The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  It was not a circumstance he wanted to be reminded of, on a morning so cold that he couldn’t tell up from down—and he particularly resented being reminded of it by Woodrow Call, a man inept with women to such a degree that he had entangled himself with a whore. Maggie Tilton, the whore in question, was plenty pretty enough to marry, though so far, Woodrow had shown no sign of a willingness to marry her.

  “You’re no man to talk, shut up before I give you a licking,” Gus said. It was an intolerable impertinence on the part of Woodrow Call to even mention Clara’s name, especially at a time when they were having to struggle hard just to avoid freezing.

  Call ignored the threat. Any mention of Clara Forsythe would provoke Augustus into a display of fisticuffs; it always had. Call himself avoided Clara when possible. He only went into the Forsythe store when he needed to buy cartridges or some other necessity. Though certainly pretty well beyond the norm, Clara Forsythe was so forward in speech that a man of good sense would plan his day with a view to avoiding her. Even when she was only selling Call a box of cartridges or a tool of some sort, Clara would always find a way to direct a few words to him, though—in his view—no words were called for, other than a thank you. Instead of just handing him his change and wrapping up his purchase, Clara would always come out with some statement, seemingly mild, that would nonetheless manage to leave him with the impression that there was something not quite right about his behavior. He could never figure out quite what he did to annoy Clara, but her tone with him always carried a hint of annoyance; a strong enough hint, in fact, that he tried to time his visits to the afternoons, when her father usually tended the store.

  Maggie Tilton, the whore he liked to see, never gave him the sense that there was anything wrong with his behavior—if anything, Maggie swung too far in the other direction. She could see no wrong in him at all, which made him feel almost as uncomfortable as Clara’s needlegrass criticisms. Maybe the fact that one was a whore and the other respectable had something to do with it—in any case Augustus McCrae was the last person whose opinion he felt he needed to listen to. Gus’s mood bobbed up and down like a cork, depending on whether Clara had been sweet to him or sour, soft or sharp, friendly or aloof. In Call’s view no man, and particularly not a Texas Ranger, ought to allow himself to be blown back and forth by a woman’s opinion. It wasn’t right, and that was that.

  Long Bill was close enough to hear Gus threaten to give Call a licking, a threat he had heard uttered before.

  “What’s got him riled?” Long Bill inquired.

  “None of your business. Get gone, you fool!” Gus said.

  “You must have swallowed a badger, Gus—I swear you’re surly,” Long Bill said. “I wonder if Famous Shoes has seen any wood we could make into a nice fire, while we’re wandering.”

  Before anyone could answer, Inish Scull, their captain, gave a loud yell of rage, wheeled Hector, and spurred him into a great lumbering run toward the west. The sleet spumed up in clouds behind him. Inish Scull didn’t wave for the troop to follow him, or give any indication that he cared whether the twelve rangers came with him or not. He just charged away, leaving Famous Shoes standing alone by a large, steaming pile of horse turds which Hector had just deposited on the prairie.

  “Well, there goes Captain Scull—I expect he’s sighted his prey,” Long Bill said, pulling his rifle from its scabbard. “We best whip up or we’ll lose him.”

  The troop, with Gus at its head, immediately clattered off after Captain Scull, but Call didn’t follow, not at once. He didn’t fear losing contact with the Captain while he was riding Hector—an elephant could not leave a much plainer track. He wanted to know what Famous Shoes had said to provoke the charge.

  “Is it Kicking Wolf?” he asked the Kickapoo. “Is it going to be a fight?”

  Famous Shoes was a slight man with a deceptive gait. He never seemed to hurry, yet he had no trouble keeping up with a troop of horsemen. Even if the horsemen charged off, as Inish Scull and the whole troop had just done, Famous Shoes would usually manage to catch up with them by the time a campfire was made and coffee boiling. He moved fast, and yet no one ever saw him moving fast, a thing Call marveled at. Sometimes he responded to questions and sometimes he didn’t—but even if he chose to answer a given question, the answer would usually lay a little sideways to the question as it had been phrased.

