The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  So, night after night, Buffalo Hump climbed to the high rock and prayed for instruction. He was not a fool. He knew that the whites were stronger now; they were more numerous than the Comanche, and better armed. That was why he wanted to strike in winter. The soldiers were inside their forts, trying to keep warm. So were the farmers, and the people of the towns. They would not expect hundreds of warriors to slash down on them like sleet.

  Yet he knew that, even so, the whites might win. Every time he went into the Brazos country he was shocked to see the whites filling it in such numbers. Always, too, their guns improved. They had rifles now that could spit many bullets and strike warriors fatally at ranges well beyond that of any arrow. Armed with their new guns, the whites might win; he and all the chiefs might fall in battle, in which case the day of the Comanche people would be over. If the great raid failed and the strongest chiefs were killed, then there would be no recovery for the People, and the wisdom of Slow Tree would be the wisdom that would have to prevail.

  Sitting on the rock every night, in wind or sleet or snow, Buffalo Hump did not see defeat in his visions. Instead he saw the houses of the white men burning, their women killed, their children taken from them. He saw himself as he had been when young, leading his warriors into towns and villages, bursting into farmhouses and killing the whites where they stood. He saw his warriors coming back north with a great herd of livestock, enough to cover the plains where the buffalo had been.

  He had not yet called a council of the braves, because, every night, his vision grew stronger. In his vision he saw a thousand warriors riding together, in war paint, wearing all the finery they could assemble, sweeping down on the white towns, singing their war songs, killing whites, and burning settlements all the way to the Great Water.

  Slipping Weasel was disappointed by Buffalo Hump’s casual response to his news. The whole camp was excited about it, but Buffalo Hump was barely moved to comment. Of course, Buffalo Hump and Kicking Wolf were old rivals, and often quarreled. Maybe Buffalo Hump was glad that Kicking Wolf had left.

  “You could go catch Scull,” Slipping Weasel suggested. “He is walking not far from the Pecos. You could catch him in a few days.”

  “Am I a rabbit hunter?” Buffalo Hump said. “Scull is just a rabbit. Let him hop down to Mexico. The Black Vaquero will catch him and make a tree grow through him.”

  He was referring to a strange torture that the Black Vaquero sometimes inflicted on his enemies, if he caught them alive. He would trim the leaves and limbs off a small, slim tree and then sharpen the boll to a fine point. Then he would strip his enemy and lift him up and lower him onto the sharp point of the skinned tree. The man’s weight would carry him downward, so that the tree went higher and higher into his body. Ahumado was an expert at the torture. He would spend an hour or more sitting a man on the sharp tree, so that as the tree passed through his body it would not pierce any vital organs and allow the man to die too easily. Sometimes the slim trees would pass all the way through the captive’s body and poke out behind his body, and yet he would still be living and suffering. Once Slipping Weasel and Buffalo Hump and a few warriors had come upon a little forest of such trees, with men stuck on them like rotting fruit. There were more than ten in all, and two of the men were still alive, panting hoarsely and crying for water. It had been a startling sight, the little forest of trees with men hanging on them like fruit. The Comanches had lingered by the forest of tree-stuck men for half a day, studying the dead men and the living. The living men were in such agony that even the slightest touch made them scream with pain. Buffalo Hump and the other Comanches were surprised by the sight. They did not often see tortures that were worse than their own—all the way back to the plains they talked about the torture of the little trees. On the way home they surprised a few Texans driving a horse herd west. They wanted to catch one of the Texans and stick him on a little tree, to learn the technique, but the Texans fought so fiercely that they had to kill them all and did not get to practice the little-tree torture. Those who had seen the forest of dead and dying men did not forget it, though—none of them, after that, were eager to go into Ahumado’s country.

