While he was pondering what his next move might be, a hard-looking crew showed up in the saloon where he was playing. It consisted of three brothers—the Suggs brothers. Dan Suggs was the oldest and most talkative. The younger two, Ed and Roy, were sullen and restless, always watching the doors to see who might be coming in. Dan had no interest in doors, or any apparent concern other than a need to have his whiskey glass filled rather often. All three were scraggly-bearded men.
“Didn’t you ranger?” Dan asked, when he heard Jake’s name.
“I rangered some,” Jake said.
“You run with Call and McCrae, didn’t you?” Dan said. “I’ve never met Call or McCrae but I’ve heard they’re hard men.”
It irked Jake a little that those two had such reputations. It seemed to him that he had done about as much as they had, in the rangering days. After all, he was the man who had shot one of the most famous bandits on the border.
While they talked and played cards a little, Roy Suggs kept spitting tobacco on the barroom floor. It irked Ralph, the man who owned the bar. He brought over a spittoon and put it by Roy’s chair, but Roy Suggs looked at him with a cold eye and continued to spit on the floor.
“Roy will spit where he pleases,” Dan said, with a mean grin.
“Spoon, how’d you like to be a regulator?” he asked a little later. “I recall from stories I’ve heard that you can shoot a gun.”
“What is a regulator?” Jake asked. “I’ve not heard the term.”
“Folks up in Kansas are getting tired of these Texas cattle tramping in constantly,” Dan said. “They want this trail-driving business regulated.”
“Regulated how?”
“Well, taxed,” Dan said. “People can’t go on driving cattle just anywhere. If they want to cross certain rivers at certain crossings, they’ve got to pay for the privilege. If they won’t pay in cash, then they’ve got to pay in cattle.”
“Is it the law in Kansas, or what?” Jake asked.
“It ain’t, but some folks think it ought to be,” Dan said.
“Us folks, mainly,” Roy said, spitting.
“I see,” Jake said. “If Call and Gus try to take some cattle across one of them rivers you’re regulating, then you stop ’em and tell them they have to pay? Is that how the scheme works?”
“That’s it,” Dan said.
“I’d like to see you tell Woodrow Call he has to pay you money to drive cattle across a river,” Jake said. “I ain’t a friend of the man—he’s recently treated me poorly. But unless there’s a law and you can show it to him, you won’t be collecting no double eagles.”
“Then he’ll have to suffer the consequences,” Dan said.
Jake laughed. “The consequences of that would be that somebody would have to dig your grave,” he said. “If Call didn’t shoot you, Gus would. They ain’t used to taking orders from you regulators.”
“By God, then they’ll learn,” Roy Suggs said.
“Maybe, but you won’t teach them,” Jake said. “You’d be sitting dead in your saddle if you tried it.” Though he was annoyed with Call and Gus, it amused him that three scraggly bandits thought they could beat them.
Dan Suggs was not pleased with the conversation, either. “I thought you might be a man with some gumption,” he said. “I see I was wrong.”
“I can supply enough gumption,” Jake said. “But I don’t ride with inexperienced men. If you think you can ride up to Call and McCrae and collect money from ’em with a few threats, then you’re too inexperienced for me.”
Dan was silent for a bit. “Well, they’re just one bunch,” he said. “There are plenty of other herds on the trail.”
“That’s right,” Jake said. “If I was you I’d try to regulate some of the ones that ain’t been led by Texas Rangers.”
Roy and Ed looked at him hostilely. They didn’t like hearing it suggested that they weren’t up to the job. But Dan Suggs was a cooler man. After they’d played some cards and worked through a bottle of whiskey he admitted that the regulating scheme was something he’d just thought up.
“My notion was that most cowboys can’t fight,” Dan said. “Hell, they’re just boys. Them settlers up there can’t fight, neither. A lot of them might pay us to keep the beeves out of their corn patches.”
“They might, but it sounds like you’re speculating,” Jake said. “Before I leave this here easy life to go and get shot at I’d like a little better prospect to think about.”
