“Why would the man hang himself, Woodrow?” Augustus asked, trying to force his mind back to the original topic.
“I know it’s best not to think about it, but I can’t stop thinking about it,” he went on. “There are times at night when I’d give a year’s wages just to ask Billy one question.”
“Well, but he’s gone where wages don’t help you,” Call said. “The best thing is just to try and do the job we have to do.”
“I doubt we can do this job—where are we going now?” Gus asked.
“To the Rio Grande,” Call replied.
“To the Rio Grande and then what—is Captain King a fish?” Gus asked.
“No, but there’s a town there where we might be able to find him,” Call said. “At least I guess it’s at a town.”
“Well, if it’s a town, is it on a map—does it have a name?” Gus asked, impatiently. “Is it on this side of the river, or is it an island or what?”
“It’s probably a town,” Call said. “There’s a saloon there owned by a man named Wanz—I think he’s a Frenchman.”
“Oh, if it’s got a saloon, let’s go,” Augustus said. “In fact, let’s hurry. We’ll give the saloon a thorough inspection—then we’ll worry about Captain King. What’s the name of this place?”
“Lonesome Dove—that’s its name,” Call said.
37.
THE CAPTIVES, three men and a woman, were brought in a little after sunrise, in an oxcart. Muñoz, the bandit Ahumado had assigned to do the job Tudwal once did, ambushed them in their fine coach three days to the east. All their finery, rings, watches, and the like he put in a little sack, for Ahumado to inspect. The first thing the old man did, before he so much as glanced at the captives, was take the sack from Muñoz and carry it to his blanket. He emptied the sack and carefully inspected every item before he turned his attention to the prisoners, all of whom were large and fleshy, as hidalgos and their women tend to be, and all of whom, with good reason, were terrified.
Scull watched the proceedings from his cage, shielding his eyes with his hands. On days when they tied him to the skinning post his vision became a blur—he could distinguish motion and outlines but not much else. The rains had stopped and the sun was blinding, but Ahumado only now and then tied him to the skinning post. Often he would be left for three or four days in his cage—when free to shade his eyes, his vision gradually cleared.
Also, to his puzzlement, Ahumado instructed the women to feed him well. Every day he was given tortillas, frijoles, and goat meat. Ahumado himself ate no better. Scull suspected that the old man wanted to build him up for some more refined torture later, but that was just a guess and not one that impeded his appetite. Live while you’re alive, Bible and sword, he told himself. He observed that from time to time the Black Vaquero was racked with coughing, now and then bringing up a green pus. It was enough to remind Scull that the old bandit was mortal too. He might yet die first.
That was not a thought likely to bring comfort to the fat new captives. As soon as Ahumado had inspected the booty he had the four prisoners lined up in the center of the camp. He did not speak to them or question them; he just made them stand there, through the hot hours of a long day. The people of the village stared at them, as they went about their work. Vaqueros or pistoleros who rode in from time to time stared at them.
Scull judged the captives to be gentry of some sort—their dusty garments had once been expensive. Provincial gentry, perhaps, but still from a far higher sphere than the peasants who peopled the camp. The prisoners were used to being pampered; they spent their lives sitting, eating, growing fatter. They were unaccustomed, not merely to being prisoners, but to being required to stand up at all. They were too scared to move, and yet they longed to move. They were offered neither food nor drink. Muñoz, a thin man with a pocked face, was clearly proud of his catch. He stood close to them, waiting for Ahumado’s order. The standing was a torture in itself, Scull observed. In the afternoon the woman, desperate, squatted and made water; she was well concealed behind heavy skirts but still Muñoz laughed and made a crude joke. Later the three men made water where they stood, in their pants.
Scull watched Ahumado—he wanted to know what the old man would do with his prize catches. The old skinner, Goyeto, sat beside him, clicking his finely sharpened knives, one of them the knife that had taken off Scull’s eyelids.
A little before sundown, trembling with fatigue, the woman passed out. She simply fell facedown—in a faint, Scull supposed. Ahumado did not react. Muñoz had just filled his plate with food; he went on eating.
A few minutes later the three men were prodded at knifepoint to the edge of the pit of snakes and scorpions and pushed in. The bottom of the pit was in darkness by this time. The captives had no idea how deep the pit was. They were merely led to the edge of a hole and pushed off the edge. All of them screamed as they fell, and two of them continued screaming throughout the night. One of the men screamed that his leg was broken. He pleaded and pleaded but no one listened. The peasants in the camp made tortillas and sang their own songs. Scull decided that the third captive must have broken his neck in the fall—there were only two voices crying out for help.
In the morning, when Ahumado and Goyeto went to look in the pit, Scull heard the old skinner complaining.
“I thought you were going to let me skin one of them,” he said.
Ahumado ignored the complaint—he usually ignored Goyeto, who complained often. He stood on the edge of the pit, looking down at the captives and listening to them beg him and plead with him; then he returned to his blanket.
When an old woman brought Scull a little coffee and two tortillas, he asked her about the men in the pit. He had noticed several of the women peeking in.
“Is one of the men dead?” he asked.
