Wilbarger of course was a surprise. He trotted his big black horse right up to the porch, which surprised the blue pigs as much as it did Augustus. They woke up and grunted at the horse.
Wilbarger looked enviously at Augustus’s jug. “By God, I bet that ain’t persimmon juice you’re drinking,” he said. “I wish I could afford an easy life.”
“If you was to dismount and stop scaring my pigs you’d be welcome to a drink,” Augustus said. “We can introduce ourselves later.”
The shoat got up and walked right under the black horse, which was well broke enough that it didn’t move. Wilbarger was more shocked than the horse. In fact, Augustus was shocked himself. The shoat had never done such a thing before, though he had always been an unpredictable shoat.
“I guess that’s one of the pigs you don’t rent,” Wilbarger said. “If I’d been riding my mare she’d have kicked it so far you’d have had to hunt to find your bacon.”
“Well, that pig had been asleep,” Augustus said. “I guess it didn’t expect a horse to be standing there when it woke up.”
“Which are you, Call or McCrae?” Wilbarger asked, tired of discussing pigs.
“I’m McCrae,” Augustus said. “Call wouldn’t put up with this much jabbering.”
“Can’t blame him,” Wilbarger said. “I’m Wilbarger.”
At that moment Call stepped out of the house. In fact his bite had pained him all day and he had been in the process of making himself a poultice of cactus pulp. It took a while to make, which is why he had come in early.
As he came out on the porch a small man on a gray came riding around the house.
“Why, hell, you had us surrounded and we didn’t even know it,” Augustus said. “This is Captain Call, standing here with his shirttail out.”
“I’m Wilbarger,” Wilbarger said. “This is my man Chick.”
“You’re free to get down,” Call said.
“Oh, well,” Wilbarger said, “why get down when I would soon just have to climb back up? It’s unnecessary labor. I hear you men trade horses.”
“We do,” Call said. “Cattle too.”
“Don’t bother me about cattle,” Wilbarger said. “I got three thousand ready to start up the trail. What I need is a remuda.”
“It’s a pity cattle can’t be trained to carry riders,” Augustus said. The thought had just occurred to him, so, following his habit, he put it at once into speech.
Both Call and Wilbarger looked at him as if he were daft.
“You may think it a pity,” Wilbarger said. “I can call it a blessing. I suppose you wrote that sign.”
“That’s right,” Augustus said. “Want me to write you one?”
“No, I ain’t ready for the sanatorium yet,” Wilbarger said. “I never expected to meet Latin in this part of Texas but I guess education has spread.”
“How’d you round up that much stock without horses?” Call asked, hoping to get the conversation back around to business.
“Oh, well, I just trained a bunch of jackrabbits to chase ’em out of the brush,” Wilbarger said, a bit testy.
“In fact some dern Mexicans stole our horses,” he added. “I had heard you men hung all the Mexican horsethieves when you was Rangers, but I guess you missed a few.”
“Why, hell, we hung ever one of ’em,” Augustus said, glad to see that their visitor was of an argumentative temper. “It must be the new generation that stole your nags. We ain’t responsible for them.”
“This is idle talk,” Wilbarger said. “I happen to be responsible for three thousand cattle and eleven men. If I could buy forty horses, good horses, I’d feel happier. Can you oblige me?”
“We expect to have a hundred head available at sunup tomorrow,” Call said. Gus’s talkativeness had one advantage—it often gained him a minute or two in which to formulate plans.
“I had no intention of spending the night here,” Wilbarger said. “Anyway, I don’t need a hundred head, or fifty either. How many could I get this afternoon?”
Augustus dug out his old brass pocket watch and squinted at it.
“Oh, we couldn’t sell horses now,” he said. “We’re closed for the day.”
Wilbarger abruptly dismounted and automatically loosened his horse’s girth a notch or two to give him an easier breath.
“I never expected to hear talk like this,” he said. “I never heard of a livery stable closing in bright daylight.”
“Oh, the stable don’t close,” Augustus said. “We can stable anything you want us to. It’s just the horse-trading part of the operation that’s closed.”
