The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  Call rested the mare and let her have a good roll. Then he started back and rode almost straight through, only stopping once for two hours’ rest. He arrived in camp at midmorning to find most of the hands still playing cards.

  When he unsaddled the mare, one of Augustus’s pigs grunted at him. Both of them were lying under the wagon, sharing the shade with Lippy, who was sound asleep. The shoat was a large pig now, but travel had kept him thin. Call felt it was slightly absurd having pigs along on a cattle drive, but they had proven good foragers as well as good swimmers. They got across the rivers without any help.

  Augustus was oiling his rifle. “How far did you ride that horse?” he asked.

  “To the next water and back,” Call said. “Did you ever see a horse like her? She ain’t even tired.”

  “How far is it to water?” Augustus asked.

  “About eighty miles,” Call said. “What do you think?”

  “I ain’t give it no thought at all, so far,” Augustus said.

  “We can’t just sit here,” Call said.

  “Oh, we could,” Augustus said. “We could have stopped pretty much anywhere along the way. It’s only your stubbornness kept us going this long. I guess it’ll be interesting to see if it can get us the next eighty miles.”

  Call got a plate and ate a big meal. He expected Po Campo to say something about their predicament, but the old cook merely dished out the food and said nothing. Deets was helping Pea Eye trim one of his horse’s feet, a task Pea Eye had never been good at.

  “Find the water, Captain?” Deets asked, smiling.

  “I found it, ’bout eighty miles away,” Call said.

  “That’s far,” Pea Eye said.

  They had stopped the cattle at the last stream that Deets had found, and now Call walked down it a way to think things over. He saw a gray wolf. It seemed to him to be the same wolf they had seen in Nebraska, after the picnic, but he told himself that was foolish speculation. A gray wolf wouldn’t follow a cattle herd.

  Deets finished trimming the horse’s hooves and wiped the sweat off his face with his shirtsleeve. Pea Eye stood silently nearby. Though the two of them had soldiered together for most of their lives, they had never really had a conversation. It had seemed unnecessary. They exchanged information, and that was about it. Pea, indeed, had always been a little doubtful of the propriety of talking to Negroes, although he liked and respected Deets and was grateful to him now for trimming the horse’s feet. He knew Deets was a great deal more competent than he was in many areas—tracking, for example. He knew that if it had not been for Deets’s skill in finding water they might have all starved years before in campaigns on the llano. He knew, too, that Deets had risked his life a number of times to save his, and yet, standing there side by side, the only thing he could think of to talk about was the Captain’s great love for the Hell Bitch.

  “Well, he’s mighty fond of that horse,” he said. “And she might kill him yet.”

  “She ain’t gonna kill the Captain,” Deets said. He had the sad sense that things were not right. It seemed they were going to go north forever, and he couldn’t think why. Life had been orderly and peaceful in Texas. He himself had particularly enjoyed his periodic trips to San Antonio to deposit money. Texas had always been their country, and it was a puzzle to him why they were going to a country that would probably be so wild there wouldn’t even be banks to take money to.

  “We way up here and it ain’t our country,” he said, looking at Pea. That was the heart of it—best to stay in your own country and not go wandering off where you didn’t know the rivers or the water holes.

  “Now up here, it’s gonna be cold,” he added, as if that were proof enough of the folly of their trip.

  “Well, I hope we get there before the rivers start icing,” Pea said. “I always worry about that thin ice.”

  With that he turned away, and the lengthy conversation was over.

  By midafternoon Call came back from his walk and decided they would go ahead. It was go ahead or go back, and he didn’t mean to go back. It wasn’t rational to think of driving cattle over eighty waterless miles, but he had learned in his years of tracking Indians that things which seemed impossible often weren’t. They only became so if one thought about them too much so that fear took over. The thing to do was go. Some of the cattle might not make it, but then, he had never expected to reach Montana with every head.

  He told the cowboys to push the cattle and horses on to water and hold them there.

