The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  “You don’t need to be sirring me, Deets,” he said. “I ain’t a sir, and I doubt I ever will be one.”

  Deets was startled by the remark. He had never heard such an opinion from a white man, never once in his life. In Texas a black man who didn’t call a white man “sir” could get in trouble quick.

  Of course Pea Eye wasn’t really a grown man yet—he was just a tall boy. Deets supposed his youth might account for the remark.

  “What’ll I say?” he asked, with a puzzled look. “I got to call you something.”

  “Why, just ‘Pea Eye’ will do,” Pea Eye said. “I’m just plain ‘Pea Eye’ so far.”

  Deets didn’t think it would do, not in the hearing of the other rangers at least. He turned away and went to gather a few more sticks—the fire was burning well but he needed a little time in which to think about what Mr. Pea had just said.

  Then, while he was pulling up a half-buried twist of sagebrush, it occurred to him that his mind had found a solution. He thought of the tall white boy as “Mr. Pea”—he would call him “Mr. Pea.”

  When he came back with the wood the young ranger was still holding his hands to the little fire.

  “I guess I just call you ‘Mr. Pea,’ if it suits you,” Deets said.

  “Why, yes—that’ll do fine,” Pea Eye said. “I guess I’m a mister—I guess everybody’s a mister.”

  No, I ain’t, black people ain’t, Deets thought—but he didn’t say it.

  12.

  FAMOUS SHOES was eating a good fat mallard duck when the Comanche boys found him. He had noticed some ducks on the south Canadian and had crept down to the water and made a clever snare, during the night. His trip to the Washita had been a disappointment. He did not find his grandmother, who had gone to live on the sweet-grass hills near the Arkansas River, but he did find his Aunt Neeta, a quarrelsome old woman who was living with some mixed-blood trapping people in a filthy little camp. The trapping people mostly trapped skunks and muskrats—there were hides everywhere, some of them pretty smelly. The minute he arrived his aunt began to upbraid him about a knife she had lent him years before which he had broken accidentally. At the time he had been trying to remove a good length of chain from an old wagon that had fallen apart on the prairies. He thought the chain might come in handy, but all the chain did was break the tip off his aunt’s knife. Only the tip was broken, most of the knife would still cut, but his Aunt Neeta considered that the knife was now useless and had never forgiven Famous Shoes for his carelessness. Famous Shoes only stayed on the Washita long enough to be courteous, before making his way back to the south Canadian, where he discovered the little flock of fat ducks.

  Then the five Comanche boys showed up and began to talk about killing him. One of the boys wanted to kill him immediately, just because he was a Kickapoo, and another because he had scouted for Big Horse Scull. The rudest boy, though, was Blue Duck, who wanted to kill him just because he was there. Famous Shoes did not think the boys would do him much harm. In any case he was hungry—he went on eating the duck while the boys walked around him, saying ugly things. They were just boys, it was normal that they would strut around and make rude remarks. The boys had been chasing a deer when they found him, but they had lost its track. Famous Shoes had seen the deer only that morning, running east. The Comanche boys were so impatient that they had overlooked a plain track and let the deer get away. The deer had looked exhausted, too—the boys would have had it if only they had kept their minds on their business.

  “That deer you were chasing got away,” he told them. “There are plenty of fat ducks on this river, though.”

  “We want to kill Big Horse today, where is he?” Blue Duck asked. “He tried to cut me with the long knife but I was too quick. A vision woman taught me how to fly, so I flew down into the canyon and got away.”

  “You are lucky you found that vision woman,” Famous Shoes said. He didn’t believe that Blue Duck could fly, but the boy had such a bad reputation for killing people that he thought the best thing to do was be polite, keep eating his duck, and hope to get through the morning without being shot. Blue Duck had an old rifle and kept pointing it at him as he ate, a very rude thing.

  “You come to our camp—my father might want to torture you,” Blue Duck said. “He is angry because you brought Big Horse here.”

  “Big Horse is chasing Kicking Wolf,” Famous Shoes informed them. “He has given up and is on his way south by now. He is not going to bother your father.”

