The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  “It might take him six or seven tries just to catch his own horse,” Augustus said. “If we was in a hurry I’d usually catch his horse for him, just to save time.”

  Call started to go up the stairs to see Maggie, but paused a moment.

  “You’re right,” he said. “The only thing the man ever roped on the first try was himself. That’s a curiosity, ain’t it?”

  “Why yes,” Augustus said. “That’s a curiosity.”

  Call still had his hat in his hand; he put it on and went up the steps to Maggie.

  Woodrow’s lucky and he don’t know it, Augustus thought. He’s got a girl to go to. I wish I had a girl to go to. Whore or no whore, I wouldn’t care.

  34.

  WITH NO WAY to shade his pupils, Scull began to pray for rain—or, if not rain, at least a cloud, anything that might bring his eyes relief. Even on cool days the white light of the sun at noon brought intense headaches. The light was like a hot needle, stabbing and stabbing into his head. Rolling his eyes downward brought a few moments of relief, but not enough—day after day the white light ate at his optic nerve. Even though he heard the caballero Carlos Diaz tell Ahumado that the Texans had agreed to send the cattle for his ransom, Scull felt little hope. He might be blind or insane before the cattle arrived; besides, there was no certainty that Ahumado would honor the ransom anyway. He might take the cattle and kill the Texans—if he respected the bargain it would be mere whim.

  From the noon hour each day until the sun edged behind the western cliffs, Scull felt himself not far from madness, from the pain in his eyes. The only thing that saved him, in his view, was that the season was young and the days still fairly short; also, Ahumado had pitched his camp in a canyon, a deep slot in the earth. In the canyon the sun rose late and set early; it only burned at his eyes for some six hours a day, and often spring thunderheads drifted over the canyon and brought him some minutes of relief.

  As soon as the sun went behind the canyon wall Ahumado took him from the skinning post and put him back in the cage. Scull then covered his head with his arms, to make a cave of darkness for his throbbing eyes. Sometimes, instead of drinking the water they brought him, he poured a little in his palms and wet his throbbing temples. He could hear the rippling of the little stream that ran not far away; at night he dreamed of thrusting his head in the cool water and letting it soothe his eyes.

  He no longer sang or cursed, and when, now and then, he tried to remember a line of verse, or a fragment of history, he couldn’t. It was as if the white light itself had burned away his memory, so that it would no longer give back what was in it. The old bandit was clever, more clever than Scull had supposed. He might take the Texans’ cattle and send them back their captain—only the captain he sent back would be blind and insane.

  The one weapon Scull had left to him was his hatred—always, throughout his life, hatred had come easier to him than love. The Christian view that one should love his brethren struck him as absurd. His brethren were conniving, brutish, dishonest, greedy, and cruel—and that judgment included, particularly, his own brothers and most of the men he had grown up with. From the time he first hefted a rifle and swung a sword he had loved combat. He sought war and liked it red. His marriage to Inez was a kind of war in itself, which was one reason he stayed in it. Several times he had come close to choking her to death, and once he even managed to heave her out a window, unfortunately only a first-floor window, or he would have been rid of the black bitch, as he sometimes called her. He had no trouble hating any opponent, any prey: red Indians, bandits, horsethieves, card cheats, pimps, bankers, lawyers, governors, senators. He had once pistol-whipped a man in the foyer of the Massachussetts statehouse because the man spat on his foot.

  All his earlier hatreds, though, seemed casual and minor when compared to the hatred he felt for Ahumado, the Black Vaquero. There was nothing of chivalry in Scull’s hatred—no respect for a worthy opponent, none of the civilities that went with formal warfare. Scull dreamed of getting Ahumado by the throat and squeezing until his old eyes popped out. He wanted to saw off the top of the man’s head and scoop out his brains, as they had scooped out the steaming brains of Hector, his great horse. He wanted to open his belly and strew his old guts on the rocks for carrion birds to peck at.