  Without saying a word, Augustus walked over, took off his clothes, and had a long bath in the little stream. The cowboys holding the herd could see him sitting in the shallow water, now and then splashing some on his long white hair.

  “Sometimes I think Gus is crazy,” Soupy Jones said. “Why is he sitting in the water?”

  “Maybe he’s fishing,” Dish Boggett said facetiously. He had no opinion of Soupy Jones and saw no reason why Gus shouldn’t bathe if he wanted to.

  Augustus came walking back to the wagon with his hair dripping.

  “It looks like sandy times ahead,” he said. “Call, you got too much of the prophet in you. You’re always trying to lead us into the deserts.”

  “Well, there’s water there,” Call said. “I seen it. If we can get them close enough that they can smell it, they’ll go. How far do you think a cow can smell water?”

  “Not no eighty miles,” Augustus said.

  They started the herd two hours before sundown and drove all night through the barren country. The hands had made night drives before and were glad to be traveling in the cool. Most of them expected, though, that Call would stop for breakfast, but he didn’t. He rode ahead of the herd and kept on going. Some of the hands were beginning to feel empty. They kept looking hopefully for a sign that Call might slacken and let Po Campo feed them—but Call didn’t slacken. They kept the cattle moving until midday, by which time some of the weaker cattle were already lagging well behind. The leaders were tired and acting fractious.

  Finally Call did stop. “We’ll rest a little until it starts to get cool,” he said. “Then we’ll drive all night again. That ought to put us close.”

  He wasn’t sure, though. For all their effort, they had covered only some thirty-five or forty miles. It would be touch and go.

  Late that afternoon, while the cowboys were lying around resting, a wind sprang up from the west. From the first, it was as hot as if it were blowing over coals. By the time Call was ready to start the herd again, the wind had risen and they faced a full-fledged sandstorm. It blew so hard that the cattle were reluctant to face it.

  Newt, with the Rainey boys, was holding the drags, as usual. The wind howled across the flat plain, and the sand seemed to sing as it skimmed the ground. Newt found that looking into the wind blinded him almost instantly. He mostly ducked his head and kept his eyes shut. The horses didn’t like the sand either. They began to duck and jump around, irritated at being forced into such a wind.

  “This is bad luck,” Augustus said to Call. He adjusted his bandana over his nose and he pulled his hat down as far as it would go.

  “We can’t stop here,” Call said. “We ain’t but halfway to water.”

  “Yes, and some of them will still be halfway when this blows itself out,” Augustus said.

  Call helped Lippy and the cook tie down everything on the wagon. Lippy, who hated wind, looked frightened; Po Campo said nothing.

  “You better ride tonight,” Call said to Po Campo. “If you try to walk you might get lost.”

  “We all might get lost tonight,” Po Campo said. He took an old ax handle that he sometimes used as a cane and walked, but at least he consented to walk right with the wagon.

  None of the men—no strangers to sandstorms—could remember such a sunset. The sun was like a dying coal, ringed with black long before it neared the horizon. After it set, the rim of the earth was blood-red for a few minutes, then the red was streaked with black. The afterglow was quic
kly snuffed out by the sand. Jasper Fant wished for the thousandth time that he had stayed in Texas. Dish Boggett was troubled by the sensation that there was a kind of river of sand flowing above his head. When he looked up in the eerie twilight, he seemed to see it, as if somehow the world had turned over and the road that ought to be beneath his feet was now over his head. If the wind stopped, he felt, the sand river would fall and bury him.

  Call told them to keep as close to the cattle as possible and to keep the cattle moving. Any cattle that wandered far would probably starve to death.

  Augustus thought the order foolish. “The only way to keep this herd together would be to string a rope around them—and we ain’t got that much rope,” he said.

