Riding at his back, she noticed something she had not seen before: a white necklace of some kind. It was a bone necklace, and after looking at it for a time she realized it was made of fingers—human fingers.
That evening, when they stopped to rest, Blue Duck saw her glance at the necklace. He grinned in the way that made her think of death.
“Easiest way to get the rings off,” he said. “Just take the fingers. It’s no harder than breaking off a little stick if you know how.”
That night he tied her hand and foot and rode off. Lorena didn’t speak, didn’t question him. Maybe he was leaving her for the buzzards, but she felt she would rather die than say something that might anger him. She didn’t try to get untied either, for fear he was watching, waiting for her to make some attempt to escape. She slept, and she awoke as he was cutting her bounds. Another horse was standing there.
“It ain’t much of a horse, but it’s only got to last about a day,” he said.
There was no saddle—he had not bothered to take the saddle off the dying packhorse. He passed a cord under the horse’s belly and tied her ankles.
She had thought the riding hard even when she had a saddle but quickly realized how easy that had been. She slipped from side to side and had to cling to the horse’s mane to stay on. Blue Duck rode as before, seldom looking back. It was night and she was tired, but there was no dozing. Despite her grip on the mane, she almost slid off several times. With her feet tied, if she fell she would just roll under the horse’s belly and be kicked to death. The horse was narrow-backed and not very smooth-gaited; she could find no way to sit that didn’t jar her, and long before morning she thought if they didn’t stop she would be cut in two.
But she wasn’t, though her hands were raw from gripping the horsehair so tightly. Minute by minute, for hours, it seemed to her that she couldn’t go on—that she might as well give up and slide under the animal’s belly. There was no reason to stay alive anyway: Blue Duck had her.
When he untied her at a creek, she stumbled into it to drink, no longer caring if she got wet or muddy. Again he gave her only a piece of hard dried meat. She barely had the strength to get back on the horse; she had to claw her way up using the mane. Blue Duck didn’t help her and he tied her ankles anyway, though it was obvious she was too weak to run away. She felt a flash of anger—why did he keep tying her when she could barely walk?
The country had begun to flatten out. The grass was higher than any she had seen. When she looked up and flung the sweat out of her eyes it seemed she could see a farther distance than she had ever seen before. Waves of heat shimmered over the grass—once she looked up and thought she saw a giant tree far ahead, but when she looked again it was gone.
Blue Duck rode on through the high grass, never slowing, seldom looking back. She felt hatred growing, pushing through her fear. If she fell, he probably wouldn’t even stop. He only wanted her for his men. He didn’t care how much she hurt or how tired she was. He hadn’t cared to keep her saddle or even her saddle blanket, though the blanket would have kept the horse’s hard back from bruising her so. She felt like she had felt when she had tried to shoot Tinkersley. If she ever got a chance she would kill the man, in revenge for all the painful hours she had spent watching his indifferent back.
Well before sundown they came to a broad riverbed with just a little thin ribbon of brown water visible across an expanse of reddish sand.
“Keep in my tracks,” Blue Duck said. “If you don’t you’re apt to bog.”
Just as he was about to put his horse into the sand, he held up. Across the river Lorena saw four riders watching them.
“It’s Ermoke and three of his boys,” Blue Duck said. “I guess they’ve been off scalping.”
Lorena felt a chill, just looking at the riders. Jake had said most of the Indians still running loose were renegades. He made light of them. He had dealt with renegades before, he said, and could do it again. Except that he was still in Austin, playing cards, and there were the renegades.
She wanted to turn her horse and flee, hopeless as that was, but while she sat in a cold sweat of fear Blue Duck turned and caught her bridle, wrapping her reins around his saddle horn.
They went cautiously across the sand, Blue Duck occasionally backtracking a few yards to find a route he liked better. Lorena kept her eyes down. She didn’t want to look at the men waiting on the other side.
