The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  “Well, that doesn’t tell me much,” Scull said. “I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Three Birds. What kind of fellow is he?”

  “Three Birds is quiet—he does not speak his thoughts,” Famous Shoes said. “The two of them are alone. The rest of the warriors are at the feast Buffalo Hump is giving for Slow Tree.”

  “If it’s just two of them, I say let ’em come,” Augustus said. “I expect we can handle two Indians, even if one of them is Kicking Wolf.”

  Call thought the opposite. Two Indians would be harder to detect than fifteen. It struck him as peculiar that Kicking Wolf chose to follow them just then; after all, he had just escaped with three fine stallions. They were probably better horses than any the ranger troop could boast—with the exception of Hector, of course.

  Scull strode up and down for a while, looking across the plain as if he expected to see Kicking Wolf heave into sight at any moment. But, except for two hawks soaring, there was nothing to see in any direction but grass.

  “I have known Three Birds for a long time,” Famous Shoes said. “He does not hate Kickapoos. Once I helped him track a cougar he had shot. I think that cougar might have got away if I hadn’t tracked it with him.”

  Augustus was sometimes irked by Famous Shoes’ pompous way of talking.

  “I expect he’s forgot about that cougar by now,” he said. “He might step up and cut your throat before he could call it to mind.”

  Famous Shoes considered the remark too absurd to reply to. Three Birds would never forget that he had helped him track the cougar, any more than Buffalo Hump would forget that he had been kind to his dying grandmother.

  “Want me to see if I can surprise them, Captain?” Call asked—he was impatient with the inactivity. Talk was fine at night, but it was daytime and his horse was saddled and eager.

  “You can’t catch them,” Famous Shoes said. “They are following you, but they are not close, and they have better horses than you do. If you chase them they will lead you so far away that you will starve before you can get back.”

  Call ignored the scout and looked at the Captain—he saw no reason to tolerate a hostile pursuit.

  Captain Scull looked at the young man with amusement—he obviously wanted to go chase Indians, despite the scout’s plain warning.

  “I’ve been out there before and I didn’t starve,” Call informed him.

  Scull pursed his lips but said nothing. He walked over to his saddlebags and rummaged in them until he came out with a small book. Then he walked back to the campfire, settled himself comfortably on a sack of potatoes, and held up the book, which was well used.

  “Xenophon,” he said. “The March of the Ten Thousand. Of course, we’re only twelve men, but when I read Xenophon I can imagine that we’re ten thousand.”

  Augustus had quietly saddled up—if there was a pursuit, he wanted to be part of it. Several other rangers began to stir themselves, pulling on their boots and looking to their guns.

  “Here, stop that!” Captain Scull said suddenly, looking up from his book. “I won’t send you off to chase a phantom, in country this spare. Just because Mr. Call didn’t starve in it on his last visit doesn’t mean he couldn’t starve tomorrow—and the rest of you too.

  “There’s always a first time, they say,” he added. “I expect it was some smart Greek said that, or else our own Papa Franklin.”

  Then he paused and smiled benignly at his confused and ragged men.

  “Ever hear Greek read, boys?” he asked. “It’s a fine old language—the language of Homer and Thucydides, not to mention Xenophon, who’s our author today. I’ve a fair amount of Greek still in my head. I’ll read to you, if you like, about the ten thousand men who marched home in defeat.”

  Nobody said yes, and nobody said no. The men just stood where they were, or sat if they had not yet risen. Deets put a few more sticks on the fire.

  “That’s fine, the ayes have it,” Captain Scull said.

  He looked around with a grin, and then, sitting on the sack of potatoes, and squinting in order to see the small print of his pocket Xenophon, he read to the troop in Greek.

  “That was worse than listening to a bunch of Comanches gobble at one another,” Long Bill said, once the reading was over and the troop once again on the move.

  “I’d rather listen to pigs squeal than to hear goings-on like that,” Ikey Ripple added.

  Augustus had disliked the reading as much as anyone, but the fact that Long Bill had spoken out against it rubbed him the wrong way.

