“Well, they could leave the women for a while,” Call said. “Send for them when it’s safe.”
“Yes, but a man that goes to the trouble to take a wife don’t generally want to go off and leave her,” Augustus pointed out. “It means doing the chores all by yourself. Besides, without a wife handy you won’t be getting no kids, and kids are a wonderful source of free labor. They’re cheaper than slaves by a damn sight.”
They had argued the point for years, but fruitlessly, for Call had no sympathy for human weakness. Augustus put it down to a lack of imagination. Call could never imagine what it was like to be scared. They had been in tight spots, but usually that meant action, and in battles things happened too fast for fear to paralyze the mind of a man like Call. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to go to bed every night scared that you and your family would feel the knives of the Comanches before sunrise.
That night Augustus stopped to rest his horse, making a cold camp on a little bluff and eating some jerky he had brought along. He was in the scrubby post-oak country near the Brazos and from his bluff could see far across the moonlit valleys.
It struck him that he had forgotten emptiness such as existed in the country that stretched around him. After all, for years he had lived within the sound of the piano from the Dry Bean, the sound of the church bell in the little Lonesome Dove church, the sound of Bol whacking the dinner bell. He even slept within the sound of Pea Eye’s snoring, which was as regular as the ticking of a clock.
But here there was no sound, not any. The coyotes were silent, the crickets, the locusts, the owls. There was only the sound of his own horse grazing. From him to the stars, in all directions, there was only silence and emptiness. Not the talk of men over their cards, nothing. Though he had ridden hard he felt strangely rested, just from the silence.
The next day he found the carcass of Lorie’s mare. By the end of the day he was out of the scrub. When he crossed the Wichita he angled west. He had not seen Blue Duck’s tracks in two days but he didn’t care. He had always had confidence in his instincts and felt he knew where the man would stop. Possibly he was bound for Adobe Walls, one of the Bents’ old forts. This one, on the Canadian, had never been much of a success. The Bents had abandoned it, and it became a well-known gathering place for buffalo hunters, as well as for anyone crossing the plains.
It was spring—what few buffalo were left would be moving north, and what buffalo hunters were left would be gathered at the old fort, getting ready for a last hide harvest. Buffalo hunters were not known to be too particular about their company; though Blue Duck and his men had picked off plenty of them over the years, the new crop would probably overlook that fact if he turned up with a prize like Lorena.
Also, there were still renegade bands of Kiowas and Comanches loose on the plains. The bands were supposedly scattered—at least that was the talk in south Texas—and the trade in captives virtually dead.
But Augustus wasn’t in south Texas anymore, and as he rode through the empty country he had plenty of time to consider that maybe the talk hadn’t been all that accurate—talk often wasn’t. The bands were doomed, but they might last another year or two, whereas he was advancing into their country in the here and now. He wasn’t afraid for himself, but he was afraid for Lorena. Blue Duck might be dealing with some renegade chief with a taste for white women. Lorena would put a nice cap on a career largely devoted to stealing children.
If Blue Duck intended to trade her to an Indian, he would probably take her farther west, through the region known as the Quitaque, and then north to a crossing on the Canadian where the Comanches had traded captives for decades. Nearby was the famous Valley of Tears, spoken of with anguish by such captives as had been recovered. There the Comancheros divided captives, mothers being separated from their children and sold to different bands, the theory being that if they were isolated they would be less likely to organize escapes.
As he moved into the Quitaque, a parched country where shallow red canyons stretched west toward the Palo Duro, Augustus would see little spiraling dust devils rising from the exposed earth far ahead of him. During the heat of the day mirages in the form of flat lakes appeared, so vivid that a time or two he almost convinced himself there was water ahead, although he knew there wasn’t.
He decided to head first for the big crossing on the Canadian. If there was no sign of Blue Duck there he could always follow the river over to the Walls. He crossed the Prairie Dog Fork of the Red River—plenty of prairie dogs were in evidence, too—and rode west to the edge of the Palo Duro. Several times he saw small herds of buffalo, and twice rode through valleys of bleached bones, places where hunters had slaughtered several hundred animals at a time. By good luck he found a spring and spent the night by it, resting his horse for the final push.