Twice, despite all Blue Duck’s caution, it seemed they had gone wrong. His horse started to bog, and then hers. But both times, by heavy spurring, Blue Duck got the big sorrel to lunge free, pulling her horse free. Once, in one of the lunges, she was thrown far up on her horse’s neck. But finally they found a solid crossing and trotted through the few yards of brown water.
As they rode out of the river the four men waiting whipped up their mounts and raced down to meet them. One of them carried a lance strung with patches of hair. Lorena had never seen a scalp before, but she felt sure the patches were scalps. Most seemed old and dusty, but one, a patch of shiny black hair, was still crusted with blood. All of the men were Indians, heavily armed.
The leader, who carried the lance with the collection of scalps, had a hard face, with a thin wisp of mustache at each corner of his mouth. It was as if the hairs curled out of his mouth. She glanced only once and then kept her eyes away, for they were all looking at her and their looks were bad. She knew she had come to a hard place and had no one to help her. She heard the leader speak to Blue Duck and then felt their horses crowd around her. Several hands reached out to feel and pull her hair. She could smell the men and feel them, but she didn’t look up. She didn’t want to see them. Their rank, sweaty smell was almost enough to make her sick. One of them, amused by her hair, pulled it till her scalp stung, and he laughed a strange, jerky laugh. They crowded so close around her on their hot horses that for a moment she felt she might faint. She had never been in such a hard place, not even when Mosby’s sisters locked her in the basement.
Two of the men dismounted and one of them started to untie her ankles, but Blue Duck whistled.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I reckon she’ll keep till sundown.”
Ermoke, the leader, the man with the wisps of hair at the corners of his mouth, retied her ankles so tightly that the rawhide cut her. He took her bridle and led her from then on. The other three men rode behind her.
At the sight, Blue Duck laughed. “I guess they don’t want to take no chances on you getting away,” he said. “Fresh women is scarce in these parts.”
Lorena began to wish there was some way just to die. If there was, she would have done it. But she was tied, and there was no way.
They rode until the sun was gone and the western sky red with afterglow. Then Blue Duck reined in and quickly dropped the saddle off his horse.
“Okay, Ermoke,” he said. “Go on and have a taste. We’ll stop until the moon rises.”
Before he had finished speaking, the men had cut her ankles free and were dragging her off the horse. They didn’t even wait to tie their horses. When Lorena would open her eyes for a second she saw the darkening sky through the legs of the waiting horses. The man with the jerky laugh had a bugle and also less lust than the rest. After covering her once, he sat in the grass playing bugle calls. Now and then, watching what was happening, he would laugh the jerky laugh. Lorena had expected death, but it wasn’t death she got—just the four men. Ermoke, the leader, wouldn’t leave her. The other men began to complain. When she opened her eyes, she looked for the moon. But the moon was late and she only saw the horses, still standing over her. Blue Duck had gone away, and when he returned Ermoke was with her again.
“Let’s go,” Blue Duck said. “That’s enough of a taste.”
When Ermoke ignored him, Blue Duck walked over and kicked him in the ribs so hard that Lorena was rolled over with the Indian.
“You better mind,” Blue Duck said. Ermoke got up, holding his side.
While they retied her ankles, th
e laughing bugler blew a few more notes.
50.
IT WAS JULY JOHNSON’S VIEW that all gamblers were lazy, and most of them cocky; Jake Spoon was known to be both. Maybe instead of riding all the way to south Texas he would decide to test his luck in Fort Worth, it being a fair-sized cow town.
July thought it was a possibility worth investigating, for if he could run into Jake there it would save himself and little Joe hundreds of miles. It would also mean he could get back to Elmira quicker. Getting back to Elmira occupied his mind a lot more than catching Jake Spoon. He rode along all day thinking about her, which made him a poor companion for Joe, who didn’t seem to miss her at all.