  “That was Greek,” he reminded them haughtily. “Everybody ought to hear Greek now and then, and Latin too. I could listen all day to someone read Latin.”

  Call knew that Augustus claimed some knowledge of Latin, but he had never been convinced by the claim.

  “I doubt you know a word of either language,” Call said. “You didn’t understand that reading and neither did anybody else.”

  Unlike the rangers, Famous Shoes had been mightily impressed by the Captain’s reading. He himself could speak several dialects and follow the track of any living animal; but Captain Scull had followed an even harder and more elusive track: the tiny, intricate track that ran across the pages of the book. That Big Horse Scull could follow a little track through page after page of a book and turn what he saw into sound was a feat that never ceased to amaze the Kickapoo.

  “That might be the way a god talks,” he commented.

  “Nope, it was just some old Greek fellow who lost a war and had to tramp back home with his ten thousand men,” Augustus said.

  “That’s a lot of men,” Call said. “I wonder how many fought on the side that won.”

  “Why would you care, Woodrow? You didn’t even like hearing Greek,” Augustus pointed out.

  “No,” Call said, “but I can still wonder about that war.”

  17.

  KICKING WOLF was amused by the carelessness of Big Horse Scull, who put three men at a time to guard the rangers’ horses and the two pack mules, but did not bother with guards for the Buffalo Horse. The men on guard were rotated at short intervals, too—yet Scull did not seem to think the Buffalo Horse needed watching.

  “He does not think anyone would try to steal the Buffalo Horse,” Kicking Wolf told Three Birds, after they had watched the rangers and their horses for three nights.

  “Scull is careless,” he added.

  Three Birds, for once, had a thought he didn’t want to keep inside himself.

  “Big Horse is right,” Three Birds said. He pointed upward to the heavens, which were filled with bright stars.

  “There are as many men as there are stars,” Three Birds said. “They are not all here, but somewhere in the world there are that many men.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kicking Wolf said.

  Three Birds pointed to the North Star, a star much brighter than the little sprinkle of stars around it.

  “Only one star shines to show where the north is,” Three Birds said. “Only one star, of all the stars, shines for the north.”

  Kicking Wolf was thinking it was pleasanter when Three Birds didn’t try to speak his thoughts, but he tried to listen politely to Three Birds’ harmless words about the stars.

  “You are like the North Star,” Three Birds said. “Only you of all the men in the world could steal the Buffalo Horse. That horse might be a witch—some say that it can fly. It might turn and eat you, when you go up to it. Yet you are such a thief that you are going to steal it anyway.

  “Big Horse doesn’t know that the North Star has come to take his horse,” he added. “If he knew, he would be more careful.”

  On the fourth night, after studying the situation well, Kicking Wolf decided it was time to approach the Buffalo Horse. The weather conditions were good: there was a three-quarter moon, and the brightness of the stars was dimmed just enough by scudding, fast-moving clouds. Kicking Wolf could see all he needed to see. He had carefully prepared himself by fasting, his bowels we
re empty, and he had rubbed sage all over his body. Scull even left a halter on the Buffalo Horse. Once Kicking Wolf had reassured the big horse with his touch and his stroking, all he would have to do would be to take the halter and quietly lead the Buffalo Horse away.

  As he was easing along the ground on his belly, so that the lazy guards wouldn’t see him, Kicking Wolf got a big shock: suddenly the Buffalo Horse raised its ear, turned its head, and looked right at him. Kicking Wolf was close enough then that he could see the horse’s breath making little white clouds in the cold night.

  When he realized that the Buffalo Horse knew he was there, Kicking Wolf remembered Three Birds’ warning that the horse might be a witch. For an instant, Kicking Wolf felt fear—big fear. In a second or two the big horse could be on him, trampling him or biting him before he could crawl away.

  Immediately Kicking Wolf rose to a crouch, and got out of sight of the Buffalo Horse as fast as he could. He was very frightened, and he had not been frightened during the theft of a horse in many years. The Buffalo Horse had smelled him even though he had no smell, and heard him even though he made no sound.

  “I think he heard my breath,” he said, when he was safely back with Three Birds. “A man cannot stop his breath.”

