The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  They had to get the cattle and get them branded. At least they had the luxury of surplus horses, or did if Gus and Jake hadn’t contrived to fiddle around and lose them.

  He worried about that possibility most of the way home. Not that Gus wasn’t competent—so far as sheer ability went, Gus was as competent as any man he’d ever known. There had been plenty of times when he’d wondered if he himself could match Gus, if Gus really tried. It was a question that never got tested, because Gus seldom tried. As a team, the two of them were perfectly balanced; he did more than he needed to, while Gus did less.

  Gus himself often joked about it. “If you got killed I might work harder,” he said. “I might get in a righteous frame of mind if I had that stimulation. But you ain’t kilt, so what’s the point?”

  Call wasted no time getting back, wishing all the way that he had the mare. She had spoiled him—made him too aware of the limitations of his other mounts. The fact that she was dangerous made him like her the more. She made him extra watchful, which was good.

  When he got within fifteen miles of Lonesome Dove he cut west, thinking they would be holding the herd in that direction. He rode around the southern edge of the bad brush country and struck the trail of the horses. They had been going back south, over their own tracks, which was curious. Gus had taken them back to town. Probably he had a reason, but it was not one Call could guess, so he loped on home.

  When he approached the town he saw the horses, grazing upriver a little ways, with Deets and Newt and the Irishmen holding them. They looked to be all there, so evidently nothing had happened.

  One thing about Gus McCrae, he was easily found. By three in the afternoon, any afternoon, he would be sitting on the porch, drawing occasionally from his jug. When Call rode up, he was sitting there taking a nap. There was no sign of Jake.

  “You’re a fine guard,” he said, dismounting.

  Augustus had his hat over his eyes, but he removed it and looked at Call.

  “How’s Maude Rainey?” he asked.

  “She’s in good health,” Call said. “She fed me twice.”

  “Good thing it was just twice,” Augustus said. “If you’d stayed a week you’d have had to rent an ox to get home on.”

  “She’s anxious to sell you some more pigs,” Call said, taking the jug and rinsing his mouth with whiskey.

  “If Joe was to get kilt I might court her again,” Augustus speculated.

  “I hope you will,” Call said. “Them twelve young ones ought to have a good father. What are the horses doing back here so soon?”

  “Why, grazing, most likely,” Augustus said.

  “Didn’t Pedro make a try?”

  “No, he didn’t, and for a very good reason,” Augustus said.

  “What reason would that be?”

  “Because he died,” Augustus said.

  “Well, I swear,” Call said, stunned. “Is that the truth?”

  “I ain’t seen the corpse,” Augustus said, “but I imagine it’s true. Jasper Fant rode in looking for work and had the news, though the scamp didn’t give it to me until I had wasted most of the night.”

  “I wonder what killed him,” Call said. Pedro Flores had been a factor in their lives off and on for thirty years, though probably they had not actually seen him more than six or seven times. It was surprising, hearing he was gone, and though it should have been a relief, it wasn’t, exactly. It was too much of a surprise.

  “Jasper wasn’t up on the details,” Augustus said. “He just heard it from a vaquero. But I allow it’s true, because it explains why you could lope in with a boy and an idiot and saunter off with his remuda.”

  “Well, I swear,” Call said again. “I never expected that.”

  “Oh, well,” Augustus said, “I never either, but then I don’t know why not. Mexicans don’t have no special dispensation. They die like the rest of us. I expect Bol will die one of these days, and then we won’t have nobody to whack the dinner bell with the crowbar.”

  “Pedro was tough, though,” Call said.

  After all, the man had more or less held nearly a hundred-mile stretch of the border, and for nearly thirty years. Call had known many men who died, but somehow had not expected it of Pedro, though he himself had fired several bullets at him.

  “I’d like to know what took him,” Call said.

  “He might have choked on a pepper,” Augustus said. “Them that can’t be killed by knives or bullets usually break their necks falling off the porch or something. Remember Johnny Norvel, dying of that bee sting? I guess Johnny had been shot twenty times, but a dern bee killed him.”