Wilbarger walked up to the porch. “If that jug’s for rent I’ll rent a swig,” he said. “I guess that jug’s about the only thing that’s still open in this town.”
“It’s open and it’s free,” Augustus said, handing it to him.
While Wilbarger was drinking, Augustus looked at Call. The remark about the hundred horses had struck him as bold talk, even if they were planning a swing through Mexico. Their main object on recent swings had been cattle. Now and again they ran into a few horses and threw them in with the cattle, but seldom more than ten or twelve in one night. Where the other ninety were to come from Augustus didn’t know.
“Ain’t there a whore in this town?” Chick asked. He was still horseback. The remark took everybody by surprise. Wilbarger seemed quite displeased with it.
“Chick, I thought you had a few manners,” he said. “Talking that kind of talk down at the lots is one thing. Talking it up here when I’m trying to discuss business with these gentlemen is something else.”
“Well, them boys at the lots wouldn’t tell me,” Chick said, with a touch of a whine.
“That’s because they’re God-fearing boys,” Augustus said. “You wouldn’t catch them boys with no Jezebel.”
“Is that her name?” Chick asked. “It ain’t the name I heard.”
“He’s never learned to curb his passions,” Wilbarger said. “I hope you’ll excuse him.”
“A loose tongue is never welcome,” Augustus said mildly.
“Horses,” Wilbarger said, returning to the more important subject. “This business about being closed is an irritation. I’d hoped to be back to my herd by sunup. It’s held in a bad place. The mosquitoes will eat most of my crew if I don’t hurry. If I could just get enough ponies to get me started I might be able to pick up some extras as I go north.”
“That’s a risk,” Call said.
“I know it’s a risk—what ain’t?” Wilbarger said. “How many could you sell me this afternoon?”
Call was tired of beating around the bush.
“Three,” he said.
“Three this afternoon and a hundred tomorrow,” Wilbarger said. “You must know a man with lots of horses to sell. I wish I knew him.”
“He mostly sells to us,” Augustus said. “We’re lavish with money.”
Wilbarger handed back the jug. “You’re lavish with time, too,” he said. “My time. We couldn’t go visit this man right now, could we?”
Call shook his head. “Sunup,” he said.
Wilbarger nodded, as if that was what he had expected. “All right,” he said. “If you’ve left me a choice, I don’t notice it.”
He walked back to the black horse, tightened the girth and pulled himself back into the saddle.
“You men won’t disappoint me, will you?” he asked. “I’m mean as a tom turkey when I’m disappointed.”
“We’ve always been taken at our word,” Call said. “You can count on forty horses at sunup, thirty-five dollars a horse.”
“We’ll be here,” Wilbarger said. “You won’t have to hunt us up.”
“Wait a minute,” Call said. “What’s your horse brand, or do you have one?”
“I have one,” Wilbarger said. “I brand HIC on the left hip.”
“Are your horses shod?” Call asked.
“All shod,” Wilbarger said. “Bring ’em if you see ’em.”
“What’s HIC stand for?” Augustus asked.
“Well, it’s Latin,” Wilbarger said. “Easier than what you wrote on that sign.”
“Oh,” Augustus said. “Where’d you study Latin?”
“Yale College,” Wilbarger said. Then he and Chick trotted off.
“I figure he’s a liar,” Augustus said. “A man that went to Yale College wouldn’t need to trail cattle for a living.”
“How do you know?” Call said. “Maybe the family went broke. Or maybe he just wanted an outdoor life.”
Augustus looked skeptical. It was a shock to think there was someone in town more educated than himself.
“Caught you off, didn’t he?” Call said. “You didn’t even know what that short little word means.”
“Why, it’s short for hiccough,” Augustus said blithely. “It’s a curious thing to brand on a horse, if you ask me.”
“You figure Jake’s drunk?” Call asked.
“Why, no,” Augustus said. “I figure he’s happier than he was this morning, though. Why?”
“Because I want him sober tonight,” Call said. “I want you both sober.”
