A sheriff in the town, a young man much in awe of the Captain, had no deputies to spare, so the Captain spent the rest of the day looking at horses and pack mules, or choosing the equipment they would need on a journey up the river.
It was at this point that Brookshire gave the Captain a bad start. When Colonel Terry instructed his people to send the Captain a telegram, he meant, of course, to make it clear that Brookshire was to accompany him from beginning to end; that is, until Joey Garza was dead, or caught. The Colonel didn’t spend money recklessly. Brookshire was a trained accountant. For more than twenty years, he had kept up with the Colonel’s bills. The only bills he wasn’t allowed to see were those that pertained to the Colonel’s mistress, a mystery woman named Miss Cora. No one in the office had ever seen Miss Cora, though it was known that the Colonel kept her in an apartment on Fifth Avenue. Once in a while a bill for flowers or jewelry would get misdirected and arrive in the office, a circumstance that invariably threw the Colonel into a temper.
“Why, that idiot, that’s for Cora,” he would say, snatching the bill and stuffing it into his pocket. The Colonel’s wife, another mystery figure, was known in the office as Miss Eleanora. She was thought to be prim, and her primness, in the minds of the office workers, explained Miss Cora and the apartment on Fifth Avenue, and the jewelry, and the flowers.
Now and then, seeing one of the misdirected bills—they were always from establishments of high repute—Brookshire would dream a little. He would imagine that he was as rich as the Colonel and able to keep a nice girlie, one whose standards in the matter of sweat were not as high as Katie’s. He thought of this girlie as his Miss Belle, for he liked the name Belle. Of course, it was just a little dream. Brookshire knew that he would never be as rich as the Colonel, and even if he did acquire a little more money he might never find a girl named Belle who would care to live in an apartment on Fifth Avenue and receive flowers and jewelry, from him. It was just his little dream.
The point, though, that startled Captain Call was that Colonel Terry expected Brookshire and his ledger books to accompany Call on his chase. The Captain had been promised his expenses, as well as a substantial bonus, in the event of rapid success. An expedition, even a small one, was bound to incur expenses, so naturally, Brookshire was expected to keep a full accounting. Mostly, when trouble had arisen in the past, it had involved dirty work on the part of Colonel Terry’s rivals in Chicago or Cleveland or Buffalo—someplace civilized. In those cases, Brookshire’s job was to rein in the Pinkertons. As a rule, Pinkertons were inclined to be casual about money, and the Colonel wasn’t.
Employing Captain Call to catch Joey Garza was not as simple as hiring the Pinkertons to beat up a switch buster. There was only one point of similarity, which was that in both cases, the Colonel’s money was being spent. And when the Colonel’s money was being spent, he expected a full accounting.
“Why? Doesn’t the man trust me?” Call asked, when Brookshire revealed that he was expected to accompany him.
“The Colonel don’t trust God,” Brookshire said. The comment just slipped out. Colonel Terry’s unwillingness to trust was not lost on any of his employees. He was constantly popping into the office to inspect their work. When Brookshire turned in his ledgers at the end of each week, the Colonel sat right down, took out his big magnifying glass, and went over the pages line by line.
Call was inspecting a stout gray gelding that he thought might do, when Brookshire revealed that he was expected to come along. Call had just lifted the horse’s foreleg, in order to inspect the hoof. He was going into rocky country and the animals would need good feet. The notion that Brookshire, a man who couldn’t keep his hat on his head, was planning to go with him into Mexico had never occurred to Call. Bol, shaky as he was, would be less of an impediment. At least Bol was used to hard living, and he was Mexican. Brookshire seemed to be a decent man, but decency was one thing, experience entirely another. Call had no idea whether the man could even ride.
“But Mr. Brookshire,” he said. “You’re not equipped, and this isn’t your line of work. I know you’re a family man, and there is some danger involved. To be blunt, I’d rather not take you.”
“I’d rather not go, neither, but what choice do I have?” Brookshire asked. “I’m a salaried man. I work for Colonel Terry. He expects me to keep the daily accounts—besides that, he expects reports.”
“Reports?” Call asked.
“Yes, I’m expected to report,” Brookshire said. It was clear from the Captain’s stern look that he was not pleased with what he was hearing.