Late the next day he came into the breaks of the Canadian, a country of shallow, eroded gullies. He could see where the river curved east, across the plains. He rode east for several miles, hoping to cross Blue Duck’s tracks. He didn’t, which convinced him he had guessed wrong in coming so far west. The man had probably gone directly to the Walls and pitched Lorena into the laps of a bunch of buffalo hunters.
Before he had time to lament his error, though, Augustus saw a sight which took his mind off it completely. He saw a speck moving across the plains north, toward the river. At first he thought it might be Blue Duck, but if so he was traveling without Lorena—there was only one speck. His horse saw the speck too. Augustus drew his rifle in case the speck turned out to be hostile. He loped toward it only to discover an old man with a dirty white beard, pushing a wheelbarrow across the plains. The wheelbarrow contained buffalo bones. And as if that wasn’t unusual enough, Augustus found that he even knew the man.
His name was Aus Frank, and he had started as a mountain man, trapping beaver. He had once kept a store in Waco but for some reason got mad and robbed the bank next to his store—the bank had thought they were getting along with him fine until the day he walked in and robbed them. Augustus and Call were in Waco at the time, and though Call was reluctant to bother with bank robbers—he felt bankers were so stupid they deserved robbing—they were persuaded to go after him. They caught him right away, but not without a gun battle. The battle took place in a thicket on the Brazos, where Aus Frank had stopped to cook some venison. It went on for two hours and resulted in no injuries; then Aus Frank ran out of ammunition and had been easy enough to arrest. He cursed them all the way back to Waco and broke out of jail the day they left town. Augustus had not heard of him since—yet there he was wheeling a barrow full of buffalo bones across the high plains.
He didn’t seem to be armed, so Augustus rode right up to him, keeping his rifle across his saddle. The old robber could well have a pistol hidden in the bones, though unless his aim had improved, he was not much of a threat even if he did.
“Hello, Aus,” Augustus said, as he rode up. “Have you gone in the bone business, or what?”
The old man squinted at him for a moment, but made no reply. He kept on wheeling his barrow full of bones over the rough ground. Tobacco drippings had stained his beard until most of it was a deep brown.
“I guess you don’t remember me,” Augustus said, falling in beside him. “I’m Captain McCrae. We shot at one another all afternoon once, up on the Brazos. You was in one thicket and me and Captain Call was in the next one. We pruned the post oaks with all that shooting, and then we stuck you in jail and you crawled right out again.”
“I don’t like you much,” Aus Frank said, still trundling. “Put me in the goddamn jail.”
“Well, why’d you rob that bank?” Augustus said. “It ain’t Christian to rob your neighbors. It ain’t Christian to hold a grudge, neither. Wasn’t you born into the Christian religion?”
“No,” Aus Frank said. “What do you want?”
“A white girl,” Augustus said. “Pretty one. An outlaw carried her off. You may know him. His name is Blue Duck.”
A
us Frank stopped the wheelbarrow. He needed to spit and leaned over and spat a large mouthful of tobacco juice directly into the hole of a red-ant bed. The ants, annoyed, scurried about in all directions.
Augustus laughed. Aus Frank had always been an original. In Waco, as he remembered, he had caused controversy because he never seemed to sleep. The lantern in his store would be on at all hours of the night, and the man would often be seen roaming the streets at three in the morning. Nobody knew what he was looking for, or if he found it.
“Now that’s a new trick,” Augustus said. “Spitting on ants. I guess that’s all you’ve got to do besides haul bones.”
Aus Frank resumed his walk, and Augustus followed along, amused at the strange turns life took. Soon they came down into the valley of the Canadian. Augustus was amazed to see an enormous pyramid of buffalo bones perhaps fifty yards from the water. The bones were piled so high, it seemed to him Aus Frank must have a ladder to use in his piling, though he saw no sign of one. Down the river a quarter of a mile there was another pyramid, just as large.
“Well, Aus, I see you’ve been busy,” Augustus said. “You’ll be so rich one of these days some bank will come along and rob you. Who do you sell these bones to?”