  At the moment he was looking closely at the smoky green pile of Hector’s droppings.

  “The Buffalo Horse has been eating prickly pear,” he said. “I guess he don’t like this icy grass.”

  “Kicking Wolf,” Call repeated. “Is it Kicking Wolf they went off after?”

  Famous Shoes looked at Call with mild surprise, his usual look when responding to direct questions. The look left Call with the feeling that he had missed something—what, he didn’t know.

  “No, Kicking Wolf is over by the Rio Pecos,” Famous Shoes said. “The Captain will have to ride a faster horse if he wants to catch Kicking Wolf. The Buffalo Horse is too slow.”

  That was Call’s opinion too, but he didn’t say it.

  Then Famous Shoes turned away from the dung pile and gestured toward the west.

  “Kicking Wolf didn’t really want those horses—not the geldings,” he said. “He only wanted the three studhorses, to breed to his young mares. Those are good young studhorses. They will make him some fine colts.”

  “If he only kept three, what’d he do with the others?” Call asked.

  “He butchered them,” Famous Shoes said. “His tribe took the meat, but the women didn’t do a very good job of butchering all those horses. There is plenty of meat left. We can take it if we want to.”

  “If we ain’t going to catch Kicking Wolf today, maybe the Captain will let Deets cook up some of the meat,” Call said. “We’re all hungry.”

  Deets was a young black man, making his second trip with the troop. He had been found sleeping in the stables one morning, covered with dust and hay. He had escaped from a large group of stolen slaves who were being driven into Mexico by the famous chief Wildcat, a Lipan who had perfected the practice of selling stolen slaves to rich Mexican ranchers. Call had been about to chase the boy off, for trespassing on ranger property, but Inish Scull liked Deets’s looks and kept him to do the stable work. He was made a cook one day when the Captain happened to taste a stew he had cooked up for some black families who were at work building homes for the legislators.

  Famous Shoes didn’t reply, when Call mentioned eating. He seemed to live on coffee, rarely taking food with the rangers, though he was known to have a fondness for potatoes. Often he would slip two or three raw spuds in his pouch, before setting off on a scout. Raw potatoes and a little jerky seemed to be what he lived on.

  Call knew that he ought to be hurrying after the troop, but he could not resist lingering for a moment with Famous Shoes, in hopes of learning a little bit about tracking and scouting. Famous Shoes didn’t look smart, yet he made his way across the llano as easily as Call would cross a street. Captain Scull was particular about scouts, as he was about everything. He didn’t trust anybody—not even his wife, by some reports—yet he allowed Famous Shoes to wander for days at a stretch, even when they were in hostile territory. Call himself knew little about the Kickapoo tribe—they were supposed to be enemies of the Comanches, but what if they weren’t? What if, instead of helping them find the Indians, Famous Shoes was really helping the Indians find them?

  Call thought he would try one more query, just to see if Famous Shoes could be persuaded to answer the question he was asked.

  “I thought there was plentiful antelope, up here on the plains,” he said. “I’ve et antelope and it’s a sight tastier than horsemeat. But we ain’t seen an antelope this whole trip. Where’d they all go?”

  “You had better just fill your belly with that fresh horsemeat,” Famous Shoes said, with an amused look. “The antelope are over by the Purgatory River right now. There is good sweet grass along the Pu
rgatory River this year.”

  “I don’t know why this grass wouldn’t be sweet enough for them,” Call said. “I know it’s icy right now, but this ice will melt in a day or two.”

  Famous Shoes was amused by the young ranger’s insistence. It was not the young man’s place to question the antelope. Antelope were free to seek the grass they preferred—they did not have to live by the Palo Duro, where the grass was known to be bitter, just because some Texans liked antelope meat better than horsemeat. It was typical of the whites, though. Seventeen horses were dead and there was plenty of tasty meat left on their carcasses. Those horses would never eat grass again, sweet or bitter; only the three stallions Kicking Wolf had kept would know the flavor of grass again. Yet, here was this young man, Call, expecting to find antelope standing around waiting to be shot. Only buffalo were peculiar enough to stand around waiting to be shot by the white men, which was why the numbers of buffalo were declining. There were plenty of antelope, though—they lived wherever the grass was sweetest, along the Purgatory or the Canadian or the Washita or the Rio Pecos.