“How about robbing banks, if the regulating don’t work out?” Dan asked bluntly. “You got any objections to robbing banks?”
“It would depend on the bank,” Jake said. “I wouldn’t enjoy it if there was too much law stacked up against me. I’d think you’d want to pick small towns.”
They talked for several hours, Roy Suggs resolutely spitting tobacco on the floor. Dan Suggs pointed out that all the money seemed to be in Kansas. If they went up there and weren’t too particular about what they did they ought to be able to latch on to some of it.
Jake found the Suggs brothers unattractive. They all had cold, mean eyes, and no great affection even for one another. Roy and Ed almost got into a gunfight over a hand of cards. He offered to get them whores, for he had stayed friendly with several of the girls who had come over from Fort Worth, but the Suggs brothers weren’t interested. Drinking and card playing appealed to them more.
Had it not been for the threat of July Johnson somewhere around, he would have let the Suggs brothers head for Kansas without him. He was comfortable where he was, and had no appetite for hard riding and gunfighting. But Dallas wasn’t far from Fort Smith, and July Johnson might arrive any time. That was an uncomfortable thought, so uncomfortable that three days later Jake found himself riding north with the three Suggs boys and a tall black man they called Frog Lip. Jake equipped himself with a new rifle before they left. He had made the Suggs brothers no promises, and as soon as he found a nice saloon in Kansas, he meant to let them go their way.
Frog Lip owned five guns of various calibers, and spent most of his time cleaning them. He was a fine marksman. The first day out he brought down a deer at a distance Jake would have considered impossible. Frog Lip seemed to take the shot for granted. Jake had the strong feeling that the black man’s guns would soon be pointed at something besides deer, but he himself didn’t plan to be around to see it.
65.
JULY RODE FOR DAYS without seeing any person, or, for that matter, many signs of life except the hawks and buzzards circling in the blue prairie sky. Once he saw a wolf loping along a ridge, and at night he heard coyotes, but the only game he saw were jackrabbits, and it was mostly rabbit he ate.
He kept going north, reminding himself that it was a long way to any towns; but soon the unvarying emptiness of the country began to disturb him, and he was already disturbed enough by the deaths of the three people buried on the Canadian. He thought of them more or less all day. Waking in the gray dawn, he would have Roscoe’s face in his mind; when he dreamed, it was of Roscoe and Joe and the young girl. Several times he cried at the thought of the finality of it. He had a longing to get them back in places they belonged: Fort Smith, in the case of Roscoe and Joe. He didn’t know where the girl had belonged, though it wasn’t in a grave on the Canadian.
What he was doing—indeed, his whole life—now seemed to him completely futile. He rode through the empty land without hope of anything, simply going on because he had to do something. As he went farther and farther onto the plains, he ceased to be able to imagine Fort Smith as a place where he might ever live and work again. What would he do if he did go back? Sit in the jail where he had worked with Roscoe? Or in the cabin where he had lived with Elmira?
July didn’t see how things could get worse, since he had lost his wife and led three people to their deaths. But four days after he left Augustus, his horse went lame. Some small spiky cactus hidden by the tall prairie grass proved more deadly than a snake. A thorn worked its way far up into
the horse’s hoof. July had to tie the horse down to get the thorn out, and even then he was not sure he had got it all. They were three days north of the Cimarron when it happened. Water was scarce and the horse soon too lame to ride. He led the horse, taking it slow, hoping the hoof would get better, but it did no good. The horse was lamed and could put no weight on the hoof at all.
Finally, sadly feeling that he was parting with his last companion in life, July unsaddled the horse and shot him. He left his saddle but took his rifle and started walking east. The next day, from a ridge, he saw a great cloud of buzzards over the place where the horse lay. The sight made him cry.
He walked all day, hoping to cross a creek but finding none. He had a half canteen of water—not enough to get him back to the Cimarron. And he had nothing to eat. He made a dry camp and sat all night on his blanket, so wakeful he thought he would never sleep again. He sat for hours, watching the moon climb high amid the bright stars. He remembered the cold nights in their Arkansas cabin when he was a boy—how his mother piled quilts on top of him and his brothers, how peaceful it seemed under the quilts. Then it seemed like sleep was one of the most wonderful things in life.