“Sí, dead,” the old woman said.
The woman who fainted lay through the night in the place she had fallen. It had grown cold; Scull noticed that someone had brought her a blanket during the night. She was not tied. After the sun had been up awhile the woman rose and hobbled hesitantly over to one of the little campfires. The poor women of the camp made a place for her and gave her food. She thanked them in a low voice. The women did not respond, but they allowed her to sit by the fire. Ahumado took no further interest in her. A week later, when all three of the men in the pit were dead, the woman was still there, unmolested, eating with the women of the camp.
38.
WHEN BLUE DUCK saw that his father was angry, he thought it might be because of the captive woman. The woman, who was young and frail, had been found dead that morning; but in fact she had been sickly when they took her. There had been some beating and raping but not enough to kill her. She had been sick all along, spitting blood night after night on the trail—now she had died of her sickness, which was not his doing or his fault.
As a chief, Buffalo Hump had always been touchy about the matter of captives; he expected to control the disposal of all captives. He might order them tortured or killed, he might sell them into slavery with another tribe, or he might let them live and even on occasion treat them well. The fate of a captive brought to Buffalo Hump’s camp depended on reasoning Blue Duck did not understand. Even though he felt blameless in the matter of the dead woman, he was also scared. Everyone feared Buffalo Hump’s angers, and with good reason.
The words his father said, though, shocked him. They were not what he had expected, not at all.
“You should have left Famous Shoes alone, as I ordered,” Buffalo Hump said. “Now you have to leave the tribe. You can take five horses but you cannot come back to my camp again. If you do I will kill you myself.”
At first Blue Duck could not believe his father meant what he was saying. Was he going to banish him from the tribe because of a little foolery with a Kickapoo tracker? The Kickapoo had not even been harmed. Blue Duck had fought bravely on the great raid, killing several Texans in close combat. No young warrior had done better on the great raid
, or fought more bravely.
He said as much, but Buffalo Hump merely stood and looked at him, a chill in his eye.
“We didn’t hurt the Kickapoo,” Blue Duck said. “We merely teased him a little. I thought Slow Tree might want him but he didn’t so we let him go.”
Buffalo Hump didn’t change expression. He was not interested in arguments or explanations. He had his big lance in his hand.
“Slow Tree heard me tell you to leave the Kickapoo alone,” Buffalo Hump said. “He did not want to assist you in your disobedience. Now I am telling you to go. You have never been obedient and I have no time to argue with you or to correct your ways. If you stay I will kill you soon, because of what is in you that will not obey. You have courage but you are rude. Take the five horses and go away now. Any warrior who sees you near this camp after today has a duty to kill you.”
Blue Duck had not expected such a terrible judgment to fall on him so quickly. Yet it had fallen. Though he didn’t really like many people in their band, it was the camp where he had always lived. He had always been where the tribe was; his roaming had seldom lasted more than a week. When he could not kill game there would be food in the camp. He felt a terrible anger at the Kickapoo, for having brought such a judgment on him. The next time he saw Famous Shoes he would kill him, and he would also like to kill Slow Tree, the fat chief who had been unwilling to torture Famous Shoes merely because Buffalo Hump had forbidden it.
But he could not think much about such things, not then, when his father still stood before him. He had his rifle in his hand; perhaps he should shoot his father right there. But he didn’t shoot, or do anything at all. As always, when confronting his father, he felt a weakness in his legs and his belly. The weakness paralyzed him. He knew that if he tried to raise his gun and shoot, Buffalo Hump would be quicker. His father would shove the big lance into him. Blue Duck thought of murder but did nothing.
Buffalo Hump watched his son for a minute and then turned away. A little later he saw the boy ride out to the horse herd, to select his five horses. He looked dejected, but Buffalo Hump did not relent. He had returned home tired, only to have to listen half the night to stories of Blue Duck’s bad behavior. The boy had beaten Hair-on-the-Lip severely, though he had no right to. Hair-on-the-Lip was still sore and could not move well. Also, Blue Duck had followed Lark when she went into the bushes to make water, and had spoken to her rudely. Also he had raced a fine young horse that belonged to Last Horse’s father. In the race he put the horse off a cutbank and it broke both its front legs. Of course it had to be killed and eaten; the old man was indignant and wanted a high price for the horse that had been lost.
Buffalo Hump had never been able to like his son and now he wanted to see him gone. He had never been obedient to the Comanche way, and never would. The bluecoat soldiers would be coming onto the llano to fight them soon, in a year or two; Buffalo Hump didn’t want anyone in the camp who was only disposed to make trouble, as Blue Duck had.
Soon word of the banishment spread around the camp. Buffalo Hump was with Lark for a long time; when he came out he discovered that the men and women who came to visit him were more cheerful. All of them approved of what he had done. A few brought him new stories of Blue Duck’s bad behavior, mostly with women. Buffalo Hump was not especially disturbed by these stories. Many young warriors strutted too much with women and were not careful about marriage customs—he himself had almost been banished in his youth because of his lusts.
