caleb Cobb.

  “I’ll be glad to get you boys home,” she said. “Woodrow’s a fighter and you’re a cheat. If I can just get you home, I don’t want to hear of you joining no expeditions.”

  Gus sat down by the water’s edge—he suddenly felt very tired.

  “All right, Matty,” he said.

  “Get up, let’s go—the Major’s waiting,” Matilda said. The Mexican cavalry passed so close that water from the horses’ legs splashed on them.

  Gus didn’t think he could get up; his legs had simply given out. But Matilda Roberts offered her strong hand—Gus took it, and got to his feet. Call was still standing as if frozen, looking at the corpses in the river.

  “I don’t expect there’ll be no burying,” Bigfoot said, as Gus and Matilda came up.

  His guess was right—there was no burying.

  Woodrow Call stood where he was, looking at the blood-streaked river, until the dark men came to tie his wrists and lead him away.

  9.

  MAJOR LAROCHE WAS A bel
iever in cold-water bathing. He himself bathed every morning at dawn, in the Rio Grande. Three cavalrymen were required to shield him with a ring of sheets, while he sat in the icy river, breathing deeply. When he finished he insisted that each horse be led into the river, where they could be brushed until their coats shone. Often, while the horses were being brushed, the Major would mount and practice with his own fine sabre, slashing at cactus apples while racing at full speed.

  The Texans were allowed blankets and a good fire, but they still had no clothes. Though Call despised Major Laroche, he could not help being impressed by the Major’s skill with the sabre. Sometimes he would have his men throw gourds in the air, for him to slash as he raced. His horsemanship was also a thing of skill—the Major could turn his mount in midstride, if one of the gourds was thrown too far to the right or the left. His saddle was polished to a high gleam—he seemed to enjoy this morning practice more than the rest of his duties. All day he rode at the head of his column of cavalry, seldom looking back.

  Once, as they were nearing Las Cruces, a jackrabbit sped beneath the Major’s horse—in a second the Major was after the rabbit. He overtook the jack within fifty yards, and with one stroke severed its head. Then he handed the sabre to his orderly to clean, and resumed his ride at the head of the column.

  “I don’t like them dandified little saddles,” Gus remarked.

  “Why not?” Call asked. “That Frenchie sits his like he was glued to it.”

  “He won’t be glued to it if Buffalo Hump gets after him,” Gus said. He knew that they were close to El Paso—beyond it was the wilderness where Buffalo Hump had killed Josh Corn and Zeke Moody. Lately, the thought of the big Comanche had been often in his mind.

  Call didn’t answer—he had not been listening very closely. He thought himself to be an adequate rider, but he knew he could not control a horse as well as the little French Major—nor as well as the humpbacked Comanche, who had raced across the desert holding a human body across his horse while he rode bareback. The Frenchman, running at full speed, had sliced the jackrabbit’s head off as neatly as if he were sitting at a table, cutting an onion. The Comanche had scalped Ezekiel Moody, while racing just as fast.

  No Ranger that Call had yet seen could ride as well as either the Comanche or the Frenchman. Gus McCrae was a better rider than he was, but Gus would be no match for either the Major or Buffalo Hump, in a fight. Call resolved that if he survived, he would learn as much as he could about correct horsemanship.

  “The Major’s better mounted,” Call said. The Major rode a bay thoroughbred, deep chested and fast.

  “Buffalo Hump would get him with that lance,” Gus said. “He nearly got me with that lance, remember?”

  “I didn’t say he couldn’t,” Call said.

  But the next day, he watched the Major as he put his horse through his morning paces. Gus was annoyed that Call would bother watching such a man exercise his horse.

  “I don’t like the way he curls his damn mustache,” Gus said. “If I had a mustache I’d just let it grow wild.”

  “Let it grow anyway you want,” Call said. “I got no opinion.”

  At the village of Mesilla, just south of Las Cruces, the surviving Texans—there were only ten, not counting Matilda—were finally given clothes: shirts that fell to their knees, and pants that were baggy and rough.

  Then, as Major Laroche watched, an old blacksmith put the ten Texans in leg irons. The leg irons were heavier than the ones they had worn in Anton Chico, and the chains were too short for any of the men to take a full stride.

  “Major, I could crawl to El Paso faster than I can walk in these dern ankle bracelets,” Bigfoot said.

  “You won’t have to walk, Monsieur,” the Major said. “We have a fine wagon for you to ride in. We want you to be rested for our little ceremony.”

  The fine wagon turned out to be an oxcart, drawn by an old black ox. The ten men fit in the wagon, but Matilda didn’t. Gus offered to give her his place, but Matilda shook her head.

  “I’ve walked this far,” she said. “I reckon I can walk on into town.”

  Ahead, northeast of the river, they could see a gray mountain looming. Although the men were chained, and the oxcart bumped along at a slow pace, the cavalrymen kept pace around it with their sabres drawn. After two hours of bumping along, Gus’s bladder began to trouble him—but when he started to slide out of the wagon to take a piss, the soldiers leveled their sabres at him.