  “The other horses didn’t know you were there,” Three Birds told him. “Only the Buffalo Horse noticed you.”

  Though he was not ready to admit it, Kicking Wolf had begun to believe that Three Birds might be right. The Buffalo Horse might be a witch horse, a horse that could not be stolen.

  “We could shoot it and see if it dies,” Three Birds suggested. “If it dies it is not a witch horse.”

  “Be quiet,” Kicking Wolf said. “I don’t want to shoot it. I want to steal it.”

  “Why?” Three Birds asked. He could not quite fathom why Kicking Wolf had taken it into his head to steal the Buffalo Horse. Certainly it was a big stout horse whose theft would embarrass the Texans. But Three Birds took a practical view. If it was a witch horse, as he believed, then it could not be stolen, and if it wasn’t a witch horse, then it was only another animal—an animal that would die someday, like all animals. He did not understand why Kicking Wolf wanted it so badly.

  “It is the great horse of the Texans—it is the best horse in the world,” Kicking Wolf said, when he saw Three Birds looking at him quizzically.

  Once he calmed down he decided he had been too hasty in his judgment. Probably the Buffalo Horse wasn’t a witch horse at all—probably it just had an exceptionally keen nose. He decided to follow the rangers another day or two, so he could watch the horse a little more closely.

  It was aggravating to him that Famous Shoes, the Kickapoo tracker, was with the Texans. Famous Shoes was bad luck, Kicking Wolf thought. He was a cranky man who was apt to turn up anywhere, usually just when you didn’t want to see him. He enjoyed the protection of Buffalo Hump, though: otherwise some Comanche would have killed him long ago.

  The old men said that Famous Shoes could talk to animals—they believed that there had been a time when all people had been able to talk freely with animals, to exchange bits of information that might be helpful, one to another. There were even a few people who supposed that Kicking Wolf himself could talk to horses—otherwise how could he persuade them to follow him quietly out of herds that were well guarded by the whites?

  Kicking Wolf knew that was silly. He could not talk to horses, and he wasn’t sure that anyone could talk to animals, anymore. But the old people insisted that some few humans still retained the power to talk with birds and beasts, and they thought Famous Shoes might be such a person.

  Kicking Wolf doubted it, but then some of the old ones were very wise; they might know more about the matter than he did. If the Kickapoo tracker could really talk to animals, then he might have spoken to the Buffalo Horse and told him Kicking Wolf meant to steal him. Whether he could talk to animals or not, Famous Shoes was an exceptional tracker. He would certainly be aware that he and Three Birds were following the Texans. But he was a curious man. He might not have taken the trouble to mention this fact to the Texans—he might only have told the Buffalo Horse, feeling that was all that was necessary.

  It was while watching the Buffalo Horse make water one evening that Kicking Wolf remembered old Queta, the grandfather of Heavy Leg, Buffalo Hump’s oldest wife. Queta, too, had been a great horsethief; he was not very free with his secrets, but once, while drunk, he had mentioned to Kicking Wolf that the way to steal difficult horses was to approach them while they were pissing. When a horse made water it had to stretch out—it could not move quickly, once its flow started. Kicking Wolf had already noticed that the Buffalo Horse made water for an exceptionally long time. The big horse would stretch out, his legs spread and his belly close to the ground, and would pour out a hot yellow stream for several minutes. If Big Horse Scull was mounted when this happened he sometimes took a book out of his saddlebags and read it. On one occasion, while the Buffalo Horse was pissing, Scull did something very strange, something that went with the view that the Buffalo Horse was a witch horse. Scull slipped backward onto the big horse’s rump, put his head on the saddle, and raised his legs. He stood on his head in the saddle while the Buffalo Horse pissed. Of course it was not unusual for men who were good riders to do feats of horsemanship—Comanche riders, particularly young riders, did them all the time. But neither Kicking Wolf nor Three Birds had ever seen a rider stand on his head while a horse was pissing.

  “I think Big Horse is crazy,” Three Birds said, when he saw that. Those were his last words on the subject and his only words on any subject for several days. Three Birds decided he had been talking too much; he went back to his old habit of keeping his thoughts inside himself.