“If you capture the young Mexican, or kill him, the Colonel’s going to want to know right away,” Brookshire added. “He’s a stickler for promptness.”
“I expect he’s a stickler for results, too,” Call said. “What if I don’t catch the young bandit promptly enough? What if he manages to rob the Army a few more times?”
Brookshire felt uncomfortable with the question. He had not been the only one in the office to voice doubts about the Captain’s age. Of course, everyone admired Call’s reputation. He had undoubtedly been the best there was, once; in his prime, Joey Garza probably wouldn’t have lasted a week, with the Captain in pursuit.
But now the man was old, and looked it. If Colonel Terry could see him, he would probably have taken back his offer, or at least reduced the stipend.
“I hope I’m not getting deaf,” Call said. “I didn’t hear you answer. What happens if I ain’t quick enough?”
“He’ll fire you in a minute,” Brookshire said.
“I’m glad you admit it,” Call said. “I’ll get Joey Garza for you, but I can’t say when I’ll get him, and God couldn’t either. Mexico is a big place—so is West Texas. We might not be handy to a telegraph office the day the Colonel decides to fire me.”
“Captain, just catch the bandit,” Brookshire said. “Don’t worry about Colonel Terry, too much. Worrying about the Colonel is my job.”
“Couldn’t you get another job?” Call asked. “I don’t think you enjoy this one too much. This Colonel of yours sounds like he’s rough on the help.”
Brookshire didn’t deny it, but refrained from confirming it. He had learned to be cautious in remarking about the Colonel. Remarks uttered hundreds of miles from the office nonetheless had a way of reaching the man’s ear.
“I like a loyal man,” Call said, seeing that Brookshire had nothing to say. “I think you are a loyal man. But being loyal don’t mean you’re suited for this work. It’s unreasonable of your boss to expect you to do work you’re not trained for.”
“He is unreasonable, though,” Brookshire said, before he could check his tongue. “He expects me to go, and I better go. I admit I ain’t qualified. I’m about as unqualified a man as you could find anywhere. But here I am. I’m expected to go.”
“Send the Colonel a telegram,” Call suggested. “Tell him you’ve caught the Texas itch. Tell him the doctor says you’re not to ride for six weeks.”
“What’s the Texas itch?” Brookshire asked, wondering if he would catch it. “How do you get it?”
“You just get it,” Call said, amused. The man was so green it was almost painful to see. Call couldn’t help thinking what a time his old friend Gus McCrae would have had with Mr. Brookshire. Gus would have joshed him within an inch of his life. No doubt he could have thought up diseases far more frightening than the Texas itch.
“Well, I don’t want it,” Brookshire said.
“I don’t want to take you off and get you killed, either,” Call said. “Can you shoot?”
“I can point a rifle, fairly well,” Brookshire said. “I learned that much in the War, but then they made me a medical orderly. I haven’t pointed a rifle since.”
“How long since you’ve ridden a horse?” Call asked.
“My experience with horses is mostly limited to horse cabs,” Brookshire admitted. “I may not have personally ridden a horse myself in a fair number of years.
“I did sit
on a camel once,” he remembered. “It was at the Hippodrome. It was the Colonel’s birthday.”
“What’s the Hippodrome?” Call asked.
“It’s a show place,” Brookshire said. “Buffalo Bill has performed there—I’ve seen him three times. I even saw old Sitting Bull. The Colonel has met Buffalo Bill, and Sitting Bull too, I expect.”
Call said nothing.
“Have you met Mr. Cody?” Brookshire inquired, feeling a little uneasy. Stern as the Captain could be when he spoke, he was even more stern when he kept silent.
“I’ve not had the pleasure,” Call said, dryly. He considered Cody a show-off and braggart. No doubt he had killed a number of buffalo, but any man with a gun and a reasonably good aim could have killed a number of buffalo back when there were millions of them. Once, while in El Paso, Call had seen a picture of some of the Indians who worked in Cody’s show. The Indians were Sioux, and they were playing baseball. Call supposed, when he reflected on it, there was no reason why Sioux Indians shouldn’t play baseball. What else did they have to do? There was no reason why they shouldn’t be paid money to race around a ring and pretend to rob stagecoaches, either. Cody was clearly a man of some enterprise; he figured out that people who had never seen a free Indian, much less fought one, would pay money to watch such things. There might be no harm in it, but it didn’t cause him to be eager to make the acquaintance of Bill Cody, or of Sitting Bull, either.