“I could be sober as the day I was born and not find no hundred horses,” Augustus said. “Those figures don’t make sense. Wilbarger just needs forty, and we can’t find that many anyway. What will we do with the other sixty if we was to find them?”
“We’ll need a remuda ourselves, if we go to Montana,” Call said.
Augustus sat the jug down and sighed. “I could kick Jake,” he said.
“Why?”
“For putting that idea in your head,” Augustus said. “Jake’s an easy fellow. Ideas like that float right through his head and out the other side. But no dern idea has ever made it through your head. Your brain would bog a mule. Here I’ve been living in a warm climate most of my life and you want me to move to a cold climate.”
“Why not, if it’s better country?” Call asked.
Augustus was silent for a time. “I don’t want to argue Montana right now,” he said. “I thought we was still arguing tonight. Where are we aiming to steal a hundred horses?”
“The Hacienda Flores,” Call said.
“I knowed it,” Augustus said. “We ain’t going on a cowhunt, we’re launching an assault.”
The Hacienda Flores was the largest ranch in Coahuila. It was there when the Rio Grande was just a river, not a boundary; the vaqueros would cross that river as casually as they crossed any stream. Millions of acres that had once been part of the Hacienda were now part of Texas, but vaqueros still crossed the river and brought back cattle and horses. They were, in their view, merely bringing back their own. The ranch headquarters was only thirty miles away and it was there that they kept the main part of a horse herd, several hundred strong, with many of the horses wearing Texas brands.
“If I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to scare up a war,” Augustus said. “Old Pedro Flores ain’t gonna make us a gift of a hundred horses even if he did steal all of them himself.”
“Everything’s got its risks,” Call said.
“Yeah, and you’re as fond of risk as Jake is of women,” Augustus said. “Suppose we get away with the horses. What then?”
“Sell Wilbarger forty and keep the rest,” Call said. “Pick up some cattle and head north.”
“Head north who with?” Augustus asked. “We don’t exactly add up to a cattle crew.”
“We can hire cowboys,” Call said. “There’s plenty of young cowhands around here.”
Augustus sighed again and stood up. It looked like the easy life was over for a while. Call had idled too long, and now he was ready to make up for it by working six times as hard as a human should work.
On the other hand it would be satisfying to run off some of Pedro’s horses. Pedro was an old rival, and rivalry still had its interest.
“Jake would have done better to let them hang him,” he said. “You know how he suffers when he has to work.”
“Where are you going?” Call asked, when Augustus started to walk off.
“Why, down to tell Jake the news,” Augustus said. “He might want to oil his gun.”
“I guess we’ll take the boy,” Call said. He had been thinking about it. If they were going to get a hundred horses they would need every hand.
“Why, good,” Augustus said. “I’ll tell Newt. He’ll probably be so pleased he’ll fall off the fence.”
• • •
But Newt wasn’t sitting on the fence when he heard the news. He was standing in the sandy bottom of Hat Creek, listening to Dish Boggett vomit. Dish was upstream a little ways, acting very sick. He had come walking up from the saloon with Jake Spoon and Mr. Gus, not walking too straight but on his feet. Then he had stumbled over to the edge of the creek and started vomiting. Now he was down on his hands and knees, still vomiting. The sounds coming out of him reminded Newt of the sucking sound a cow makes pulling her foot out of a muddy bog.
Newt had been sick at his stomach a few times, but never that sick, and he was worried. Dish sounded like he was going to die. Newt would not have thought anybody could get so sick in such a short space of time. Mr. Jake and Mr. Gus didn’t seem worried, though. They stood on the banks of the creek, chatting amiably, while Dish hung his head and made the sound like the bogged cow.
With Dish in such trouble, Newt could hardly enjoy the good news Mr. Gus had told him—though it was news he had waited for for years. Instead of floating with happiness, he was too worried about Dish to feel much of anything else.
“Want me to go get Bolivar?” he asked. Bolivar was the house doctor.