  It was true. The man had rangered with them, and yet the bee sting had given him a seizure of some kind, and no one could bring him out of it.

  “Well, it will about finish the Flores operation,” Augustus said. “He just had three boys, and we hung the only one of ’em with any get-up-and-go.”

  To Augustus’s surprise, Call sat down on the porch and took a big swallow from the jug. He felt curious—not sick but suddenly empty—it was the way a kick in the stomach could make you feel. It was an odd thing, but true, that the death of an enemy could affect you as much almost as much as the death of a friend. He had experienced it before, when news reached them that Kicking Wolf was dead. Some young soldier on his second patrol had made a lucky shot and killed him, on the Clear Fork of the Brazos—and Kicking Wolf had kept two companies of Rangers busy for twenty years. Killed by a private. Call had been shoeing a horse when Pea brought him that piece of news, and he felt so empty for a spell that he had to put off finishing the job.

  That had been ten years ago, and he and Gus soon quit rangering. So far as Call was concerned, the death of Kicking Wolf meant the end of the Comanches, and thus the end of their real job. There were other chiefs, true, and the final fights were yet to be fought, but he had never had the vengeful nature of some Rangers and had no interest in spending a decade mopping up renegades and stragglers.

  Pedro Flores was a far cry from being the fighter Kicking Wolf had been. Pedro seldom rode without twenty or thirty vaqueros to back him up, whereas Kicking Wolf, a small man no bigger than the boy, would raid San Antonio with five or six braves and manage to carry off three women and scare all the whites out of seven or eight counties just by traveling through them. But Pedro was of the same time, and had occupied them just as long.

  “I didn’t know you liked that old bandit so much,” Augustus said.

  “I didn’t like him,” Call said. “I just didn’t expect him to die.”

  “He probably never expected it neither,” Augustus said. “He was a rough old cob.”

  After a few minutes the empty feeling passed, but Call didn’t get to his feet. The sense that he needed to hurry, which had been with him most of his life, had disappeared for a space.

  “We might as well go on to Montana,” he said. “The fun’s over around here.”

  Augustus snorted, amused by the way his friend’s mind worked.

  “Call, there never was no fun around here,” he said. “And besides, you never had no fun in your life. You wasn’t made for fun. That’s my department.”

  “I used the wrong word, I guess,” Call said.

  “Yes, but why did you?” Augustus said. “That’s the interesting part.”

  Call didn’t feel like getting drawn into an argument, so he kept quiet.

  “First you run out of Indians, now you’ve run out of bandits, that’s the pint,” Augustus said. “You’ve got to have somebody to outwit, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know why I’d need anybody when I’ve got you,” Call said.

  “I don’t see why we just don’t take over northern Mexico, now that Pedro’s dead,” Augustus said. “It’s just down the dern street. I’m sure there’s still a few folks down there who’d give you a fight.”

  “I don’t need a fight,” Call said. “It won’t hurt us to make some money.”

  “It might,” Augustus said. “I migh
t drown in the Republican River, like the Pumphrey boy. Then you’d get all the money. You wouldn’t even know how to have fun with it. You’d probably use it to buy gravestones for old bandits you happened to like.”

  “If you drown in the Republican River, I’ll give your part to Jake,” Call said. “I guess he’d know how to spend it.”

  With that he mounted and rode off, meaning to find Jasper Fant and hire him, if he really wanted to work.

  17.

  BY THE TIME Jake Spoon had been in Lonesome Dove ten days, Lorena knew she had a job to do—namely the job of holding him to his word and making sure he took her to San Francisco as he had promised to do.

  Of course Jake had not given her any direct notice that he intended to do differently. He moved in with her immediately and was just as pleasant about everything as he had been the first day. He had not taken a cent of money from her, and they seldom passed an hour together without him complimenting her in some way—usually on her voice, or her looks, or the fine texture of her hair, or some delicacy of manner. He had a way of appearing always mildly surprised by her graces, and if anything his sentiments only grew warmer as they got to know one another better. He repeated several times his dismay at her having been stuck for so long in a dismal hole like Lonesome Dove.