Aus Frank ignored the question. While Augustus watched, he pushed his wheelbarrow up to the bottom of the pyramid of bones and began to throw the bones as high as possible up the pyramid. Once or twice he got a leg bone or thigh bone all the way to the top, but most of the bones hit midway and stuck. In five minutes the big wheelbarrow was empty. Without a word Aus Frank took the wheelbarrow and started back across the prairie.
Augustus decided to rest while the old man worked. Such camp as there was was rudimentary. Aus had dug a little cave in one of the red bluffs south of the river, and his gear was piled in front of it. There was a buffalo gun and a few pots and pans, and that was it. The main crossing was a mile downriver, and Augustus rode down to inspect it before unsaddling. There were horse tracks galore, but not those he was looking for. He saw five pyramids of bones between the crossing and Aus Frank’s camp, each containing several tons of bones.
Back at the camp, Augustus rested in the shade of the little bluff. Aus Frank continued to haul in bones until sundown. After pitching his last load up on the pyramid, he wheeled the barrow to his camp, turned it over and sat on it. He looked at Augustus for two or three minutes without saying anything.
“Well, are you going to invite me for supper or not?” Augustus asked.
“Never should have arrested me,” Aus Frank said. “I don’t like that goddamn bank.”
“You didn’t stay in jail but four hours,” Augustus reminded him. “Now that I’ve seen how hard you work, I’d say you probably needed the rest. You could have studied English or something. I see you’ve learned it finally.”
“I don’t like the goddamn bank,” Aus repeated.
“Let’s talk about something else,” Augustus suggested. “You’re just lucky you didn’t get shot on account of that bank. Me and Call were both fine shots in those days. The thicket was the only thing that saved you.”
“They cheated me because I couldn’t talk good,” Aus Frank said.
“You got a one-track mind, Aus,” Augustus said. “You and half of mankind. How long you been up here on the Canadian River?”
“I come five years,” Aus said. “I want a store.”
“That’s fine, but you’ve outrun the people,” Augustus said. “They won’t be along for another ten years or so. I guess by then you’ll have a helluva stock of buffalo bones. I just hope there’s a demand for them.”
“Had a wagon,” Aus Frank said. “Got stole. Apaches got it.”
“That so?” Augustus said. “I didn’t know the Apaches lived around here.”
“Over by the Pecos,” Aus said. “I quit the mountains. Don’t like snow.”
“I’ll pass on snow myself, when I have the option,” Augustus said. “This is a lonely place you’ve settled in, though. Don’t the Indians bother you?”
“They leave me be,” Aus said. “That one you’re hunting, he’s a mean one. He kilt Bob. Built a fire under him and let him sizzle.
“He don’t bother me, though,” he added. “Kilt Bob and let me be.”
“Bob who?”
“Old Bob, that I was in the mountains with,” Aus said.
“Well, his burning days are over, if I find him,” Augustus said.
“He’s quick, Blue Duck,” Aus said. “Has some Kiowas with him. They ate my dog.”
“How many Kiowas?” Augustus asked.
“It was a big dog,” Aus said. “Killed two wolves. I had a few sheep once but the Mexicans run them off.”
“It’s a chancy life out here on the plains,” Augustus said. “I bet you get a nice breeze in the winter, too.”
“Them Kiowas ate that dog,” Aus repeated. “Good dog.”
“Why ain’t Blue Duck killed you?” Augustus asked.
“Laughs at me,” Aus said. “Laughs at my bones. He says he’ll kill me when he gets ready.”
“How many Kiowas does he run around with?” Augustus asked again. The old man was evidently not used to having anyone to talk to. His remarks came out a little jerky.
“Six,” Aus Frank said.
“Who’s over at the Walls?” Augustus asked.
The old man didn’t answer. Darkness had fallen, and Augustus could barely see him sitting on his wheelbarrow.
“No beaver in this river,” Aus Frank said after several minutes.
“No, a beaver would be foolish to be in this river,” Augustus said. “There ain’t a tree within twenty miles, and beavers like to gnaw trees. You should have stayed up north if you like beavers.”
“I’d rather gather these bones,” the old man said. “You don’t have to get your feet wet.”
“Did you get to Montana when you was a beaverman?”