Later that day Fat Knee came hesitantly up to Buffalo Hump—it seemed that Blue Duck wanted Fat Knee to accompany him into exile. Blue Duck planned to go north and east, into a territory where renegades and exiles from many tribes gathered. There were slavers there, and bandits. They watched the Arkansas River and picked off people who traveled in boats, or freighters who hauled goods in wagons. Blue Duck told Fat Knee they would soon be rich if they joined the renegades, but Fat Knee was hesitant.
“Isn’t he gone yet?” Buffalo Hump asked.
“No,” Fat Knee said. “He is still looking at the horses. He wants to take the best five.”
A wind had come up. Sand was blowing through the camp. It had been warm for several days but a cold wind was bringing the sand.
“You stay in camp,” Buffalo Hump said. “I will go drive him away.”
He found the whole business vexing. The fact that Blue Duck was still prowling around the horse herd was annoying, so annoying that Buffalo Hump caught his own horse, took his lance, and immediately rode out to the horse herd. Blue Duck’s delay was merely one more example of his disobedience. Buffalo Hump thought it might be wiser just to kill the boy—talking to him that morning, his arm had tensed twice, as it did when he was ready to throw his lance. But he had held off—exile should be enough—but now the boy had angered him by not leaving.
When he reached the horse herd the only person who was there was Last Horse—one of his mares had just foaled and he was watching for a bit, to see that no coyote slipped in and killed the foal.
“I thought Blue Duck was here,” Buffalo Hump said.
Last Horse merely pointed upward to the rim of the canyon. A rider with five horses in front of him had climbed out of the canyon and was following the horses along the rim.
Buffalo Hump could barely see the rider through the blowing sand, but he knew it was Blue Duck, leaving.
39.
“WHOA, NOW . . . STOP, BOYS!” Augustus said.
Far down the river, in the shallows, he saw something he didn’t like; something blue. The creature was a good distance away, but it was rolling in the shallow water; Gus judged it to be an aquatic beast of some sort. Few land animals worried him, but he had long been afflicted with an unreasoning fear of aquatic beasts—and now one had appeared in the muddy Rio Grande, where, up to then, they had seen nothing more threatening than the occasional snapping turtle.
The rangers immediately stopped and yanked out their rifles. Thanks to the hostility, as well as the volatility, of the south Texas cattle, they had become well accustomed to yanking out their rifles several times a day. Gus McCrae was known to have exceptional eyesight; if he saw something worth calling a halt for, then it was best to look to their weapons.
“What is it?” Call asked. All he saw ahead of them was the brown Rio Grande. An old Mexican with three goats whom they came upon half an hour earlier assured them that they were nearly to the town of Lonesome Dove—Call was anxious to hurry on, in hopes that Captain King would be there. But Augustus apparently saw something that made him nervous, something Call could not yet see.
“It’s blue and it’s in the edge of the water, Woodrow,” Gus said. “I expect it might be a shark.”
“Oh Lord, a shark,” Stove Jones said, wishing suddenly that he had never left the cozy cantinas of Austin.
“It was a shark that swallowed Jonah, wasn’t it?” Lee Hitch inquired.
“Shut up, you fool—that was a whale, and this river’s too small for a whale to be in.”
Augustus kept his eyes on the blue object thrashing in the shallow water. It was an aquatic beast of some kind, that was for sure—now and then he thought he glimpsed the limb of a body; it might be that the shark was eating somebody, right before their eyes, or before his eyes at least. None of the other rangers could see anything, other than the river, but they had grown accustomed to accepting Gus’s judgment when it came to the analysis of distant events.
“If it’s a shark, why are we stopped?” Call said. “It’s in the water and we ain’t. Sharks don’t walk on land, that I recall.”
“It might jump, though,” Augustus said.
“If it jumped out of the water then it would die,” Call pointed out. “Let’s go.”
Call was about to ride past him when they suddenly heard brush popping from the Mexican bank of the river. In a moment two men and a bull emerged from the brush and plunged into the river. In a minute the bull, a large brown animal wearing a bell that clanged with even step, came out o
f the river and trotted straight into a thicket of brush, popping their limbs liberally as he went.
One of the riders was an American, a short man riding a fine bay gelding; the other was an old vaquero on a buckskin mare.
The short man pulled up in surprise when he saw the rangers but the old vaquero went right on into the brush, behind the bull. The rangers, who had been stopped by the brush a number of times in the last week, were as amazed by the vaquero’s ability to penetrate the thicket as they were by the size of the bull that had just swum out of Mexico.
The American had bushy sideburns and a short, stiff beard. He surveyed the rangers carefully if quickly before he trotted up to where they were stopped.
“You’re Call and McCrae, aren’t you? And these are your wild ranger boys, I expect,” the man said. “I’m Captain King. So you want a thousand cattle, do you?”
Though Call had already suspected the short man’s identity—several of the ranchers had described him, mentioning that he was partial to fine horses—he was surprised that Captain King not only knew who they were but what they wanted of him.
“Yes, but not as a gift,” Call said. “The state will pay you for them.”
“I doubt that, but let’s see the letter,” Captain King said.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 93