  Ahumado had outsmarted him at every turn, had caught him easily, stripped him, hung him in a cage, taken his eyelids; and he had done it all with light contempt, as if it were an easy, everyday matter to outsmart Inish Scull. The old man didn’t appear to want his death, particularly; he could have had that at any time. What he wanted was his pride, and taking the eyelids was a smart way to whittle it down. When the sun shone full in his face, Scull’s pupils seemed as wide as a tunnel, a tunnel that let searing light into his brain. At times he felt as if his own brains were being cooked, as Hector’s had been.

  The hatred between Scull and Ahumado was a silent thing now. For most of the day the two men were no more than fifty feet apart. Ahumado sat on his blanket; Scull was either in his cage or tied to the skinning post. But no words passed between them—only hatred.

  Scull tried, as best he could, to keep track of days. He lined up straws in the corner of his cage. Keeping a crude calendar was a way of holding out. He needed to keep his hatred high, to calculate when he might expect the Texans. Once the season advanced, once spring gave way to summer, the sun would burn even hatred out of him. He knew it. The old dark man sitting a few feet away would become meaningless. The sun would cook away even hatred—and when hatred was gone there would be nothing left.

  While he could, though, he lined up straws in the corner of his cage and imagined revenge. One morning it rained, a blessed rain that continued to fall for eight hours or more. They did not bother tying him to the skinning post that day—there was no sun to afflict him. Scull scraped at the puddles in his cage and made a paste of mud, which he plastered over his sore eyes. The relief was so great that he wept, beneath his mud poultices. All day he kept on, putting the mud poultices over his eyes. No one came near him. Ahumado, who hated rain, stayed in his cave. Later, when the rain had subsided to a cool drizzle, Scull heard two vaqueros talking. The vaqueros wanted to kill him—they were convinced he was a witch. What he did with the mud was a thing a witch would do. The vaqueros had long believed that Scull was a witch and were annoyed at Ahumado for allowing a witch to live in their midst; he might cause someone to be struck by lightning; he might even cause the cliff to fall and bury them all alive. They wanted to take out their guns and shoot many bullets into Scull, the witch in the cage. But they could not because Scull belonged to Ahumado, and only Ahumado could order his death.

  When Scull overheard the conversation, he felt his strength revive a little. Because of the rain and the mud, he was saved for a little time. Perhaps he was a witch—at least, perhaps, he could play on the vaqueros’ superstition. At once, in his croak of a voice, he began to sing in Gaelic, a sea ditty a sailor had once taught him in Boston. He couldn’t sing loud and had forgotten most of the Gaelic song, but he sang anyway, with mud plastered over his eyes.

  When he took the plasters off Scull saw that the vaqueros and everyone else in the camp had moved as far away from him as they could get. He had witched them back, and if the mud puddles would just last a few days he might keep witching them until the Texans came with the cattle—at least it was something to try.

  Ahumado even came out of his cave for a moment, although he disliked rain. He wanted to watch the strange white man who put mud on his eyes.

  35

  WHEN BUFFALO HUMP and Worm were only two days from the canyon, they met up with Fat Knee and two other boys. One of the boys, White Crow, was so good with snares that he had caught several wild turkeys. Of course they were glad to share the turkey meat with their chief. Buffalo Hump ate the turkey happily but Worm refused it, believing that turkey meat might affect his brain; turkeys were easily confused, and so might be the people who ate them, Worm reasoned. Buffalo Hump tho
ught the notion was ridiculous and tried to joke Worm out of his silly belief.

  “You are confused,” he told Worm, “but if I ate you I would still be smart.”

  Fat Knee had always been afraid of Buffalo Hump—the sight of the great hump made him fearful. While Buffalo Hump was eating a wild turkey hen, Fat Knee blurted out the business about Blue Duck and Famous Shoes. He was afraid that if he waited Blue Duck might try to put the blame for the whole episode on him. Blue Duck was a good liar; he was always managing to get other people blamed for his mistakes. Also, of course, he was Buffalo Hump’s son. Fat Knee assumed that Buffalo Hump would more likely believe his own son than an insignificant young warrior named Fat Knee.

