The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  The girl looked surprised, but took the money and quaffed another whiskey. Then she went up to the bar and had the bartender change the money for her. Soon she was talking to Shaw as if nothing had happened. Depressed, Gus bought a bottle to take with him and left town.

  The moon was full and the prairie shadowy. Pea Eye was attempting to sing to the cattle, but his voice was nothing to compare to the Irishman’s.

  To his surprise, Augustus saw that Lorena was sitting outside the tent. Usually she stayed inside. When he dismounted, he bent to touch her and found that her cheek was wet—she had been sitting there crying.

  “Why, Lorie, what’s the matter?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid of her,” she said simply. Her voice sounded thick with discouragement. “I’m afraid she’ll take you.”

  Augustus didn’t try to reason with her. What she felt was past reason. He had caused it by talking too freely about the woman he had once loved. He unsaddled and sat down beside her on the grass.

  “I thought you went to her,” she said. “I didn’t believe you went to town.”

  “Ain’t the moon beautiful?” he said. “These plains seem like fine country under a full moon.”

  Lorena didn’t look up. She wasn’t interested in the moon. She only wanted it to be settled about the woman. If Gus was going to leave, she wanted to know it, although she couldn’t imagine a life if that happened.

  “Did you ever like to sing?” he asked, trying to get her to talk about something else.

  She didn’t answer.

  “I think it must be a fine gift, singing,” he said. “If I could sing like the Irishman, I would just ride around singing all day. I might get a job in a barroom, like Lippy used to have.”

  Lorena didn’t want to talk to him. She hated the way she felt. Better if something happens and kills us both, she thought. At least I wouldn’t have to be alone.

  85.

  NEWT, THE RAINEY BOYS, Pete Spettle and Pea Eye got to go into town the next afternoon. The fact that the first group drug back in ones and twos, looking horrible, in no way discouraged them. Jasper Fant had vomited all over his horse on the ride out, too beaten to dismount or even to lean over.

  “You are a sorry sight,” Po Campo said sternly, when Jasper rode in. “I told you it would be that way. Now all your money is gone and all you feel is pain.”

  Jasper didn’t comment.

  Needle Nelson and Soupy Jones rode in next—they looked no different from Jasper, but at least their horses were clean.

  “It’s a good thing there’s no more towns,” Needle said when he dismounted. “I don’t think I’d survive another town.”

  “If that’s the best Nebraska can do, I pass,” Soupy said.

  After hearing all the reports, which merely confirmed his suspicions, Po Campo was reluctant to let Augustus borrow the wagon.

  “Towns are full of thieves,” he argued. “Somebody might steal it.”

  “If they do, they’ll have to steal it with me sitting in it,” Augustus said. “I’d like to see the thief who could manage that.”

  He had promised Lippy a ride to town. Lippy had grown homesick for his old profession and hoped at least to hear some piano music on his visit.

  Call decided to ride in and help with the provisioning. He was trying to make an inventory of things they needed, and the fact that Po Campo was in a cranky, uncooperative mood didn’t make things any easier.

  “It’s summertime,” Po said. “We don’t need much. Buy a water barrel and we’ll fill it in the river. It is going to get very dry.”

  “What makes you think it’s going to get dry?” Augustus asked.

  “It will get dry,” Po Campo insisted. “We will be drinking horses’ blood if we’re not lucky.”

  “I think I must have drunk some last night,” Jasper said. “I never got sick enough to puke on my horse before.”

  Newt and the other boys raced to town, leaving Pea Eye far behind, but once they got there they felt somewhat at a loss as to what to do first. For an hour or two they merely walked up and down the one long street, looking at the people. None of them had actually been in a building in such a while that they felt shy about going in one. They stared in the window of a big hardware store, but didn’t go in. The street itself seemed lively enough—there were plenty of soldiers in sight, and men driving wagons, and even a few Indians. Of whores they saw none: the few women on the street were just matrons, doing their shopping.