  But after a week, Lorena became aware of a curious thing: Jake was more attached to her than she was to him. The fact struck her late one afternoon while she was watching him nap. He had insisted on a root, and gone right to sleep afterward; while the sweat was cooling on them she realized she wasn’t excited about him in the way she had been the first day. The first day had been one of the big days of her life, because of the smooth way Jake had shown up and taken over, ending her long period of tension and discomfort.

  She still felt peaceful with him; they had never quarreled and he had not demonstrated the slightest inclination to meanness. But it was clear to her already that he was one of those men somebody had to take care of. He had fooled her for a few days into thinking he would do the taking care of, but that wasn’t so. He was a clever cardplayer and could make money, but that was just part of it. Jake had to have company. When he slept, or when he was amused, or was just lolling around telling stories, the childish part of him showed, and it was a big part. Before the week was over it seemed to her that he was all play.

  The realization didn’t disturb her calm, though. It meant he needed her more than he would admit; she recognized the need and didn’t care whether he admitted it or not. If Jake had been as firm as he pretended to be, it would have left her with little security. He could have just walked off.

  But he wouldn’t. He liked talk, woman’s talk, and the comforts of the bed. He even liked it that she lived above the saloon, since it meant a game was handy if he felt like playing.

  Since the Hat Creek outfit had been gathering cattle and getting ready for their drive, games were handier than they had been for a while. Several cowboys drifted into Lonesome Dove, looking for work; some of them had enough snap left at night to wander in and cut the cards. A tall cowboy named Needle Nelson showed up from north of San Antonio, and a cheerful cowboy from Brownsville named Bert Borum.

  At first Xavier was cheered by all the new customers, until it occurred to him that they would only be there for a week or two. Then the thought of how empty the saloon would soon be filled him with gloom, and he stood by the door most of the night, his washrag dripping down his leg.

  Lippy was kept plenty busy, for the cowboys were always requesting songs. Lippy liked the company. He was proud of his talent at the keyboard and would pound out any song that was requested.

  Jake took pains to teach Lorena a few things about card playing that she didn’t know. She came to wonder how Jasper and Bert and Needle Nelson got by on so little sleep, for the Captain worked them hard all day and the games went on half the night. The only cowboy likely to pull a sour face if she sat in was Dish Boggett, who wouldn’t get over being in love with her. It amused her that he sat there looking so solemn, with his big mustache. Jake did not even seem to notice that the man was in love with her. She was tempted to tease Jake a little, but he had told her plain out he was a jealous man: for all she knew, he might shoot Dish, which would be a pity. Dish was nice enough—it was just that he couldn’t compare with Jake Spoon.

  When the gathering and branding of cattle had been going on for about ten days, Lorena began to feel a crisis coming. She heard the boys speculate that the branding would be done in another week, which meant they were close to starting the drive. The boys were saying they were already late.

  “Hell, we’ll be crossing the Yellowstone on the dern ice, if we don’t get started,” Needle Nelson said. He was a funny-looking man, thin as a wire, and with an Adam’s apple that looked as big as a turkey egg.

  “Why, I doubt we’ll make the Yellowstone,” Jasper Fant said. “Most of us will get drownt before we get that far.”

  “Needle won’t,” Dish Boggett suggested. “There ain’t a river up that way deep enough he couldn’t walk through it and not get his hat wet.”

  “I can swim, anyway,” Needle remarked.

  “I’d like to see you swim with fifty or sixty cattle on top of you, or maybe your own horse,” Jasper said.

  “Ain’t no fifty or sixty cattle going to be on top of me,” Needle replied, unruffled. “Nor no dern horse neither.”

  Bert Borum thought Needle was hilarious—he thought pretty near everything was hilarious. He was one of those men who have a laugh you like to hear.