  “I don’t think we will see any antelope today,” Famous Shoes said—and then he left. The rangers had galloped away to the west, but Famous Shoes turned north. It vexed Call a little. The man was their scout, yet he never seemed to travel in the same direction as the troop.

  “I’d be curious to know where you’re heading,” he asked, trotting after the scout, in a polite tone. After all, the man hadn’t really done anything wrong—he just did things that seemed peculiar.

  Famous Shoes had been moving in a light trot when Call followed him and asked him the question. He looked up at Call, but he didn’t slow his motion.

  “I’m going to see my grandmother,” he said. “She lives up on the Washita with one of my sisters. I guess they are still there, if they haven’t moved.”

  “I see,” Call said. He felt foolish for having asked.

  “My grandmother is old,” Famous Shoes said. “She may want to tell me a few more stories before she dies.”

  “Well, then, that’s fine,” Call said, but Famous Shoes didn’t hear him. He had begun to sing a little song, as he trotted north. Famous Shoes’ voice was soft, and the wind still keened. Call heard only a snatch or two of the song, before Famous Shoes was so far away that the song was lost in the wind.

  A little perplexed, feeling that he might somehow have been out of order, Call turned his horse and began to lope west, after the troop. The tracks of Hector, the Buffalo Horse, were as easy to follow as a road. He wondered, as he loped over the cold plains, what made Indians so much like women. The way Famous Shoes made him feel, when he asked a question, was not unlike how Clara Forsythe made him feel, when he ventured into her store. With both the Indian and the women he was always left with the feeling that, without meaning to, he had made some kind of mistake.

  Before he could worry the matter much more he saw a horseman approaching, back along the trail Hector had made. For a moment, he was fearful enough to heft his rifle—out on the plains, a Comanche could pop out at you at any time. Maybe one had got between him and the troop and was planning to cut him off.

  Then, a moment later, he saw that it was only Gus, coming hell for leather back along the sleety trail.

  “Why’d you lag, Woodrow? We thought you’d been ambushed,” Gus said, a little out of breath from his rapid ride.

  “Why no, I was just talking to Famous Shoes,” Call said. “You didn’t need to lather your horse.”

  “We heard that whooping last night—you could have been ambushed,” Augustus reminded him.

  “I ain’t ambushed, let’s go,” Call said. “The boys will eat all the breakfast if we don’t hurry.”

  Augustus was annoyed. His friend could at least have thanked him—after all, he had put his own life at risk, coming back alone to look for him.

  But then, the fact was, Woodrow Call just wasn’t the thanking kind.

  4.

  THE MORNING Inez Scull first called Jake Spoon into her bedroom, she was sitting on a blue velvet stool. The bedroom was in the Sculls’ fine brick mansion on Shoal Creek, the first brick house in Austin, the rangers had been told. Jake had only been with the rangers three months at the time, working mainly as a kind of orderly for Captain Scull. His chief task was to groom Hector, and get him saddled when the Captain required him. Now and again Captain Scull would dispatch Jake to run an errand for Madame Scull—“Madame Scull” was how she preferred to be addressed. Usually the errand would consist of picking up packages for her at one of the more prominent stores. Jake had come to Texas with a group of ragged settlers from Kansas; he had never seen such buying as the Sculls routinely indulged in. The Captain was always ordering new guns, or saddlery, or hats or gloves or spyglasses. The big dining room table in the Scull mansion was always littered with catalogues of all descriptions—catalogues of combs or dresses or other frippery for Madame Scull, or knives or fine shotguns or microscopes or other gadgets for the Captain. The house even boasted a barometer, a thing Jake had never heard of, and also a brass ship’s clock at the head of the stairs, a clock that sounded bells every hour and half hour.