  But when he blurted out the admission that he and Blue Duck had tried to trade Famous Shoes to Slow Tree, Buffalo Hump didn’t seem particularly interested.

  “You should change your name,” the chief suggested. “Your parents gave you that name because when you were young a snake bit you on the knee and made your knee fat. Now you are grown and your knee isn’t fat. If I were you I would change my name.”

  Fat Knee was relieved that Buffalo Hump wasn’t angry about the business with Famous Shoes. He had been worrying about Buffalo Hump’s reaction to that business for many days. In fact, though, Buffalo Hump seemed more annoyed with Worm for his reluctance to eat turkey meat than he was about the matter of Famous Shoes and Slow Tree.

  As they were riding north, Buffalo Hump brought up the matter of his name again.

  “People who are named for parts of the body can only be jokesters and clowns,” Buffalo Hump told him. “Look at Straight Elbow—his name ruined him. If you were named for your scrotum it would be the same. No matter how hard you fought in battle, people would get tickled when they said your name. Soon you would forget about being brave. It would be enough that you were funny. You would only be a clown.”

  Fat Knee recognized that what Buffalo Hump said might be true, but he had no idea what he should change his name to. His father had named him Fat Knee, and his father, Elk Shoulders, was an irascible man. If he went to his father and announced that he wanted to change his name, his father might hit him so hard with a club that his brains would spill out like clotted milk.

  Still, Buffalo Hump was the chief. It would not do to ignore his suggestion completely. Buffalo Hump was known to hold grudges, too. He had been known to kill people over incidents or embarrassments that had occurred so long ago that most people had forgotten them. Often the warrior who suddenly found himself being killed would be dispatched so quickly that he could not even remember what he had done to deserve the knife or the lance.

  As they were riding north Fat Knee rode up beside Buffalo Hump and put a question to him.

  “If I change my name from Fat Knee, what will I change it to?” he asked.

  Buffalo Hump gave the matter only a moment’s thought.

  “Change it to Many Dreams,” Buffalo Hump suggested. “The name will make you dream more. If you can learn to dream enough we might make you into a medicine man.”

  While Fat Knee was thinking about the name “Many Dreams,” which pleased him, they saw an Indian sitting on the edge of a low butte not far to the west. The butte was not high—it was no more, really, than a pile of rocks. Buffalo Hump immediately recognized the warrior’s horse, a small gray gelding.

  “That is Red Hand’s horse,” he said. “Why is Red Hand sitting on that pile of rocks?”

  No one had any idea—Red Hand was a gregarious man who usually stayed in camp so that he could couple frequently with his wives. He liked to lie on soft elk skins and have his wives rub his body with buffalo tallow. He also liked to wrestle but was hard to throw because his wives had made him slippery with the tallow. He had never been known to sit on a pile of rocks far from camp.

  When they came to where the gray horse stood, Red Hand was staring up into the sky. His body was shaking. He did not look at them. He kept his face turned up to the sky.

  “He is praying—we had better just leave him to his prayers,” Worm said. Worm wanted very much to be back in camp; too many things that he had seen on this trip did not seem right to him. The sight of the Old One had unnerved him badly. Now they were almost home and Buffalo Hump was slowing them down again, just because of Red Hand.

  The delay was one thing too many for Worm, who did not hide his impatience, forgetting that Buffalo Hump could be impatient too. Before Worm realized the danger he had pushed too hard. Buffalo Hump whirled on him—he did not raise his lance or draw his bow, but the death he could deal with them was there, in his eyes.

  “I want you to wait until Red Hand has finished his prayer,” he said. “He might need to talk to you. He would not come so far to pray unless it was important. Once he has finished and we have all talked to him, then we will go home.”

  Worm restrained himself with difficulty. He did not like to be corrected. Red Hand was a man of no judgment; probably he was just sitting on a rock pile praying because his wife had refused him, although it was true that Red Hand was shaking as if his life were about to end.

  Worm composed himself and waited. Fat Knee caught a mouse and he and the other boys amused themselves with it for a while, catching it under a cup and then releasing it, only to catch it again before it could get to a hole.