  Shortly after dark he was proven right. None of the animals wanted to go into the wind. It quickly became necessary for the cowboys to cover their horses’ eyes with jackets or shirts; and despite the hands’ precautions, little strings of cattle began to stray. Newt tried unsuccessfully to turn back two bunches, but the cattle paid him no mind, even when he bumped them with his horse. Finally he let them go, feeling guilty as he did it but not guilty enough to risk getting lost himself. He knew if he lost the herd he was probably done for; he knew it was a long way to water and he might not be able to find it, even though he was riding the good sorrel that Clara had given him.

  Call felt sick with worry—the sandstorm was the worst possible luck, for it slowed down the herd and sapped the animals’ strength just when they needed all they had just to reach the water. And yet there was nothing he could do about it. He tried to tie an old shirt around the Hell Bitch’s eyes, but she shook him off so vigorously that he finally let it go.

  At the height of the storm it seemed as if the herd might split into fragments. It was hard to see ten feet, and little bunches of cattle broke off unnoticed and slipped past the cowboys. Deets, more confident of his ability to find his way around than most, rode well west of the herd, turning back cattle whenever he found any. But it finally became pitch-dark, and even Deets could do nothing.

  Augustus rode through the storm with a certain indifference, thinking of the two women he had just left. He took no interest in the straying cattle. That was Call’s affair. He felt he himself deserved to be in the middle of a sandstorm on the Wyoming plain for being such a fool as to leave the women. Not a man to feel guilty, he was merely annoyed at himself for what he considered a misjudgment.

  To Call’s great relief, the storm blew itself out in three hours. The wind gradually died and the sand lay under their feet again instead of peppering them. The moon was soon visible, and the sky filled with bright stars. It would not be possible to judge how many cattle had strayed until the morning, but at least the main herd was still under their control.

  But the storm and the long drive the day before had taken its toll in energy. By dawn, half the men were asleep in their saddles. They wanted to stop, but again Call pushed on; he knew they had lost ground, and was not going to stop just because the men were sleepy. All morning he rode through the herd, encouraging the men to push the cattle. He was not sure how far they had come, but he knew they still had a full day to go. Lack of water was beginning to tell on the horses, and the weaker cattle were barely stumbling along.

  Deets alone brought back most of the strayed bunches, none of which had strayed very far. The plain was so vast and flat that the cattle were visible for miles, at least to Augustus and Deets, the eyesight champions.

  “There’s a bunch you missed,” Augustus said, pointing to the northwest. Deets looked, nodded, and rode away. Jasper Fant looked and saw nothing but heat waves and blue sky. “I guess I need spectacles,” he said. “I can’t see nothing but nothing.”

  “Weak brains breed weak eyesight,” Augustus said.

  “We all got weak brains or we wouldn’t be here,” Soupy said sourly. He had grown noticeably more discontented in recent weeks—no one knew why.

  Finally at noon Call stopped. The effort to move the drags was wearing out the horses. When the cowboys got to the wagon, most of them took a cup of water and dropped sound asleep on the ground, not bothering with bedrolls or even saddle blankets. Po Campo rationed the water carefully, giving each man only three swallows. Newt felt that he could have drunk a thousand swallows. He had never tasted anything so delicious. He had never supposed plain water could be so desirable. He remembered all the times he had carelessly drunk his fill. If he ever got another chance, he meant to enjoy it more.

  Call let them rest three hours and then told them to get their best mounts. Some of the cattle were so weak the cowboys had to dismount, pull their tails and shout at them to get them up. Call knew that if they didn’t make it on the next push, they would have to abandon the cattle in order to save the horses. Even after their rest, many of the cattle had their tongues hanging out. They were mulish, reluctant to move, but after much effort on the part of the exhausted men, the drive was started again.

  Through the late afternoon and far into the night the cattle stumbled over the plain, the weaker cattle falling farther and farther behind. By daybreak the herd was strung out to a distance of more than five miles, most of the men plodding along as listlessly as the cattle. The day was as hot as any they remembered from south Texas—the distances that had spawned yesterday’s wind refused to yield even a breeze, and it seemed to the men that the last moisture in their bodies was pouring out as sweat. They all yearned for evening and looked at the sun constantly, but the sun seemed as immobile as if suspended by a wire.