  The town abounded in saloons, of course, but at first the boys were too spooked to go in one. Probably they would be looked at, because of their age, and anyway they didn’t have funds for drinking. What little they had must be saved for whores—at least that was their intention. But the fourth or fifth time they passed the big general store their intentions wavered, and they all slipped in for a look at the merchandise. They stared at the guns: buffalo rifles and pistols with long blue barrels, and far beyond their means. All they came out with was a sack of horehound candy. Since it was the first candy any of them had had in months, it tasted wonderful. They sat down in the shade and promptly ate the whole sack.

  “I wish the Captain would fill the wagon with it,” Ben Rainey said. The opportunity existed, for Augustus was just driving up to the dry-goods store in the wagon, and the Captain rode beside him on the Hell Bitch.

  “Why, he won’t let us fill it with candy,” Jimmy Rainey said. Nonetheless, feeling bolder and more experienced, they went back in the store and bought two more sacks.

  “Let’s save one for Montana,” Newt said. “There might not be no more towns.” But his cautions fell on deaf ears. Pete Spettle and the others consumed their share of the candy with dispatch.

  While they were finishing it they saw Dish Boggett come walking around the side of a saloon across the street.

  “Let’s ask him where the whores are,” Ben suggested. “I doubt we can find any by ourselves.”

  They caught up with Dish by the livery stable. He didn’t look to be in high spirits, but at least he was walking straight, which was more than could be said for the men who had returned to camp.

  “What are you sprouts doing in town?” he asked.

  “We want a whore,” Ben said.

  “Go around to the back of that saloon, then,” Dish said. “You’ll find plenty.”

  Dish now rode a fine little mare he called Sugar. In disposition, she was the opposite of the Hell Bitch. She was almost like a pet. Dish would take tidbits from his plate and feed them to her by hand. He claimed she had the best night vision of any horse he had ever seen—in all their stampedes she had never stepped in a hole.

  He delighted in her so much that he always gave her a brushing before he saddled her, keeping a little horse brush in his saddlebag just for that purpose.

  “How much do they cost?” Jimmy Rainey asked, referring to the whores. The thought that some were only a few steps away made them all a little nervous.

  “It depends on how long you intend to stay upstairs,” Dish said. “I met a nice one named Mary, but they ain’t all like her. There’s one they call the Buffalo Heifer—somebody would have to offer me a month’s wages before I’d get near her, but I expect she’d do for you sprouts. You can’t expect top quality your first time off.”

  As they were talking, a party of some half-dozen soldiers came riding up the street, led by the big scout, Dixon.

  “There come them soldiers agin,” Newt said.

  Dish hardly glanced at the soldiers. “I guess the rest of them got lost.” He had brushed Sugar and was just preparing to saddle her when the scout and the soldiers suddenly trotted over their way.

  Newt felt nervous—he knew there had almost been serious trouble with the soldiers. He glanced at the Captain and Mr. Gus, who were loading a water barrel into the wagon. Evidently they had decided to take Po Campo’s advice.

  Dixon, who looked ungodly big to Newt, rode his black gelding practically on top of Dish Boggett before he stopped. Dish, coo
l as ice, put the saddle blanket on the mare and paid him no mind.

  “How much for the filly?” Dixon asked. “She’s got a stylish look.”

  “Not for sale,” Dish said, reaching down for his saddle.

  As he stooped, Dixon leaned over him and spat a stream of tobacco juice on the back of Dish’s neck. The brown juice hit Dish at the hairline and dripped down under the collar of his loose shirt.

  Dish straightened up and put his hand to his neck. When he saw the tobacco juice his face flushed.

  “You dern cowboys are too fond of your horses,” Dixon said. “I’m fair tired of being told your ponies ain’t for sale.”

  “This one ain’t, for damn sure, and anyway you won’t be in no shape to ride when I get through with you,” Dish said, barely controlling his voice. “I’d hate to think I’d let a man spit on me and then ride off.”

  Dixon spat again. This time, since Dish was facing him, the juice hit him square in the breast. Dixon and the soldiers all laughed.

  “Are you going to dismount or will you require me to come and drag you off that pile of soap bones you’re riding?” Dish asked, meeting the big man’s eye.

  “Well, ain’t you a tomcat,” Dixon said, grinning. He spat at Dish again, but Dish ducked the stream of tobacco juice and leaped for the man. He meant to knock the scout off the other side of the horse, but Dixon was too strong and too quick. Though no one had seen it, he held a long-barreled pistol in his off hand, and when Dish grappled with him he used it like a club, hitting Dish twice in the head with the butt.