Actually, as much as anything, July wanted to stop in Fort Worth to post her a letter he had written. It seemed to him she might be getting lonesome and would enjoy some mail. Yet the letter he composed, though he had labored over it several nights, was such a poor composition that he debated sending it. He hesitated, for if it struck her wrong she would make fun of it. But he felt a need to write and lamented the fact that he was such a poor hand at it. The letter was very short.
DEAR ELLIE—
We have come a good peace and have been lucky with the weather, it has been clear.
No sign of Jake Spoon yet but we did cross the Red River and are in Texas, Joe likes it. His horse has been behaving all right and neither of us has been sick.
I hope that you are well and have not been bothered too much by the skeeters.
YOUR LOVING HUSBAND,
July
He studied over the letter for days and wanted to put in that he missed her or perhaps refer to her as his darling, but he decided it was too risky—Elmira sometimes took offense at such remarks. Also he was bothered by spelling and didn’t know if he had done a good job with it. Several of the words didn’t look right to him, but he had no way of checking except to ask Joe, and Joe had only had a year or two of schooling so far. He was particularly worried about the word “skeeters,” and scratched it in the dirt one night while they were camped, to ask Joe’s opinion.
“It looks too long,” Joe said, glad to be asked. “I’d take out a letter or two.”
July studied the matter for several minutes and finally decided he might spare one of the “e” letters. But when he took it out the word looked too short, so when he recopied the letter, he put it back in.
“I bet she’ll be glad to get the letter,” Joe said, to cheer July up. July had been nothing but gloomy since they left Fort Smith.
Actually, he didn’t think his mother would care one way or another whether she got a letter from July. His mother didn’t think much of July—she had told him so in no uncertain terms several times.
Joe himself was happy enough to be gone from Fort Smith, though he missed Roscoe somewhat. Otherwise he took a lively interest in the sights along the way, though for a while the sights consisted mostly of trees. Gradually they began to get into more open country. One day, to his delight, they surprised a small bunch of buffalo, only eight animals. The buffalo ran off, and he and July raced after them for a while to get a better look. After a couple of miles they came to a little river and they stopped to watch the buffalo cross. Even July forgot his gloom for a few minutes at the sight of the big, dusty animals.
“I’m glad there’s some left,” he said. “I know the hide hunters have about killed them off.”
Late that day they rode into Fort Worth. The number of houses amazed Joe, and the wide, dusty streets were filled with wagons and buggies. July decided they ought to go to the post office first, though at the last minute he became so worried about his letter that he almost decided not to mail it. He wanted badly to mail it, and yet he didn’t want to.
It seemed to Joe that they rode past about fifty saloons, looking for the post office. Fort Smith only had three saloons and one livery stable, whereas Fort Worth had a big wagon yard and stores galore. They even met a small herd of wild-looking longhorn cattle being driven right through the streets by four equally wild-looking cowboys. The cattle, for all their wild looks, behaved so well that they didn’t get to see the cowboys actually rope one, a sight Joe longed to see.
At the post office July debated several more minutes and finally took his letter in, purchased a stamp and mailed it. The postal clerk was an old man wearing eyeglasses. He scrutinized the address on the letter and then looked at July.
“Arkansas, is that where you’re from?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” July said.
“Johnson your name?” the man asked.
“Why, yes,” July said again. “I’m surprised you know.”
“Oh, just guessing,” the man said. “I think I got a letter for you here somewhere.”
July remembered they had told Peach and Charlie they might stop in Fort Worth and try to get wind of Jake and, of course, Elmira. He had only mentioned it—it had never occurred to him that anyone might want to write him. At the thought that the letter might be from Elmira, his heart beat faster. If it was, he intended to ask for his own letter back so he could write her a proper answer.
The old clerk took his time looking for the letter—so much time that July grew nervous. He had not been expecting mail, but now that the prospect had arisen he could hardly wait to know who his letter was from and what it said.