Mr. Gus shook his head. “Bolivar can’t get a man over being drunk,” he said. “Call should have kept you boys working. If Dish had stayed down in that well he never would have been tempted.”
“A fish couldn’t drink no faster than that boy drank,” Jake said. “If fishes drink.”
“They don’t drink what he drunk,” Augustus said. He knew perfectly well that Dish had been love-smitten, and that it had been his undoing.
“I hope the Captain don’t see him,” Newt said. The Captain was intolerant of drinking unless it was done at night and in moderation.
No sooner had he said it than they saw the Captain come out of the house and walk toward them. Dish was still on his hands and knees. About that time Bolivar began to beat the dinner bell with the crowbar, though it was much earlier than their usual supper hour. He had evidently not cleared his action with the Captain, who looked around in annoyance. The clanging of iron on iron didn’t do much to improve Dish’s condition—he began to make the boggy sound again.
Jake looked at Augustus. “Call’s apt to fire him,” he said. “Ain’t there any excuses we can make for him?”
“Dish Boggett is a top hand,” Augustus said. “He can make his own excuses.”
Call walked up and looked at the stricken cowboy, whose stomach was still heaving. “What happened to him?” he asked, frowning.
“I didn’t see it,” Augustus said. “I think he may have swallowed a hunk of barbed wire.”
Dish meanwhile heard a new voice above him and turned his head enough to see that the Captain had joined the group of spectators. It was an eventuality he had been dreading, even in his sickness. He had no memory of what had happened in the Dry Bean, except that he had sung a lot of songs, but even in the depths of his drunkenness he had realized he would have to answer for it all to Captain Call. At some point he had lost sight of Lorena, forgot he was in love with her and even forgot she was sitting across the room with Jake, but he never quite forgot that he was supposed to ride that night with Captain Call. In his mind’s eye he had seen them riding, even as he drank and sang, and now the Captain had come, and it was time to begin the ride. Dish didn’t know if he had the strength to stand up, much less mount a horse, much less stay aboard one and round up livestock, but he knew his reputation was at stake and that if he didn’t give it a try he would be disgraced foreve
r. His stomach had not quite quit heaving, but he managed to take a deep breath and get to his feet. He made a pretense of walking up the bank as if nothing was wrong, but his legs had no life in them and he was forced to drop to his knees and crawl up, which only added embarrassment to his misery, the bank being scarcely three feet high and little more than a slope.
Call stepped close enough to the young cowboy to smell whiskey and realized he was only sick drunk. It was the last thing he had expected, and his immediate impulse was to fire the boy on the spot and send him back to Shanghai Pierce, who was said to be tolerant of the bottle. But before he opened his mouth to do it he happened to note that Gus and Jake were grinning at one another as if it were all a capital joke. To them no doubt it was—jokes had always interested them more than serious business. But since they were so full of this particular joke, it occurred to Call that they had probably tricked Dish somehow and got him drunk on purpose, in which case it was not entirely the boy’s fault. They were wily foxes, and worse about joking when the two of them were together. It was just like them to pull such a stunt at the time when it was least appropriate—just the kind of thing they had done all through their years as Rangers.
Dish meanwhile had gained the top of the bank and made it to his feet. When he stood up, his head cleared for a moment and he felt a wild optimism—maybe he was over being drunk. A second later his hopes were shattered. He started to walk off toward the lots to saddle his horse, stubbed his toe on a mesquite root that poked up through the dirt and fell flat on his face.
Newt’s hopes had risen too, when Dish stood up, and he was horribly embarrassed when his friend sprawled in the dirt. It was a mystery to him how Dish could get so drunk in such a short space of time, and why he would do it, with such an important night ahead. Bolivar was still banging the bell with the crowbar, making it that much more difficult to think.
Jake Spoon was unaccustomed to Bolivar’s habits and grimaced unhappily as the banging continued.
“Who asked that old man to make such a racket?” he asked. “Why don’t somebody shoot him?”
“If we shoot him we’ll have Gus for a cook,” Call said. “In that case we’ll have to eat talk, or else starve to death listening.”
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 137