  To Newt’s horror, Dish crumpled without a sound—he slid down the side of Dixon’s horse and flopped on his back on the ground. Blood poured from a gash over his ear, staining his dark hair. His hat fell off and Newt picked it up, not knowing what else to do.

  Dixon stuffed his pistol back in its holster. He spat once more at Dish and reached to take the filly’s reins. He reached down, undid the girth and dumped Dish’s saddle on the ground.

  “That’ll teach you to sass me, cowboy,” he said. Then he glanced at the boys. “He can send the bill for this mare to the U.S. Army,” Dixon said. “That is if he ever remembers there was a mare, when he wakes up.”

  Newt was all but paralyzed with worry. He had seen the pistol butt strike Dish twice, and for all he knew Dish was dead. It had happened so quickly that Ben Rainey still had his hands in the sack of candy.

  All Newt knew was that the man mustn’t be allowed to take Dish’s horse. When Dixon turned to trot away, he grabbed the bridle bit and hung on. Sugar, pulled two different ways, tried to rear, almost lifting Newt off the ground. But he hung on.

  Dixon tried to jerk the horse loose, but Newt had both hands on the bit now and wouldn’t let go.

  “Damn, these cowboys are pests,” Dixon said. “Even the pups.”

  The soldier next to him had a rawhide quirt hanging from his saddle horn. Dixon reached over and got it, and without another word rode close to the mare and began to lash Newt with it.

  Pete Spettle, anger in his face, leaped in and tried to get the quirt, but Dixon backhanded him and Pete went down—it turned out his nose was broken.

  Newt tried to hunker close to the mare. At first Dixon was mainly quirting his hands, to make him turn loose, but when that was unsuccessful he began to hit Newt wherever he could catch him. One whistling blow cut his ear. He tried to duck his head, but Sugar was scared and kept turning, exposing him to the quirt. Dixon began to whip him on the neck and shoulders. Newt shut his eyes and clung to the bit. Once he glanced at Dixon and saw the man smiling—he had cruel eyes, like a boar pig’s. Then he ducked, for Dixon attempted to cut him across the face. The blow hit Sugar instead, causing the horse to rear and squeal.

  It was the squeal that caught Call’s attention. After loading the heavy oak water barrel, he and Augustus had stepped back into the store a minute. Augustus was contemplating buying a lighter pistol to replace the big Colt he carried, but he decided against it. He carried out some of the things he had bought for Lorena, and Call took a sack of flour. They heard the horse squeal while they were still in the store, and came out to see Dixon quirting Newt, as Dish Boggett’s mare turned round and round. Two cowboys lay on the ground, one of them Dish.

  “I thought that son of a bitch was a bad one,” Augustus said. He pitched the goods in the wagon and drew his pistol.

  Call dropped the sack of flour onto the tailgate and quickly swung onto the Hell Bitch.

  “Don’t shoot him,” he said. “Just watch the soldiers.”

  He saw Dixon again savagely quirt the boy across the back of the neck, and anger flooded him, of a kind he had not felt in many years. He put spurs to the Hell Bitch and she raced down the street and burst through the surprised soldiers. Dixon, intent on his quirting, was the last to see Call, who made no attempt to check the Hell Bitch. Dixon tried to jerk his mount out of the way at the last minute, but his nervous mount merely turned into the charge and the two horses collided. Call kept his seat and the Hell Bitch kept her feet, but Dixon’s horse went down, throwing him hard in the process. Sugar nearly trampled Newt, trying to get out of the melee. Dixon’s horse struggled to its feet practically underneath Sugar. There was dust everywhere.

  Dixon sprang up, not hurt by the fall, but disoriented. When he turned, Call had dismounted and was running at him. He didn’t look large, and Dixon was puzzled that the man would charge him that way. He reached for his pistol, not realizing he still had the quirt looped around his wrist. The quirt interfered with his draw and Call ran right into him, just as his horse had run into Dixon’s horse. Dixon was knocked down again, and when he turned his head to look up he saw a boot coming at his eye.