“Anyway, the Colonel insisted that I sit on the camel and get my picture took,” Brookshire said. It had been innocent enough—just a birthday party at the Hippodrome—but Brookshire felt merely mentioning it had taken him down a notch in the Captain’s estimation. He didn’t suppose he had ever occupied a very high place in the Captain’s estimation, but he couldn’t afford to drop many more notches.
“You can’t ride and you don’t know whether you can shoot,” the Captain said, in a tone that was not unkind. “Your hat blows off every few minutes, and the heat don’t suit you. We may have to cross a desert or two, to catch Joey Garza. We may never catch up with him, and if we do he might shoot us both.”
“Shoot you?” Brookshire said, surprised. “Why, I don’t expect he could shoot you.”
“He might,” Call said. “He’s said to be a notable shot.”
“But you’ve got a reputation,” Brookshire said. “The Colonel wouldn’t have hired you, otherwise.”
“There’s one sure thing about my reputation, Mr. Brookshire,” Call said. “It won’t stop a bullet. That’s why I’d rather not take you with me. I don’t want to take you off and get you killed.”
“Killed?” Brookshire said. “Why would I get killed?”
It occurred to Brookshire that the heat might have affected his hearing. He had worked for the railroad for many years, but never before had the question of dying arisen. Accountants didn’t get killed, not even traveling accountants such as himself. During the worst troubles in the Chicago yards, he had still rested comfortably in a hotel room at night and had even allowed himself a nip of brandy now and then.
“Killed or not, the Colonel expects me to go,” Brookshire repeated, in a voice that wavered a little.
“Try him with the Texas itch, while I inspect these horses,” Call said. “You’ll have ample time to send your telegram.”
Brookshire did send a telegram. He didn’t mention any disease or disability, for that might only cause the Colonel to put him out to pasture. After much thought and a few trial runs, he whittled his telegram down to a sentence and a query:
CAPTAIN CALL UNWILLING TO TAKE ME ON THE EXPEDITION. STOP. ADVISE. BROOKSHIRE.
The reply was immediate, and also brief:
INSIST THAT YOU ACCOMPANY CALL. STOP. NO COMPROMISES ENTERTAINED. TERRY.
Brookshire showed the telegram to Call, just before they set off to collect Bolivar. Call looked at it and handed it back to him.
“I’ll compromise, if he won’t,” Call said. “I’ll try you as far as Laredo. You can help me watch Bol. Sometimes he wanders off, in the night. You can ride one of the spare horses.”
“Could I have a gun?” Brookshire asked.
“What kind of gun?” Call asked.
“A rifle, I guess,” Brookshire said. “Or a shotgun, and a few pistols. I believe I’d feel more comfortable if I was armed.”
“Help yourself,” Call said. “There’s a hardware store right across the street. I’ve got to see a blacksmith and buy some extra horseshoes. I’ll see if I can locate you a saddle, while I’m at it. I’ll be ready in thirty minutes.”
Call arrived back thirty minutes later, riding one horse and leading two more plus a pair of mules, to find that Brookshire had equipped himself with two large Colt revolvers, a Winchester, and an eight-gauge shotgun.
“Good Lord,” Call said. “What do you expect to do with an eight-gauge shotgun?”
“Well, the fellow in the hardware store recommended it,” Brookshire said, defensively. He had been proud of his big shotgun, but now the Captain was looking askance at it, and his confidence began to sag.
The Captain picked up the gun and hefted it to his shoulder a time or two.
“It’ll take a whole mule, just to carry the shells,” he remarked, handing the shotgun back to Brookshire.
“The man said it would be useful for self-defense,” Brookshire said.
“I can’t dispute that,” Call said. “It’ll kick you into next week, but if you survive the kick, you probably won’t have to worry much about the enemy.”
“The revolvers are the newest model,” Brookshire said, unhappily. The sense that he was totally unfit for what he was about to do struck him with renewed force. But the die seemed cast. Captain Call had turned away, and he was methodically strapping baggage onto one of the pack mules.