  Slipping Weasel finally got up and left Buffalo Hump alone, since the chief seemed to be in a bad mood and had little to say. More and more Buffalo Hump spent his days with his young wife, Lark. Once when they were engaged with one another they forgot themselves to such an extent that they rolled out from under their tent and coupled for a brief time in full view of some old women who were scraping a buffalo hide, the old women were agitated by the sight; they tittered about it for days. Buffalo Hump’s other wives did not appreciate the tittering. A day or two later they found an excuse to beat Lark, and they beat her soundly.

  Slipping Weasel thought he could find a few warriors who would want to go catch Big Horse Scull; but when he tried to talk some warriors into going they all made excuses and put him off. The reason was Buffalo Hump. Everyone knew that the chief was planning something. They saw him leave the camp night after night, to climb a rock far up the canyon, where he prayed and sang. Except for Lark he paid little attention to anyone—he only wanted to copulate with Lark or sit on his rock praying—everyone knew that he was seeking visions. Old Slow Tree had finally left the camp in annoyance because Buffalo Hump was so uninterested in his notions of how to get along with the whites.

  What the warriors thought was that Buffalo Hump would soon find his vision and call them all to war. Earlier, they would have been glad to track down Big Horse Scull and take revenge on him, but now they were afraid to leave, for fear that they would not be there when Buffalo Hump called them to the war trail. Old Slow Tree’s warriors did not much want to go away with him; they didn’t share his peaceful views and were eager to fight the whites again.

  Though it annoyed him, Slipping Weasel had to abandon his plan for catching Big Horse Scull. He waited, as the others waited, doing a little hunting, but mainly looking to his weapons. He and the other warriors spent many days making arrows, sharpening their points, smoothing their stems. They rewrapped the heads of their lances and made sure their buffalo-skin shields were taut.

  Then one day Buffalo Hump finished boiling the great skull he had brought back from the Blue River. All day he worked to make the hard part into a small heavy shield, much heavier than the skin shields the other warriors carried. At dusk, when he finished the shield, he went out to the horse herd and brought back the strong white gelding he rode when he went raiding. That night he kept the horse tethered behind his tent. It was late in the night when he came out of his tent and walked back up the canyon to the high rock. He wore nothing that night but a loincloth, and he carried his bow and his new shield.

  All night they heard Buffalo Hump praying. Once the sun edged into the sky, and light came to the canyon, Buffalo Hump was still sitting on the high rock, with his bow and his thick shield. When he walked back into camp, with the sun well up, there was a hush in the camp. The women didn’t talk of copulating as they worked at the cooking pots, as was common in the morning. The hush silenced the children; they didn’t run and play. The dogs ceased barking. Everyone knew that Buffalo Hump had found his vision. When he sat down in front of his tent and began to paint himself for war there was joy throughout the camp. Within a few minutes he sent runners to call the warriors from the other bands. Solemnly but gladly all the warriors began to do as their chief was doing. They began to put on war paint. No one asked Buffalo Hump what he was planning; no one needed to. There would be a great raid on the whites—Comanche warriors would be proud men again. The endless talk about whether to grow corn was over. Their greatest chief had found a vision, and it was not a vision of peace.

  By afternoon, warriors from the nearby bands began to ride in, painted and ready. There was much selecting of horses and packing of stores. The women worked hard, but their voices were hushed. They did not want to be joking when their men were going on a raid that might mean glory or might mean death.

>   Finally one old warrior, old Crooked Hock, known for his great curiosity but not for his good judgment, had the temerity to ask Buffalo Hump how far he planned to raid.

  Buffalo Hump did not look at the old man. He wanted to concentrate on his vision of burning houses. Anyway, he did not know how far he planned to raid—he would raid until it was time to quit. But, as he was about to answer the old man brusquely, he saw in his mind another vision, this one of the sea. The Great Water rolled toward the land and spat from its depths the bodies of whites. The vision of the sea with the white bodies bobbing in it was so powerful that Buffalo Hump realized he ought to be grateful to Crooked Hock for asking the question that had enabled him to see the final part of his vision—the vision of rolling waves spitting white bodies onto beaches of sand. The vision was so strong that Buffalo Hump stood up and yelled at the warriors loudly, his voice echoing off the canyon.