  Kicking Wolf decided he should wait until the Buffalo Horse was pissing before he approached him again. It would require patience, because horses did not always make water at night; they were more apt to wait and relieve themselves in the early morning.

  When he mentioned his intention to Three Birds, Three Birds merely made a gesture indicating that he was not in the mood to speak.

  Then, that very night, opportunity came. The men who were around the campfire were all singing; the Texans sang almost every night, even if it was cold. Kicking Wolf was not far from the Buffalo Horse when the big horse began to stretch out. As soon as the stream of piss was flowing from the horse’s belly, Kicking Wolf moved, and this time the big horse did not look around. In a minute, Kicking Wolf was close to him and grasped the halter—the Buffalo Horse gave a little snort of surprise, but that was all. All the time the Buffalo Horse was pissing Kicking Wolf stroked him, as he had stroked the many horses he had stolen. When the yellow water ceased to flow Kicking Wolf pulled on the halter, and, to his relief, the big horse followed him. The great horse moved as quietly as he did, a fact that, for a moment, frightened Kicking Wolf. Maybe he was not the one playing the trick—maybe the Buffalo Horse was a witch horse, in which case the horse might be following so quietly only in order to get him off somewhere and eat him.

  Soon, though, they were almost a mile from the ranger camp, and the Buffalo Horse had not eaten him or given him any trouble at all. It was following as meekly as a donkey—or more meekly; few donkeys were meek—then Kicking Wolf felt a great surge of pride. He had done what no other Comanche warrior could have done: he had stolen the Buffalo Horse, the greatest horse that he had ever taken, the greatest horse the Texans owned.

  He walked another mile, and then mounted the Buffalo Horse and rode slowly to where he had left Three Birds. He did not want to gallop, not yet. None of the rangers were alert enough to pick up a horse’s gallop at that distance, but Famous Shoes was there, and he might put his ear to the ground and hear the gallop.

  Three Birds was in some kind of trance when Kicking Wolf rode up to him. Three Birds had their horses ready, but he himself was sitting on a blanket, praying. The man often prayed at inconvenient times. When he looked up from his prayer and saw Kic
king Wolf coming on the Buffalo Horse all he said was, “Ho!”

  “I have stolen the Buffalo Horse,” Kicking Wolf said. “You shouldn’t be sitting on that dirty blanket praying. You should be making a good song about what I have done tonight. I went to the Buffalo Horse while he was making water, and I stole him. When Big Horse Scull gets up in the morning he will be so angry he will want to make a great war on us.”

  Three Birds thought that what Kicking Wolf said was probably true. Scull would make a great war, because his horse had been stolen. He immediately stopped praying and caught his horse.

  “Let’s go a long way now,” he said. “All those Texans will be chasing us, when it gets light.”

  “We will go a long way, but don’t forget to make the song,” Kicking Wolf said.

  18.

  “GENIUS! IT’S ABSOLUTE GENIUS!” Inish Scull said, when told that his great warhorse, Hector, had been stolen. “The man took Hector right out from under my nose. The other horses, now that took skill. But stealing Hector? That’s genius!”

  It was hardly the reaction the rangers had expected. The four men on guard at the time—Long Bill Coleman, Pea Eye Parker, Neely Dickens, and Finch Seeger—were lined up with hangdog looks on their faces. All of them expected the firing squad; after all, they had let the most important horse in Texas get stolen.

  None of them had seen or heard a thing, either. The big horse had been grazing peacefully the last time they had looked. They had been expecting Kicking Wolf to try for the other horses. It hadn’t occurred to any of them that he might steal the big horse.

  “You should have expected it!” Call told them sternly, when the theft was discovered. “He might be big, but he was still a horse, and horses are what Kicking Wolf steals.”

  Augustus McCrae, like Captain Scull, could not suppress a sneaking admiration for Kicking Wolf’s daring. It was a feat so bold it had to be credited, and he told Woodrow as much.

  “I don’t credit it,” Call said. “It’s still just a thief stealing a horse. We ought to be chasing him, instead of standing around talking about it.”