  “All right then, if that’s the rule, I’ll just piss over the side,” Gus said, standing up. “I don’t want to wet my new pants.”

  He stood up and peed off the end of the oxcart, watched by the soldiers with the sabres. In time, several of the Texans did the same.

  It was dusk when the cart bumped into the outskirts of El Paso. A strong wind was blowing, whirling dust into their faces. They could not see the mountain ahead or the river to the west. As night came, the wind rose higher and the dust obscured everything. Now and then, they passed little huts—dogs barked, and a few people came out to look at the soldiers. Matilda kept her hand on the side of the oxcart; the dust was blowing so thickly that she was afraid she might lose her way and be without her companions.

  In the cart, the men hid their heads and waited for the journey to be over. Now and then, Call looked out for a minute. He saw a few more buildings.

  “I guess they call it the Pass of the North because all this dern wind out of New Mexico blows through it,” Bigfoot said. “If it gets much stronger, it’ll be blowing pigs at us.”

  As he said it, they heard over the keening wind a faint sound that they could not identify.

  “What’s that?” Bigfoot asked.

  Call, whose hearing was as keen as Gus McCrae’s sight, was the first to identify the sound.

  “It’s a bugle,” he said. “I guess they’re sending the army now.”

  Ahead, through the dust, they saw what seemed to be moving lights; soon a line of infantrymen with lanterns, led by a captain and a bugler, met the cavalrymen. The bugler continued to blow his horn, although the wind snatched the sound away almost before the notes were sounded. The soldiers with the lanterns formed a line beside the oxcart as it bumped along toward the town. One soldier, startled by the sudden appearance of a large woman at his side, dropped his lantern, which smashed on a rock. The infantry captain yelled at the soldier; then he in turn was startled as Matilda Roberts appeared, almost at his elbow. Then they heard shouts and the sound of snarling dogs—there was a shot, and several of the cavalrymen galloped ahead. The snarling got louder, there were more shots, and then a squeal from one of the dogs. A minute later Major Laroche, his sabre drawn, rode close to the oxcart and peered in at the Texans.

  “The dogs here are hungry,” he said. “Stay in your wagon, and you will be safe.”

  Then Matilda yelled.

  “There’s a dog got me—there’s dogs all in with these horses,” she cried.

  Major Laroche turned, and disappeared. Bigfoot, Gus, and Long Bill Coleman managed to pull Matilda into the wagon.

  “One of them dogs bit my leg,” Matilda said, gasping. “I’m bloody.”

  Just as she said it the black ox turned, and the cart almost tipped. Three wild dogs jumped in it, snarling and biting.

  “Why, this is dog town, I guess,” Bigfoot said—he managed to heave one of the dogs out of the cart. The other two, after snarling and snapping at the men, leaped out themselves.

  Matilda Roberts sobbed and clung to Gus—the dogs had rushed out at her so quickly that it unnerved her.

  Through it all, the bugler continued to play, although the snatches of sound came from farther away.

  “I think that bugler’s lost,” Gus said. “He’ll be lucky if them dogs don’t get him.”

  The wind rose higher—lanterns only a few feet from the wagons were hard to see. Now and then, a horse neighed. So much sand had blown into the oxcart that the men were sitting in it. Sand had sifted down the men’s loose
clothes—it coated their hair.

  Then, abruptly, the wind stopped—the cart had turned a corner near a high wall. The sand still swirled above the wall, but for a moment the men were protected. When they lifted their heads, sand from their hair and their collars fell inside their shirts.

  Through the dusty air they saw a nimbus of light approaching—it was Major Laroche, with a soldier beside him carrying a large lantern. The Major was wrapped in a great gray cloak, with a hood that came over his head. His mustache was still neatly curled—he seemed not at all affected by the storm.

  “Welcome to the Pass of the North, Messieurs,” he said. “I have brought you to the Convent of San Lazaro. In the morning the alcalde of El Paso will be here, with his staff, to watch the little ceremony we have planned. We have a warm room waiting for you, and you will be well fed.”

  “When do we get to know what this ceremony is all about?” Bigfoot asked. “It might be one of those things I’d rather sleep through.”

  “You will not sleep through this one, Monsieur Wallace,” the Major said. “This is what you have walked across Texas and New Mexico for. I assure you—you would not want to miss it.”

  Then the Major was gone, and the light with him. A gate creaked open—several figures stood beside it in the darkness, but the sand swirled through as the cart passed inside the walls. Call couldn’t see well enough to tell whether the figures were men or women.

  The cart they had been traveling in was so cramped that several of the Texans had to stretch their legs slowly before they could walk. When they were all mobile they were marched across a dusty, windy courtyard by the shadowy figures who had opened the gate. A few of the cavalrymen, with their lanterns, came into the courtyard with the Texans, but they stayed close to the men and avoided the dim figures who led them. All the people inside the walls were wrapped in heavy cloaks; they led the Texans across the courtyard silently. All of the figures had the cloaks wrapped closely around their faces.