From there they went to retrieve the old Mexican who was out of his mind. By the time the full heat of the day arrived, they had left the last mud hovel behind and were headed across a dusty, thorny plain toward the Mexican border. The horse that had been chosen for Brookshire was a thin sorrel named Dob.
“I don’t understand the name,” Brookshire said, wishing the beast’s spine weren’t so thin. He had expected his saddle to afford him more comfort than it did.
“It’s just a name,” Call said. “Maybe he was named after a dirt dobber, but that’s just a guess.”
Brookshire was wondering if Colonel Terry would honor the bill for Dob. The horse had cost eighty-five dollars, a vast sum in Brookshire’s mind. What if Colonel Terry had only meant to allow him a sixty-dollar horse? Where would the difference come from?
Call had insisted that Brookshire dispense with the fedora and buy a proper felt hat. He had also insisted on equipping him with rough clothes, boots, even chapaderos, the leggings that were necessary in the brush country near the border.
The result, Call had to admit, made the man look ridiculous, not only in his eyes, but in the eyes of almost everyone who saw him. Somehow, his Yankeeness was more potent with the clothes—he looked like nothing so much as a New York accountant who had been forced to assume a costume that was completely out of keeping with his nature.
Brookshire himself had felt quite self-conscious in his new clothes, but once they rode out of San Antonio, he found that how he looked was the least of his worries. His new hat seemed to weigh several times as much as his beloved fedora. He had not considered the fedora beloved until he tried the new hat, which, besides being heavy, fitted him so tightly that it gave him a headache. The heat didn’t help his headache, nor did the boots help his feet.
“They squeeze, don’t they,” Brookshire said, but Captain Call looked as if he had no idea what Brookshire could be talking about. The Captain’s boots apparently didn’t squeeze.
To Brookshire’s surprise and dismay, sitting on Dob was somewhat like sitting on a saw. The horse was very lean, and the saddle narrow and hard. Though his head hurt and his feet hurt, and he felt that within a few miles he would probably be sawed
in two, none of these discomforts was as troubling to Brookshire as the nature of the country they were traveling through. He had not supposed there could be country so bleak and inhospitable anywhere in the American nation. The ground was covered with flat cactuses; the Captain called them prickly pear. There were also thick, gray thornbushes called chaparral, interlaced amid the equally thorny mesquite. Several times they encountered rattlesnakes, which buzzed alarmingly. Though it was only midafternoon, Brookshire was feeling tired. But looking at the ground beneath him, he had a hard time imagining where he was going to sleep.
The one thing he didn’t expect he would have to fear was a chill. The sky was not like the skies of home. It was vast, and instead of being blue, it was white, not with cloud but with heat.
Captain Call was not satisfied with the behavior of one of the mules. The beast was skittish. He jumped around so much that the Captain was finally forced to get down and lash the baggage more securely.
“Do snakes crawl around at night?” Brookshire asked.
“That’s when they hunt,” Call said. “I’m sorry I chose this mule.”
The mule, as if annoyed by the comment, tried to bite Call, who whacked him on the nose with a glove.
“I expect I’d better replace him in Laredo,” Call said. “I’m glad Bol’s calmed down. He usually does, once we get moving.”
Indeed, the old Mexican seemed much calmer. Once in a while, he muttered something in Spanish, but his eyes were dreamy, and he seemed happy to be on a mule.
Brookshire found that, despite the many discomforts and the prospect of a thorny sleep, he was not entirely discontented. The clothes took some getting used to, particularly the boots. He was sweating so much that Katie would probably divorce him on sight, in her shock at discovering that he contained such reservoirs of sweat.
Still, it was an adventure, the first of his life, unless you counted the War; but he had been so young and so scared during the War that he couldn’t enjoy himself.
Now, though, he was riding out of San Antonio, bound for Mexico, with the famous Captain Call. They were going in search of a dangerous Mexican bandit, Joey Garza. It might be uncomfortable, but it was exciting, too. He owned four guns, and they were loaded. He was on his own in the West—on his own, except for Captain Call. Colonel Terry couldn’t find him to yell at him. He couldn’t even yell at him by telegram, not for a while. The Captain had said it would take about three days to reach Laredo. Brookshire felt that he would be an accomplished horseman by the time they got there. Perhaps he would be an accomplished shot, too.
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 238