  Jake had never been, or expected to be, in a fine lady’s bedroom when the kitchen girl, Felice, a young high yellow girl he had taken a bit of a fancy to, came outside and told him that the lady of the house wanted to see him upstairs. Jake was a little nervous, as he went up the stairs. Madame Scull and the Captain were often out of temper with one another, and were not quiet in their expressions of rage or discontent. More than once, according to Felice, the Captain had taken a bullwhip to his lady, and, more than once, she had taken the same bullwhip to him—not to mention quirts, buggy whips, or anything else that lay to hand. At other times, they screamed wild curses at one another and fought with their fists, like two men. Some of the Mexican servants were so alarmed by the goings-on that they thought the devil lived in the house—a few of them fled in the night and didn’t stop until they were across the Rio Grande, more than two hundred and fifty miles away.

  Still, both the Captain and Madame Scull had been very nice to Jake. Madame Scull had even, one day, complimented him on his curly hair.

  “Why, Jake, those curls will soon be winning you many female hearts,” she said to him one morning, when he was carrying out a package she wanted sent off.

  The men, Augustus McCrae particularly, scoffed at Jake for accepting soft work at the Captain’s house, when he should have been out riding on Indian patrols. But Jake had no fondness for horses, and, besides, had a mighty fear of scalping. He was but seventeen, and considered that he had time enough to learn about Indian fighting. If, as some predicted, the Indians were whipped forever, before he got to fight them, it would not be a loss that grieved him much. There would always be Mexican bandits to engage the rangers—Jake supposed he could get all the fighting he wanted along the border, and soon enough.

  When Madame Scull called him upstairs he supposed it was just to carry out another package; the worst it was likely to entail was hanging a drape—Madame Scull was always getting rid of drapes and replacing them with other drapes. She was always shifting the furniture too, much to Captain Scull’s vexation. Once he had come home from a dusty scout and started to plop down in his favorite chair, with one of the scientific books he loved to pore over, only to discover that his favorite chair was no longer in its spot.

  “Goddamnit, Inez, where’s my armchair?” he asked. Jake, flirting with Felice, had happened to be in earshot when the outburst came.

  “That smelly thing, I gave it to the nigras,” Mrs. Scull remarked coolly.

  “Why, you hairy slut, go get it back right now!” the Captain yelled—the comment startled Jake considerably and put Felice in such a fright that she lost all interest in courting.

  “I’ve never liked that chair, and I’ll decide what furniture stays in my house, I reckon,” Madame Scull said. “If you like that chair so much, go live with the nigras—I, for one, s
han’t miss your damn tobacco stains.”

  “I want my chair and I’ll have it!” the Captain declaimed; but at that point Jake ran out of the kitchen and hunted up a task to do in the stables. He had never expected to hear a captain in the Texas Rangers call his wife a slut, much less a hairy slut. Behind him, as he hurried off the porch, he heard the argument raging, and a crash of china. He feared the Sculls might be approaching the bullwhip stage, and didn’t want to be anywhere around.

  The morning he got called into the bedroom he had to make the same dash again, only faster. When he came into the bedroom, Mrs. Scull beckoned him over to the blue velvet stool where she sat. She was red in the face.

  “Ma’am, is it the drapes again?” Jake asked, thinking she might have got a little too much sun through the long windows beside her bed.

  “It ain’t the drapes, thank you, Jake,” Inez Scull said.

  “My sweet boy,” she added. “I do so fancy dimpled boys with curly hair.”

  “Mine’s always been curly, I guess,” Jake said, at a loss how to respond to the remark. Madame Scull still had the same, sun-flushed look on her face.

  “Stand a little bit closer, so I can see your dimples better,” Inez Scull said.

  Jake obediently placed himself within arm’s length of the stool, only to get, in the next moment, the shock of his life, when Madame Scull confidently reached out and began to unbutton his pants.

  “Let’s see your young pizzle, Jakie,” she said.

  “What, ma’am?” Jake said, too startled to move.