July wondered if perhaps the sleep of death would be as good, as comforting and warming, as his boyhood slumber. He had a rifle and a pistol—one pull of the trigger would bring him all the sleep he wanted. In his five years as a lawman he had never shot anyone, though he had a reputation as a dangerous fighter. It would be a joke on everyone if the only person he ever killed was himself. He had always assumed that people who killed themselves were cowards. His own uncle had done it in a painful way, by drinking lye. His uncle had been deep in debt.
Now, as he sat and watched the moon, killing himself merely seemed sensible. His life had been ruined—surprisingly, inexplicably, swiftly, but ruined for sure. He had made wrong choices all along, and it had cost three lives. Killing himself would put him at one with Roscoe, Janey, Joe—and the horse. They had started traveling together; it would be fitting that they all ended in the same place.
He began to think about which gun to use. The barrel of the rifle gleamed in the moonlight; the pistol was heavy in its holster. He took out the pistol and slowly turned the cylinder, listening to the heavy clicks. But he didn’t put it to his head. He remembered Elmira. It seemed to him he had to find her, to tell her what had happened to her son. It was true she had never seemed fond of the boy—Elmira had never seemed fond of anyone—but Joe had been her son and she might want to know.
July thought all night. Knowing that he had only to raise the pistol eased his mind a little. He had better go and find Elmira first. He wanted to explain to her that he had never meant to do whatever had caused her to run off. Once that was done, he could go off with the pistol and join his dead.
The next morning he started walking, but he didn’t feel the same. He felt like he no longer belonged to life. It would not have surprised him to see a cloud of buzzards circling over him. In spirit he had gone to visit Roscoe. He finished his water that night, having walked all day through the brown wavy grass. He tried a long shot at a deer but missed. The next morning he was awakened by the cawing of crows. He looked up to see several of them flapping overhead in the early grayness. He was tired from his long day’s walk and didn’t get up immediately. There was nothing to get up for but the bright sun and the shimmering plains. But he kept hearing the crows, cawing and quarreling not far away. When he stood up, he saw a little grove of low trees not two hundred yards away—they weren’t much, but they were trees, and the crows were resting in them.
Among the trees he found a spring—just a trickle of a spring, but it had formed a shallow pool ten feet wide. A black snake was curled on a rock at the water’s edge—it was probably what the crows were complaining about.
July spent the day by the spring. He drank, bathed and soaked his dirty clothes, spreading them out on the grass to dry. While he rested, a big badger walked up to the spring and July shot him with his pistol. He had never eaten badger, but he ate this one and drank the spring water. Even better than food were the trees. Being in the shade again eased his spirit a little. He could look across the hot prairies for miles, from the comfort of his shade. The sun couldn’t parch him while he was under the trees.
But he couldn’t live forever on spring water and one badger. Besides, he had his chore to do. He waited until the cool of the evening and then set out again. The second day he crossed a wagon track coming from the south. It led him to a running creek, but he saw no wagon. The next day he saw a dust cloud, which turned out to be a small cow herd. The cowboys were mighty surprised to see a lone figure walking toward them from the west, and dumbfounded to learn that he was a sheriff from Arkansas.
“Did you come from California, or where?” the trail boss asked. He was an old white-mustached man named Johns, suspicious at first. Not many men came walking out of Texas. But July soon persuaded the old man to sell him a horse. It was the worst horse in the remuda, but it was a horse. July gave forty dollars for it. The Johns outfit had no saddle to spare, but they did give him directions. They tried to get him to stay the night with them—they had been on the trail six weeks and a stranger was a welcome novelty.
But once he was mounted, July felt a sense of hurry seize him. He ate with them, thanked them again, and left under a rising moon. Four days later, sore from riding bareback on the little sharp-spined bay, he trotted into Dodge City.
66.