But he was forced to wait, as the old man scratched around in piles of dusty papers and looked in fifteen or twenty pigeonholes. “Dern,” the old man said. “I remember you having a letter. I hope some fool ain’t thrown it away by mistake.”
Three cowboys came in, all with letters they had written to their sisters or sweethearts, and all of them had to stand there waiting while the old man continued his search. July’s heart began to sink. Probably the old man had a poor memory, and if there was a letter it was for somebody else.
One of the cowboys, a fiery fellow with a red mustache, finally could not contain his impatience. “Are you looking for your galoshes, or what?” he asked the old man.
The old man ignored him, or else couldn’t hear him. He was humming as he looked.
“It ought to be a hanging crime for the post office to work so slow,” the impatient fellow said. “I could have carried this letter by hand in less time than this.”
Just as he said it, the old man found July’s letter under a mail bag. “Some fool set a mail bag on it,” he said, handing it to July.
“I guess men grow old and die standing here waiting to buy a dern stamp,” the fiery fellow said.
“If you’re planning to cuss I’ll ask you to do it outside,” the clerk said, unperturbed.
“I guess it’s a free country,” the cowboy said. “Anyway, I ain’t cussing.”
“I hope you can afford a stamp,” the old man said. “We don’t give credit around here.”
July didn’t wait to hear the end of the argument. He could tell by the handwriting on the envelope that the letter was from Peach, not Elmira. The realization knocked his spirits down several pegs. He knew he had no reason to expect a letter from Elmira in the first place, but he was longing to see her, and the thought that she might have written had been comforting.
Joe was sitting on the board sidewalk outside the post office, watching the steady stream of buggies, wagons and horseback riders go by.
July had looked perked up when he went in, but not when he came out. “It’s from Peach,” he said. He opened the letter and leaned against a hitch rail to try and make out Peach’s handwriting, which was rather hen-scratchy:
DEAR JULY—
Ellie took off just after you did. My opinion is she won’t be back, and Charlie thinks the same.
Roscoe’s a poor deputy, you ought to dock his wages over this. He didn’t even notice she was gone but I called it to his attention.
Roscoe has started after you, to give you the news, but it is not likely he’ll find you—he is a man of weak abilities. I think the town is a sight better off without him.
We think Ellie left on a whiske
y boat, I guess she took leave of her senses. If that’s the case it would be a waste of time to go looking for her, Charlie thinks the same. You had better just go on and catch Jake Spoon, he deserves to pay the price.
YOUR SISTER-IN-LAW,
Mary Johnson
July had forgotten that Peach had a normal name like Mary before his brother gave her the nickname. Ben had found Peach in Little Rock and had even lived there two months in order to court her.
“What’d it say?” Little Joe asked.
July didn’t want to think about what it said. It was pleasanter to try and keep his mind off the facts—the main fact being the one his mind was most reluctant to approach. Ellie had left. She didn’t want to be married to him. Then why had she married him? He couldn’t understand that, or why she had left.
He looked at Joe, angry with the boy for a moment though he knew it was wrong to be. If Joe had stayed in Fort Smith, Ellie couldn’t have left so easily. Then he remembered that it was Ellie who had insisted that the boy come along. None of it was Joe’s fault.
“It’s bad news,” July said.
“Did Ma leave?” Joe asked.
July nodded, surprised. If the boy could figure it out so easily, it must mean that he was the fool for having missed something so obvious that even a boy could see it.
“How could you guess?” he asked.
“She don’t like to stay in one place too long,” Joe said. “That’s her way.”
July sighed and looked at the letter again. He decided he didn’t believe the part about the whiskey boat. Even if Ellie had taken leave of her senses she wouldn’t travel on a whiskey boat. He had left her money. She could have taken a stage.
“What are we gonna do now?” Joe asked.
July shook his head. “I ain’t got it thought through,” he said. “Roscoe’s coming.”
Joe’s face brightened. “Roscoe?” he said. “Why’d he want to come?”
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 173