  “The Great Water!” he yelled. “We are going to the Great Water, and we are going now!”

  Six hundred braves rode out of the canyon behind him, the sun glinting on their lances. When sound came back to the camp it was the sound women make, talking to one another as they cooked and did chores. A few babies cried, a few dogs barked, the old men smoked. By the time the moon rose Buffalo Hump and his warriors were already miles to the south.

  29.

  “HECTOR LEAVES a damn large track,” Scull said to Famous Shoes, after they had been walking for four days. “If we had some form of torch I believe I could track him at night.”

  “We don’t have a torch,” Famous Shoes pointed out. They were in country where there was little wood. When they made little fires to cook the game they killed, jackrabbits mostly, they had to use the branches of creosote bushes or chaparral.

  “Hector will probably be slimmed down a little when I catch him,” Scull said. “There’s not much fodder out here.”

  “They may have to eat him soon,” Famous Shoes warned.

  “I doubt that,” Scull said. “I don’t think Kicking Wolf stole him to eat. I expect he stole him mainly to embarrass me. I’m for walking all night if you think we can stay with the track.”

  Famous Shoes thought Scull was crazy. The man wanted to walk forever, without sleep. Kicking Wolf, the man they were following, was crazy too. He was taking the horse straight to Mexico, which made no sense—Kicking Wolf’s people did not live in Mexico. They lived in the other direction.

  He himself was growing tired of being a scout for the whites. One crazy man was chasing another crazy man, with his help. Famous Shoes decided it must be the tobacco Scull chewed all day that made him able to walk so far. He did not want to sleep long at night, and grew restless when there were clouds over the moon, so Famous Shoes could not track. On those nights Scull sat by the fire and talked for hours. He said there were forests to the south so thick that little beasts called monkeys could live their whole lives in the trees, never touching the ground. Famous Shoes didn’t believe the story—he had never seen trees that thick. He had begun to think of walking away some night, leaving Scull while he napped. After all, he had not yet got to visit his grandmother in her new home on the Arkansas. He could understand Scull’s anger at Kicking Wolf for stealing his horse, but the decision to follow on foot was more evidence of Scull’s insanity. Kicking Wolf traveled hard. They were not going to catch him on foot, not unless he got sick and had to stop for a few days. The evidence of the tracks was plain. Kicking Wolf and Three Birds would soon be in Mexico. Though he and Scull were walking exceptionally fast, they only had two legs, whereas the horses they were following had four.

  Famous Shoes told Scull as much, but Scull would not give up, not even when they reached the desolate country where the Pecos angled toward the Rio Grande. In that country the water was so bitter from the white soil that one’s turds came out white—a very bad thing. White turds meant that they were in the wrong place, that was how Famous Shoes felt. He was thinking more about walking off, but Scull had quickly mastered tracking and might follow him and shoot him if he left. He did not want to get shot by Scull’s big rifle. He had begun to hope they would run into some bandits or some Indians, anything that might distract Scull long enough that he could slip away. But even if there was a fight, escape would still be risky. Who knew what a crazy man such as Big Horse Scull might do?

  When they were only a day away from the Rio Grande, Famous Shoes noticed a curious thing about the tracks they were following. He did not mention it at first, but he might as well have mentioned it because Scull was such a good tracker now that he noticed it too. Scull stopped and squatted down, so as to study the tracks better. When he spat tobacco juice he spat it carefully to the side, so as not to blur the message of the tracks.

  “By God, he knows we’re following him,” Scull said. “He’s sent Mr. Three Birds back, to spy on us—now Three Birds has marked us and gone back to report. Am I right, Professor?”

  That was exactly correct, so correct that Famous Shoes did not feel the need to reply. Three Birds had come back and spied on them.

  “He marked us and he’s gone,” Scull said. “I expect he’s reported to his boss by now.”

  “Kicking Wolf is not his boss,” Famous Shoes corrected. “Three Birds travels where he pleases.”

  Scull got up and walked around for a few minutes, thinking.