  Toward midday many of the cattle began to turn back toward the water they had left two days before. Newt, struggling with a bunch, nearly got knocked off his horse by three steers that walked right into him. He noticed, to his shock, that the cattle didn’t seem to see him—they were stumbling along, white-eyed. Appalled, he rode over to the Captain.

  “Captain, they’re going blind,” he said.

  Call looked grim. “It ain’t real blindness,” he said. “They get that way when they’re real thirsty. They’ll try to go back to the last water.”

  He told the men to forget the weaker cattle and try to keep the stronger ones moving.

  “We ought to make the water by night,” he said.

  “If we make night,” Augustus said.

  “We can’t just stop and die,” Call said.

  “I don’t intend to,” Augustus said. “But some of the men might. That Irishman is delirious. He ain’t used to such dry country.”

  Indeed the terrible heat had driven Allen O’Brien out of his head. Now and then he would try to sing, though his tongue was swollen and his lips cracked.

  “You don’t need to sing,” Call said.

  Allen O’Brien looked at him angrily. “I need to cry, but I’ve got no tears,” he said. “This goddamn country has burned up my tears.”

  Call had been awake for over three days, and he began to feel confused himself. He knew water couldn’t be much farther, but, all the same, fatigue made him doubtful. Perhaps it had been a hundred miles rather than eighty. They would never make it, if so. He tried to remember, searching his mind for details that would suggest how far the river might be, but there were precious few landmarks on the dry plain, and the harder he concentrated the more his mind seemed to slip. He was riding the Hell Bitch, but for long moments he imagined he was riding old Ben again—a mule he had relied on frequently during his campaigning on the llano. Ben had had an infallible sense of direction and a fine nose for water. He wasn’t fast but he was sure. At the time, some men had scoffed at him for riding a mule, but Call ignored them. The stakes were life or death, and Ben was the most reliable animal he had ever seen, if far from the prettiest.

  The men had had the last of Po Campo’s water that morning, barely enough to wet their tongues. Po Campo doled it out with severity, careful to see that no one got more than his share. Though the old man had walked the whole distance, using his ax-handle cane, he seemed not particularly tired.

  Call, th
ough, was so tired he felt his mind slipping. Try as he might, he couldn’t stay awake. Once he slept for a few steps, then jerked awake, convinced he was fighting again the battle of Fort Phantom Hill. He looked around for Indians, but saw only the thirst-blinded cattle, their long tongues hanging out, their breath rasping. His mind slipped again, and when he awoke next it was dark. The Hell Bitch was trotting. When he opened his eyes he saw the Texas bull trot past him. He reached for his reins, but they were not there. His hands were empty. Then, to his amazement, he saw that Deets had taken his reins and was leading the Hell Bitch.

  No one had ever led his horse before. Call felt embarrassed. “Here, I’m awake,” he said, his voice just a whisper.

  Deets stopped and gave him his reins. “Didn’t want you to fall and get left, Captain,” he said. “The water ain’t far now.”

  That was evident from the quickened pace of the cattle, from the way the horses began to prick their ears. Call tried to shake the sleep off, but it was as if he were stuck in it. He could see, but it took a great effort to move, and he wasn’t immediately able to resume command.

  Augustus loped up, seemingly fresh. “We better get everybody to the front,” he said. “We’ll need to try and spread them when they hit the water. Otherwise they’ll all pile into the first mudhole and tromple themselves.”

  Most of the cattle were too weak to run, but they broke into a trot. Call finally shook the sleep off and helped Dish and Deets and Augustus split the herd. They were only partially successful. The cattle were moving like a blind army, the scent of water in their nostrils. Fortunately they hit the river above where Call had hit it, and there was more water. The cattle spread of their own accord.