  Nevertheless he was forced to humor the boys. Instead of settling down they began to threaten him with arrows. Famous Shoes decided he had better go with them—they were young boys; they might want to take a scalp just for practice. He trotted along in front of them as they made their way to the canyon. He was not worried that Buffalo Hump would torture him. Buffalo Hump owed him a debt and would never offer him violence, even though he scouted for the Texans.

  The debt had come about because of Buffalo Hump’s grandmother, a famous prophet woman. One winter years before, when there were few buffalo on the prairies where the Comanche hunted, the tribe had had to move north, beyond the Arkansas. The old woman’s death was at hand; she was too weak to make the cold journey to the north. So, in the way of such things, she was left with a good fire and enough food to last her until her passing. Everyone said goodbye and the band went north to seek game.

  But the old woman’s time was slow in coming. When Famous Shoes chanced upon her, in her little dying place on the Quitaque, she was weak but still alive. Her fire was out and her food was gone but she was restless with visions and could not die. Famous Shoes had been in Mexico and had come back to seek advice from his grandfather; but, instead of finding his grandfather, he found Buffalo Hump’s old grandmother, and struck up a friendship with her in her last days. He stayed with her for a week, keeping her fire going through the cold nights.

  Famous Shoes knew that it was a delicate thing he was doing. What if the old woman got so healthy that she decided to stay alive? Then he would have an old Comanche woman on his hands, which would anger his grandfather, if he ever found him. His grandfather hated two things, rainy weather and Comanches. Besides, for a Kickapoo to attend a Comanche at such a time was not entirely proper—once an old one was left to die, and the farewells were said, it was their duty to go on and die. He was beginning to worry that he had gotten himself into a difficulty when the old woman closed her eyes and ceased to breathe. Famous Shoes saw to it that her remains were treated correctly, a thing that was the duty of any traveler; then he went on his way.

  When Buffalo Hump found out that Famous Shoes had been helpful to his grandmother in her dying he told his warriors that the Kickapoo was to be left alone, and even made welcome at their campfires if he cared to visit. Famous Shoes was glad Buffalo Hump had given such an order; it had probably saved his life several times. Even so, he did not seek out Buffalo Hump, or visit Comanche campfires. He did not think it wise. Buffalo Hump might follow the rules of courtesy, but being near him was too much like being near a bear. It was possible to come close to a bear, even a grizzly, and talk to it; the bear might allow it. But the bear was still a bear, and might stop allowing the courteous talk at any time. If the bear changed his mind about how he felt, the person trying to exchange courtesies with him might be dead. Besides, for all Famous Shoes knew, Buffalo Hump might not have liked his grandmother very much. She might have been quarrelsome, like his Aunt Neeta. Buffalo Hump’s respect might have its limits.

  When Famous Shoes walked into the Comanche camp Blue Duck rode right beside him, making his horse prance and jump. The boy wanted everyone to think he had brought in an important captive. Some of the young warriors rode up to Famous Shoes a few times, to taunt him, but he ignored their taunts and went on calmly through the camp.

  To his surprise he saw old Slow Tree, sitting on a robe with Buffalo Hump. Slow Tree was talking, which was no surprise—Slow Tree was always talking. Buffalo Hump looked angry—no do
ubt the old chief had been making boring speeches to him for a long time. Slow Tree might have been bragging to Buffalo Hump about how many times he had been with his wives; he wanted everyone to believe that he was always at his women, bringing them great pleasure. Slow Tree had always been boastful, but he had once been a terrible fighter and had to be treated respectfully, even though he was old and boring.

  “What are you doing here?” Buffalo Hump asked, when Famous Shoes walked up. “Your white friends were here but now they have gone south. The Buffalo Horse was here three days ago but I don’t see him today.”

  “Your son made me come,” Famous Shoes replied. “He came with these other boys and made me come. I was on the Canadian, eating a duck. I would not have bothered you if these boys had let me alone. They said you might want to torture me awhile.”