LONG BEFORE THEY STRUCK the Republican River, Elmira had begun to wonder if any of it was worth it. For two weeks, when they were on the open plain, it rained, hailed, lightning flashed. Everything she owned was wet, and she didn’t like feeling like a muskrat, though it didn’t bother Luke and Zwey. It was cold at night. She slept on wet blankets in the hard wagon and woke up feeling more tired than when she lay down. The plains turned soggy and the wagon bogged time after time. The hides smelled and the food was chancy. The wagon was rough, even when the going was good. She bounced around all day and felt sick to her stomach. If she lost the baby in such a place, she felt she would probably die.
It occurred to her that she had taken a hard route, just to escape July Johnson. Her own folly amused her: she had once thought of herself as smart—but look at where she was. If Dee Boot could see her he would laugh his head off. Dee loved to laugh about the absurd things people did for bad reasons. The fact that she had done it because she wanted to see him would only amuse him more. Dee would tell her she ought to have gone back to Dodge and asked one of the girls to get her work.
Instead, she was driving a mule wagon across northern Kansas. They had been lucky and seen no Indians, but that could always change. Besides, it soon developed that Luke was going to be as much trouble as an Indian. It was something she knew that Zwey hadn’t noticed. Zwey treated her kindly, insofar as he treated her at all. Now that he had got her to come on a trip he seemed well content. She didn’t have to do anything but be there, and he was surprised when she offered to cook, which she mainly did out of boredom and because Zwey and Luke were such dirty cooks she was afraid she would get poisoned if she didn’t take that chore into her own hands. Zwey exhibited no lustful intentions at all—he seemed happy just to rest his eyes on her at the end of the day.
Luke, on the other hand, was a feisty little rabbit who lost no time in making his wants known. In the early morning he would stand and relieve himself in plain sight of her, grinning and looking at her while he did it. Zwey, who slept like a rock, never noticed this strange habit.
Luke was not easy to discourage. Soon he took a new tack, which was to persuade Zwey that when they hunted, the two of them ought to hunt in separate directions. It was true that game was scarce, but that wasn’t the reason Luke hunted by himself. All he was hunting was Elmira. As soon as he knew that Zwey was two or three miles from the wagon, he circled back and pressed his suit. He was direct about it, too. He would tie his horse to the wagon and climb right in with her. He put his arm
around her and made crude suggestions.
“No,” Elmira said. “I came with Zwey. He told me I wouldn’t be bothered.”
“What bother?” Luke asked.
“I’m going to have a baby,” she said, hoping that would discourage him.
Luke looked at her belly. “Not for a while yet,” he said. “This ain’t gonna take no month. It probably won’t take six minutes. I’ll pay you. I won good money playing cards back at the Fort.”
“No,” Elmira said. “I’m afraid of Zwey.”
She wasn’t really, but it made a handy excuse. She was more afraid of Luke, who had mean eyes—there was something crazy in his looks. He also had a disgusting habit, which was that he liked to suck his own fingers. He would do it sitting by the fire at night—suck his fingers as if they were candy.
Luke kept climbing up on the wagon and putting his hands on her, but Elmira kept saying no. She dreamed of Dee occasionally, but other than that she had no interest in men. She thought about telling Zwey that Luke was bothering her, but Zwey was not an easy man to talk to. Anyway, it might start a fight, and Luke might win, in which case her goose would be cooked. Zwey was strong but slow, and Luke didn’t look like a man who would fight fair.
So when Luke snuck back and climbed onto the wagon seat, Elmira possumed. She couldn’t stop his hands entirely, but she made herself into a tight little package and concentrated on driving the mules.
When Luke saw he wasn’t going to change her mind with talk or the offer of money, he tried threats. Twice he cuffed her and once shoved her completely off the wagon seat. She fell hard and barely got out of the way of the wagon wheel. Immediately she thought of the baby, but she didn’t lose it. Luke cursed her and rode off and she climbed back up and drove the wagon.
The next day he threatened to kill Zwey if she didn’t let him. “Zwey’s dumb,” he said. “He ain’t no smarter than a buffalo. I’ll shoot him while he sleeps.”
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 187