  “I’m getting me a float before I cross airy river,” he declared.

  “What kind of float?” Dish inquired.

  “Ain’t decided,” Bert said. “Might tie a few jugs to my horse. Jugs are good floats.”

  “Where would you get a dern jug on a cattle drive?” Jasper asked. “If the Captain was to catch you with a jug, he’d want to know who drank the whiskey out of it.”

  Jake was tolerant of the cowboys but careful to keep himself a bit apart from them. He never chimed in when they talked about the life they would have on the trail, and he never spoke to Lorena about the fact that the herd would be leaving in ten days. He didn’t work much on the branding, either, though once in a while he spent a night helping them gather more stock. Mostly he let it appear that the drive had nothing to do with him.

  Lorena didn’t press him, but she kept an eye on him. If he wanted to stay, that was one thing, but if he planned on going he was going to have to figure a way to take her. He wasn’t leaving without her, whatever he might think about the matter.

  Then, before the issue came to a head, something happened that took Lorena completely unaware. It was a blistering day, the saloon totally empty except for Lippy. Xavier, who had a taste for fish, had gone off to the river to see if he could catch any. Lorena was sitting at a table, practicing one or two card tricks Jake had taught her, when who should walk in but Gus. His shirt was as wet from sweat as if he’d been underwater a week, and even his hatband was sweated through. He went around behind the bar, got himself a bottle and brought it over to the table, grinning a big grin despite the heat.

  She noted that he brought her a glass, which struck her as bold, but then Gus would do anything, as Jake was always saying.

  “What I can’t figure out is why there ain’t but two sinners in this saloon,” Gus said.

  Lorena made no comment, but Lippy piped up.

  “I’ve tried to sin all my life—ain’t you gonna count me?” he asked.

  “No, you got a hole in your stomach,” Augustus said. “You paid for yours, but so far me and Lorie have got off scot-free.”

  Gus poured a little whiskey in her glass, and filled his to just below the brim.

  “I want a poke,” he said, as casual as if he were asking her to loan him two bits.

  Lorena was so taken aback that she didn’t know what to say. She looked at Lippy, who was just sitting there listening, as if it were his right.

  Gus,
of course, was not the slightest bit embarrassed by what he was suggesting. He took his hat off and hung it on a chair, looking at her pleasantly.

  Lorena felt sorely at a loss. She had never expected Gus to commit such a blunder, for it was well known that he and Jake were good friends. Gus must know that Jake was living with her; and yet he walked in and asked, as if it made no difference.

  She sat silent, showing her puzzlement, which only seemed to amuse Gus.

  “I wisht you wouldn’t sit there thinking about it,” he said. “Just sell me the poke and be done with it. I hate to sit and watch a woman think.”

  “Why?” she asked, finding her voice again. She felt the beginnings of indignation. “I guess I got the right to think, if I want to,” she added.

  Gus just grinned. “Oh, you got the right,” he said. “It’s just that it’s fearsome for a man to have a woman start thinking right in front of him. It always leads to trouble.”

  He paused and drank a healthy swallow of whiskey.

  “I’m with Jake now,” Lorena said, merely stating the obvious.

  “I know that, honey,” Augustus said. “The minute I looked up the road and seen Jake coming, I knew you and him would settle in. Jake’s a good hand to settle in with, I admit—a sight better than me. But the fact is he went out to the cow camp at the wrong time and Call put him to work. Call don’t appreciate Jake’s restful qualities like you and me do. He’s been fretting for a week because Jake wasn’t working, and now that he’s got him you can bet he’ll keep him a day or two.”

  Lorena looked at Lippy, wishing he wasn’t there. But Lippy sat, astonished at what he was hearing. His lip hung down like a flap of some kind, as it always did when he forgot himself.

  “Jake ain’t got the stuff to stand up to Call,” Augustus said. “He’s gonna have to stay out there and brand dogies for a while. So there ain’t no reason for you not to sell me a poke.”