Augustus waited several minutes for a reply, but the old man never answered. When the moon came up, Augustus saw that he had fallen asleep sitting on his wheelbarrow, his head fallen over in his arms.
Augustus was tired and hungry. He lay where he was, thinking about food, but making no effort to get up and fix any, if there was any to be fixed. While he was thinking he ought to get up and eat, he fell asleep.
Deep in the night a sound disturbed him, and he came awake and drew his pistol. It was well on toward morning—he could tell that by the moon—but the sound was new to him.
Cautiously he turned over, only to see at once that the source of the sound was Aus Frank. He had risen in the night and collected another load of buffalo bones. Now he was heaving them up on the pyramid. The sound that had awakened Augustus was the sound of bones, clicking and rattling as they slid down the sides of the pyramid.
Augustus holstered his pistol and walked over to watch the old man.
“You’re an unusual fellow, Aus,” he said. “I guess you just work night and day. You should have partnered up with Woodrow Call. He’s as crazy about work as you are. The two of you might own the world by now if you’d hooked up.”
Aus Frank didn’t respond. He had emptied the wheelbarrow, and he pushed it up the slope, away from the river.
Augustus caught his horse and rode east. On his way he saw Aus Frank again, working under the moonlight. He had plenty to work with, for the plain around was littered with buffalo bones. It looked as if a whole herd had been wiped out, for a road of bones stretched far across the plain.
He remembered when he had first come to the high plains, years before. For two days he and Call and the Rangers had ridden parallel to the great southern buffalo herd—hundreds of thousands of animals, slowly grazing north. It had been difficult to sleep at night because the horses were nervous around so many animals, and the sounds of the herd were constant. They had ridden for nearly a hundred miles and seldom been out of sight of buffalo.
Of course they had heard that the buffalo were being wiped out, but with the memory of the
southern herd so vivid, they had hardly credited the news. Discussing it in Lonesome Dove they had decided that the reports must be exaggerated—thinned out, maybe, but not wiped out. Thus the sight of the road of bones stretching over the prairie was a shock. Maybe roads of bones were all that was left. The thought gave the very emptiness of the plains a different feel. With those millions of animals gone, and the Indians mostly gone in their wake, the great plains were truly empty, unpeopled and ungrazed.
Soon the whites would come, of course, but what he was seeing was a moment between, not the plains as they had been, or as they would be, but a moment of true emptiness, with thousands of miles of grass resting unused, occupied only by remnants—of the buffalo, the Indians, the hunters. Augustus thought they were crazed remnants, mostly, like the old mountain man who worked night and day gathering bones to no purpose.
“No wonder you never worked out in Waco, Aus,” he said, speaking as much to himself as to the old man. Aus Frank was not in a talkative mood, or a listening mood either. He had filled his wheelbarrow and was heading back to camp.
“I’m going to the Walls to kill that big renegade for you,” Augustus said. “Need anything?”
Aus Frank stopped, as if thinking it over.
“I wisht they hadn’t killed that dog,” he said. “I liked that dog. It was them Kiowas that killed it, not the Mexicans. Six Kiowas.”
“Well, I got six bullets,” Augustus said. “Maybe I’ll send the rascals where your dog went.”
“Them Kiowas shot Bob’s horse,” Aus added. “That’s how come they caught him. Built a fire under him and cooked him. That’s their way.”
Then he lifted his wheelbarrow full of bones and walked off toward the Canadian River.
The light was just coming, the plains black in the distance, the sky gray where it met the land. Though dawn was his favorite hour, it was also an hour at which Augustus most keenly felt himself to be a fool. What was it but folly to be riding along the Canadian River alone, easy pickings for an outlaw gang, and hungry to boot? A chain of follies had put him there: Call’s abrupt decision to become a cattleman and his own decision, equally abrupt, to try and rescue a girl foolish enough to be taken in by Jake Spoon. None of it was sensible, yet he had to admit there was something about such follies that he liked. The sensible way, which he had pursued once or twice in his life, had always proved boring, usually within a few days. In his case it had led to nothing much, just excessive drunkenness and reckless card playing. There was more enterprise in certain follies, it seemed to him.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 178