  “I wonder if there’s a big camp of Indians down there somewhere that he’s taking my horse to,” he said.

  “No, there is no camp,” Famous Shoes assured him. “Comanches won’t camp where their shit is white.”

  “I don’t care for this country much myself,” Scull said. “Let’s get out of it.”

  The next day, at a winter sunset, they came to the Rio Grande. Scull stopped for a minute, to look north toward a long curve of the river. The water was gold with the thin sunset. There was no sign of Hector or the two Indians, but to his surprise he saw an old man, walking slowly along the riverbank, going south. A large dog walked beside him.

  “Now there’s somebody—who would it be, walking this river alone this time of year?” he asked.

  When Famous Shoes saw the old man coming he gave a start; though he had never seen the old man before he knew who he was.

  “He is the Old-One-Who-Walks-by-the-River,” Famous Shoes said. “He lives in a cave where the river is born. The river is his child. Every year he walks with it down to its home in the Great Water. Then he goes back to his cave, where the river is born, high in the Sierra. His wolf walks with him and kills his food.”

  “His wolf?” Scull said, looking more closely. “I took it for a dog.”

  “He has been here forever,” Famous Shoes said. “The Apaches believe that if you see him you will die.”

  “Well, I’ve seen him and I ain’t dead,” Scull commented. “I just hope that wolf don’t bite.”

  “If I had known I would see the Old One I would not have come with you,” Famous Shoes said. “I need to see my grandmother, but now I don’t know if I will be living long enough to find her.”

  Scull had to admit that the sight of the lone figure coming along the river at dusk was a little eerie. Certainly it was not an ordinary thing.

  They went on to the river and waited for the old man to come. When he appeared the wolf had vanished. The old man came slowly. His white hair hung to his waist and he wore buckskin clothing.

  “I think he has stopped speaking because he is so old,” Famous Shoes said.

  “I’ll try him with a little Yankee English—he might want to stop and sup with us,” Scull said. Earlier in the day he had shot a small owl—his plan for dinner was to have owl soup.

  “Hello, sir, this is a welcome surprise,” Inish said, when the old man came to where they waited. “My name is Inish Scull—I’m a Bostoner—and this is Famous Shoes, the great professor of tracking. If you’d care to join us in a meal, we’re having owl soup.”

  The old man fixed Scull with a lively blue eye.

  “You’ve spit
tobaccy juice up and down the front of yourself,” the old man said, in a voice far from weak. “I’ll have a chaw of tobaccy if you’ve any left after all your wasteful spitting.”

  Scull reached in his pocket and pulled out his plug, by then so diminished that he simply handed it to the old man, who had spoken as matter-of-factly as if they had met on Boston Common.

  “It’s true I’m reckless with my spittles,” Scull said. “You’re welcome to this tobacco—how about the owl soup?”

  “I’ll pass—can’t digest owls,” the old man said. He carried a long rifle, the stock of which he set against the ground; then he leaned comfortably on his own weapon.

  “I fear it’s a weak offering but we have nothing else,” Scull admitted.

  “Don’t need it—my wolf will bring me a varmint,” the old man said. He lifted one leg and rested it against the other thigh.

  “I’m Inish Scull and I’m in pursuit of a horsethief,” Scull said. “It’s my warhorse that was taken, and I want him back. Who might you be, if I may ask?”

  “I’m Ephaniah, the Lord of the Last Day,” the old man said. From down the river there was the howl of a wolf.

  “Excuse me, you’re what?” Scull asked.

  “I’m the Lord of the Last Day,” the old man said. “That’s my wolf, howling to let me know he’s caught a tasty varmint.”

  He put down his other foot and without another word or gesture began moving on down the river.

  Famous Shoes gestured—on a rise still lit by the last of the afterglow, the wolf waited. The old man was soon lost in the deepening dusk.

  “Now that’s curious,” Scull said. “I’m out my tobacco, and I don’t know a thing more than I did. Why would he call himself the ‘Lord of the Last Day’? What does it mean?”