  Buffalo Hump was amused. The Kickapoo was an eccentric person who was apt to turn up anywhere on the llano on some outlandish errand that no other Indian would bother about. The man would walk a thousand miles to listen to a certain bird whose call he might want to mimic. Most people thought Famous Shoes was crazy, but Buffalo Hump didn’t. Though a Kickapoo, the man had respect for the old ways. He behaved like the old ones behaved; the old ones, too, would go to any lengths to learn some useful fact about the animals or the birds. They would figure that someone might need to know those facts; they themselves might not need to, but their children might, or their grandchildren might.

  Very few Comanches would go to the trouble Famous Shoes went to, when it came to seeking useful information. It made Buffalo Hump annoyed with his own people, that this was so. The Kickapoos were a lowly people who had never been good at war. The Comanches wiped them out wherever they found them, and did this easily. Even young boys no more skilled than his son could easily slaughter Kickapoos wherever he found them. Yet it was Famous Shoes, a Kickapoo, who sought the knowledge that few Comanches were now even interested in.

  Besides, the man was funny. He would just walk into an enemy camp and offer himself up for torture as if torture were a joke.

  Then Slow Tree, who was rarely polite, pointed a pipe he was smoking at Famous Shoes and made an ugly speech.

  “If you came into my camp I would hang you upside down and put a scorpion in your nose,” he said. “When the scorpion stung you it would kill your brain. Then you could wander around eating weeds, for all I care. I don’t like Kickapoos.”

  Famous Shoes ignored the old man, though he decided on the spot to avoid the country where Slow Tree hunted until the old chief was finally dead. He had never heard that a scorpion bite could kill a brain, but it might be true, especially if the scorpion stung you inside your nose. The nose was not far from the brain—the poison of the scorpion would not have far to travel.

  “I was on the Washita looking for my grandmother,” Famous Shoes said, thinking it would be wise to change the subject. “There are many deer in the Washita country. If you are wanting deer, that is where I would go.”

  Blue Duck stood nearby, strutting and playing with a hatchet he wore in his belt. He wanted the band to know that he was responsible for bringing in the Kickapoo. If his father didn’t appreciate it, maybe Slow Tree would. It was clear that the great chief Slow Tree had no fondness for Kickapoos.

  Buffalo Hump was engaged in the delicate task of being polite to Slow Tree, a man he neither liked nor trusted. He didn’t need an irritating boy standing nearby, playing with a hatchet. Blue Duck wanted people to think he had captured someone important, but Famous Shoes wasn’t important. He was just an eccentric Kickapoo.

  “Why did you bring this man here?” he asked, looking at his son coldly. “You should have left him to eat his duck. If you see him again, leave him alone.”

  He did not want to mention the fact that Famous Shoes had helped tend his grandmother while she died. The business with his grandmother was between himself and Famous Shoes; it was not a matter he wanted to discuss with everyone.

  Blue Duck was shocked that his father would speak to him so, in front of Slow Tree and the worthless Kickapoo. He turned away at once and caught his horse. Then he gathered up his weapons, and a robe to protect him from the cold, and left the camp.

  Buffalo Hump made no comment. Soon they saw the angry boy winding up the trail out of the canyon.

  “If he was my son I would let him hang you upside down and put the scorpion in your nose,” Slow Tree said to Famous Shoes.

  Famous Shoes didn’t answer—why respond to such a stupid comment? Blue Duck was not Slow Tree’s son. He thought he would probably go up the other side of the canyon when he left, though. It would be good to have the great Palo Duro Canyon between himself and the rude, angry boy.

  There was silence, for a time. Slow Tree was annoyed because Buffalo Hump was ignoring everything he said. Buffalo Hump listened in a polite manner, but he made no move to take Slow Tree’s advice. He wasn’t even interested in torturing a Kickapoo, which most Comanches would do immediately, without waiting for a chief’s permission.

  “My wives will feed you and then you can go,” Buffalo Hump said, to Famous Shoes.

  “I had that fat duck, I don’t need to eat,” Famous Shoes said. “I had better go look for Big Horse Scull before he gets lost.”

  “Kicking Wolf is following him now too,” Buffalo Hump remarked casually. “He wants to steal the Buffalo Horse.”