  Finally Red Hand stopped shaking so much. His eyes had been turned up to the sky—he had been seeing only what was inside his prayer. When he lowered his head and saw several people waiting for him he looked very surprised.

  “I came here to pray,” he said. Then he could not seem to think of more words. He got to his feet, moving like an old man, and mounted his gray horse.

  “This is a new place you have found to pray,” Buffalo Hump pointed out. “Many people find good places to pray in the canyon.”

  He was trying to be patient. After all, a man’s prayers were serious. He himself had chosen a difficult place on a high rock when he had prayed for the success of the great raid. Red Hand had every right to pray on a rock pile if he wanted to. Buffalo Hump was merely curious as to why he had chosen this particular rock pile as his praying place.

  What Red Hand wanted to do was change the subject. What had driven him to the rock pile to pray was the fact that one of his wives had got her blood on him—they had been coupling when her impure time came. When he pulled away from his wife and saw that he was red with blood he was so upset that he jumped on his horse and left the village. Red Hand was no longer a youth; he had four wives and he coupled with them as frequently as possible, but never before had he coupled with one of his wives when she was impure. The wife it happened with was known as High Rabbit because she stepped so high in the dance—also her legs were thin like a jackrabbit’s. High Rabbit was not an immodest woman; in fact she was the most circumspect of his wives. She insisted on a great deal of privacy before she would let Red Hand couple with her. High Rabbit was also horrified by what had happened. She ran quickly to her mother to find out what her fate would be. Sometimes women were driven out of the tribe or even killed for allowing men to come near them when they were impure.

  Red Hand didn’t know what High Rabbit’s mother might have told her, because he had left the village immediately and had not been back. As soon as he came to a stream he washed himself many times, though he knew the washings would do little good. The impurity would strike him inside, where he couldn’t wash it away. His assumption was that he would die soon; he wanted to pray as much as possible before his end came, and the rock pile seemed as good a place as any. In his mind contact with impure blood meant death and he wanted to hurry to a praying place and start praying. Some rattlesnakes had been around the rock pile when he arrived, but they soon went away. Probably even the rattlesnakes knew of his impurity and hurried to their dens to dissociate themselves from it.

  To Red Hand’s surprise, he didn’t die; now Buffalo Hump, leader of the great raid, had come upon him and seemed to find it amusing that he had chosen to pray on a
rock pile. Of course Buffalo Hump didn’t know about the dire thing that had occurred in Red Hand’s lodge.

  Red Hand would have liked a few words with Worm about the matter of impure blood, but Worm had never liked him very much. Probably he would just tell him to go away and die if he knew about the blood.

  Under the circumstances Red Hand thought it best to talk about something beside his choice of places to pray. Buffalo Hump was not a great chief for nothing. He might find out that Red Hand had come to the rock pile because he was stained.

  “Kicking Wolf is back,” Red Hand said. “He was very weak when he found us and he sees two deer where there is one.”

  Buffalo Hump was not concerned with Kicking Wolf’s vision problems.

  “Where is the Buffalo Horse?” he asked.

  “I don’t know about that, but the worst thing is that Three Birds did not return,” Red Hand said. “The Black Vaquero got him.”

  “If he got Three Birds, how did Kicking Wolf get away?” Buffalo Hump asked.

  Then Red Hand realized that he did know what had happened to the Buffalo Horse—he returned in his mind to an earlier part of the story; he was so upset about his impurity that he could not remember events in a straightforward way. Now he suddenly remembered about the Buffalo Horse—an Apache had told Slipping Weasel about him. The Apache had heard the story from a man who was wandering.

  “Wait, I was in my prayer, I forgot this,” Red Hand said. “They cooked the Buffalo Horse in a great pit, but they took away his head and cooked it somewhere else. It took a whole village to eat him. I think Ahumado ate his head. They also caught Big Horse Scull and hung him in a cage.”

  “I was wanting to know about Kicking Wolf,” Buffalo Hump said, without impatience. He could tell that Red Hand’s mind was in a disordered state. He was talking rapidly, although there was no need to hurry their talk.