  “You wouldn’t,” he said, meaning to tell the man not to kick, but the boot hit his face before he could get his words out.

  The six soldiers, watching, were too astonished to move. The small-seeming cowman kicked Dixon so hard in the face that it seemed his head would fly off. Then the man stood over Dixon, who spat out blood and teeth. When Dixon struggled to his feet, the smaller man immediately knocked him down again and then ground his face into the dirt with a boot.

  “He’s gonna kill him,” one soldier said, his face going white. “He’s gonna kill Dixon.”

  Newt thought so too. He had never seen such a look of fury as was on the Captain’s face when he attacked the big scout. It was clear that Dixon, though larger, had no chance. Dixon never landed a blow, or even tried one. Newt felt he might get sick just seeing the way the Captain punished the man.

  Dish Boggett sat up, holding his head, and saw Captain Call dragging the big scout by his buckskin shirt. The fight had carried a few yards down the street to a blacksmith shop with a big anvil sitting in front of it. To Dish’s astonishment, the Captain straddled Dixon and started banging his head against the anvil.

  “He’ll kill him,” he said out loud, forgetting that a few moments before he too had wanted to kill the scout.

  Then he saw Augustus run over, mount the Hell Bitch and take down Call’s rope.

  Augustus trotted the few steps to the blacksmith shop and dropped a loop over Call’s shoulders. Then he turned the horse away, took a wrap around the saddle horn and began to ride up the street. Call wouldn’t turn loose of Dixon at first. He hung on and dragged him a few feet from the anvil. But Augustus kept the rope tight and held the horse in a walk. Finally Call let the man drop, though he turned with a black, wild look and started for whoever had roped him, not realizing who the man was. The skin was torn completely off his knuckles from the blows he had dealt Dixon, but he was lost in his anger and his only thought was to get the next assailant. It was in him to kill—he didn’t know if Dixon was dead, but he would make sure of the next man.

  “Woodrow,” Augustus said sharply, as Call was about to leap for him.

  Call heard his name and saw his mare. Augustus walked toward him, loosening the rope. Call recognized him and stopped. He turned to look at the six soldiers,
all on their horses nearby, silent and white-faced. He took a step toward them, and threw the rope off his shoulders.

  “Woodrow!” Augustus said again. He took out his big Colt, thinking he might have to hit Call to stop him from going for the soldiers. But Call stopped. For a moment, nothing moved.

  Augustus dismounted and looped the rope over the saddle horn. Call was still standing in the street, getting his breath. Augustus walked over to the soldiers.

  “Get your man and go,” he said quietly.

  Dixon lay by the anvil. He had not moved.

  “Reckon he’s dead?” a sergeant asked.

  “If he ain’t, he’s lucky,” Augustus said.

  Call walked down the street and picked up his hat, which had fallen off. The soldiers rode slowly past him. Two dismounted and began to try to load Dixon on his horse. Finally all six dismounted—the man was so heavy it took all of them to get him up and draped over his horse. Call watched. At the sight of Dixon, his anger threatened to rise again. If the man moved, Call was ready to go for him again.

  But Dixon didn’t move. He hung over his horse, blood dripping off his head and face into the dust. The soldiers mounted and slowly led the horse away.

  Call looked and saw Dish Boggett sitting on the ground by his saddle. He walked slowly over to him—Dish had a gash behind his ear.

  “Are you much hurt?” he asked.

  “No, Captain,” Dish said. “Guess I’m too hardheaded.”

  Call looked at Newt. There were welts beginning to form on his neck and one of his cheeks. A little blood showed in a cut on his ear. Newt was still tightly gripping Sugar’s bit, a fact which Dish noticed for the first time. He stood up.

  “You hurt?” Call asked the boy.

  “No, sir,” Newt said. “He just quirted me a little. I wasn’t gonna let him have Dish’s horse.”

  “Well, you can let her go now,” Dish said. “He’s gone. I’m much obliged to you for what you did, Newt.”

  Newt had gripped the bit so tightly that it was painful to let go. It had cut deep creases in his palms, and he seemed to have squeezed the blood out of his fingers. But he turned the mare loose. Dish took the reins and patted her on the neck.