  “I better go,” Famous Shoes said. The news he had just heard shocked him badly. Big Horse Scull had been following Kicking Wolf, but now it was the other way around. Of course Kicking Wolf was already a famous horsethief, but stealing the Buffalo Horse would be a powerful act. If Kicking Wolf could steal the Buffalo Horse his people would sing about him for many years.

  Famous Shoes changed his mind about eating, though. One fat duck wouldn’t last him forever, and Buffalo Hump’s wives had made a stew with a good smell to it. He squatted and ate a big bowl full, while Buffalo Hump sat patiently on his robe, listening to old Slow Tree brag about how happy he made his wives.

  13.

  JAKE CAME IN the door, avoided Felice’s eye, turned into the hall, and started up the stairs, only to find old Ben Mickelson planted squarely in his way. Jake despised old Ben, for being a disgusting, profane, purple-lipped old drunkard, but he was the Sculls’ butler and it was necessary to be polite to him.

  It was necessary but it wasn’t easy: old Ben was looking at Jake with a mean gleam in his watery blue eyes.

  “Not today, you don’t, you damned lout!” Ben Mickelson said.

  Jake thought he must have misheard. Every day for three weeks he had hurried up to the Scull living quarters and been welcomed ardently by the lady of the house. Yesterday she had been particularly ardent—Inez Scull straddled him on the chaise longue and bounced so vigorously that the chaise broke. Then she dragged Jake onto the couch and continued no less vigorously. By the time Madame Scull quieted down, every piece of furniture that had a flat surface had been made use of in their sport.

  So why was old Ben Mickelson barring his access to the stairs?

  “Mind your words, Ben, if you don’t want a licking,” Jake said—it occurred to him, for a moment, that the Captain might be back, but if the Captain was back the boys would be back too, and he hadn’t seen them.

  “Not today, you ain’t going up, and not tomorrow and not the next day and not the next week and not the next month and not ever!” old Ben said, the words bursting out of his mouth like gobbets of bile.

  “But what’s wrong?” Jake asked, confused.

  “Nothing’s wrong—you just be gone now. We don’t need to be seeing the likes of you around the big house again.”

  Jake wanted to grab the old man by his scrawny neck and shake him good, but he didn’t quite dare. Something was wrong, he just didn’t know what. Yesterday Madame Scull had called him “Jakie,” and could hardly wait to get out his little pricklen, as she called it. But today Ben Mickelson stood on the stairs looking at him in a gloating way.

/>   “Be gone,” Ben said, again. “I’ll be calling the sheriff on you if you don’t. The sheriff will know what to do with a lout like you, I guess.”

  Jake was confused and disappointed. He knew the old butler hadn’t just decided to dismiss him on his own authority, because he had no authority. He might curse the kitchen girls and pinch them under the stairs, but he was only a butler. Jake knew that if he wasn’t allowed up it was because Madame Scull didn’t want him up—but why? He had tried to be cooperative, no matter what wild game Inez Scull suggested; and some of her games went far beyond the bounds of anything he had ever supposed he would be doing in his life. But he had done them, and Madame Scull had yelled and kicked with pleasure. So why was the old butler now planted in his way?

  “All right, Ben,” Jake said, feeling deflated. He wandered back into the kitchen, where Felice was churning butter. She didn’t look up, when he came in—Felice was careful never to raise her eyes to him, anymore. But now he felt lonely—he had been turned out. He would have liked a smile from Felice; he had a sense that she felt he had treated her bad, though he had only done what he had been told to do by the Captain’s wife. Felice had no cause to turn her head every time he entered the room.

  “Well, I guess the Missus ain’t up,” he said, idling for a moment. “I’d sure like a glass of buttermilk before I go to work.”

  Felice got up without a word and poured him a tumbler full of buttermilk from the big crock where they kept it. Captain Scull too liked buttermilk—he had been known to drink off a quart, on days when he came in with a thirst for buttermilk.

  Jake thanked Felice, thinking it might melt her reserve, but Felice went back to her churning without even a nod.

  Jake was sitting on the back step, drinking buttermilk and wondering what he could find to do all day, when Inez Scull strode out of the house. She had on her riding habit and was pulling on a glove. When she saw Jake sitting on the step with the tumbler of buttermilk she did not look pleased.