The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  It was all she could do, once she got outside, even to raise her eyes to her husband. But she did, just briefly. His eyes, though troubled, were the same honest eyes that had won through her reluctance, long ago, in Wyoming. She kissed him briefly, gave him a long, tight hug, and then, moving stiffly, like a woman whose back has been injured, helped her children into the buggy and drove away to school. The children all looked back at their father, but Lorena didn’t. She kept her eyes fixed on the plains ahead.

  Pea Eye put a little salt and pepper in a sack, stuck a small skillet in his saddlebags, and stood at his back door a minute, wondering when he would see them all again, his loved ones, already almost out of sight to the north.

  Then he mounted Patches, made sure his rifle and scabbard were tight, and turned himself south, toward Mexico, to go to the assistance of Captain Woodrow Call.

  14.

  ON HIS WAY into Mexico, Call stopped to say goodbye to Bolivar. The old man had been with him a long time. Seeing him brought back memories, good and bad, of the Ranger troop and the Hat Creek outfit: memories of Gus and Deets, Pea Eye and Newt, Call’s son. Only after the boy’s death, in Montana, had Call been able to admit that Newt had been his son. Now, with the boy several years dead, it made Call sad to think of him. He had fathered a son, but had not been a father to him, although Newt had lived with the Hat Creek outfit most of his short life. He had lived with the outfit, but as an employee, not a son. Now it was too late to change any of that. The memory of it was a sore that throbbed every time his mind touched it. Bolivar, who had not many more years to live, was so woven into Call’s memories of earlier days that Call had begun to hate leaving him behind, although Bolivar was an old, frail man who could not travel hard and perhaps ought not to travel at all.

  But leaving him behind had become, to Call, like leaving his own life behind.

  “Capitán, the bell! I can still ring the bell!” Bolivar said. He had a desperate look in his eye and a quaver in his voice. He saw that the capitán was about to leave without him. The two gringos with him were mounted, and there was a pack mule, well laden. It meant the capitán was going, perhaps never to come back.

  The bell he referred to was the dinner bell, near the livery stable in Lonesome Dove, a business that Call and his partner, Gus McCrae, had once owned. Bolivar had summoned them all to his never very appetizing meals by whacking the dinner bell with a broken crowbar. As he grew older and less in control of his mind, he sometimes rang the bell whether he had made a meal or not. He often rang it when there was no one in hearing to come and eat the meal he had made. Beating the bell with the broken crowbar took his mind off the disappointments of life. The bell rang so loudly that it almost deafened him, but he continued to beat it fiercely, nonetheless. His life had contained many disappointments, and he needed something to make him forget them, even if he was deafened in the process.

  Call, and Bolivar, too, regretted that the Hat Creek outfit was gone. What they had in common now was their regret. But the outfit was gone. Some of its members were dead, and those still living were scattered up the rivers and across the plains. Newt and Deets and Gus were no longer alive, and Call had the feeling that Bolivar might not be alive, either, when he returned to Laredo.

  “That old man needs a haircut,” Deputy Plunkert said, as they were leaving Nuevo Laredo. The old man’s white hair hung almost to his shoulders.

  “He tried to stab the barber with the scissors, the last time anyone tried to cut his hair,” Call explained.

  “I’d rather see him with hair down to his ankles than to trust him with anything he might hurt somebody with,” Brookshire said. He remembered, with rue, that Bolivar had grabbed a shotgun out of his hand and killed the best mule with it. He was glad Bolivar was being left behind; he had been a little worried that Call might relent and let him come with them, something that would not have pleased Colonel Terry.

  The fact that Captain Call immediately left Texas and crossed into Mexico startled Deputy Plunkert a bit. His personal preference would have been that they continue to travel on the Texas side of the river. He himself was not comfortable being south of the border, particularly if he was in the vicinity of Laredo itself. As a deputy, with his own badge, Ted Plunkert had participated in the hanging of several Mexicans. He had to shoot two Mexicans personally, and had to whack various Mexicans around a good bit. After all, it was his job, and the community expected it of him. He knew that, as a result of his very diligence, he had made himself not merely unpopular but hated, south of the border. Deputy Plunkert knew, too, that Mexican families were often vengeful, going to much trouble to avenge friends who had been wounded or killed. The deputy was prepared to make it clear to anyone who asked that he would be more comfortable on the Texas side of the river.

  “There’s a fair road up to Del Rio,” he said, only to be immediately slapped down by the Captain.

  “We’re not going to Del Rio,” Call said, bluntly. “I prefer to avoid settlements, when I can. There’s too much gossip, in settlements. We don’t want the Garza boy to know we’re coming, if we can help it.”

  Deputy Plunkert didn’t answer, but he found the Captain’s position discouraging. Before going five miles from his home, he had begun to entertain some powerful second thoughts.

  He had never supposed that the Captain would just jump right into Mexico. Of course, he knew they might have to cross into it sometime, but he had assumed that they would be several hundred miles up the river before that happened. His own bad reputation was mainly local. Five or six hundred miles upriver, they would be less likely to run into Mexicans who might be carrying a grudge. Now, though, they were right in the thick of the Mexicans who carried the hottest grudges. It was going to affect his peace of mind.

  Also, he’d had a few hours in which to get a better look at his traveling companions. In Laredo, he had been so in awe of Captain Call that he had scarcely been able to look at him at all. In fact, except for a glance at the beginning, he hadn’t looked at him. The man’s aura was such that merely hearing his name blinded most people, as it had blinded him.

  Now, though, riding across the empty, dusty country, the hero’s aura had dimmed somewhat. The deputy saw that he was traveling with an old, stiff man, a man who had a hard time lifting his leg high enough to catch his stirrup. Captain Call had a gray, weary look about him, the look of a man who wasn’t young, and wasn’t healthy.

  The Yankee traveling with them was just a raw dude, of course. He looked silly in his new boots and hat and pants, loaded down with guns. The fact that Captain Call would set out to catch a killer with such a man in tow made Deputy Plunkert wonder about the old man’s judgment.

  The deputy had a sudden, powerful urge to change his mind. He wanted to declare a mistake, go home, snuggle up to his wife, Doobie, and kiss her until she wiggled with desire. Now he had set out on a long journey, with an uncertain outcome. When would he get to enjoy Doobie’s wiggling again? Why had he thought he wanted to leave? It had all been because the old Captain enjoyed such a blinding reputation. Doubting him was like doubting the sun.

  Now that they were riding together, Call didn’t seem infallible, or even very active. He just rode along, saying as little as possible. The deputy began to toy with various acceptable ways of saying that he had changed his mind. But none of the lines of talk he toyed with sounded as if they would be acceptable, either to Call or to the general community. And there was no denying, the general community posed a problem. Backing out of a chance to ride with Woodrow Call could ruin a man’s reputation forever, with lawmen and citizens alike, along the border. But his reputation might survive. He just had to come up with some honorable reason for needing to go home. A lame horse would do it, but to his irritation, the horse he was riding showed no trace of lameness.

  As Deputy Plunkert was happily contemplating returning to his eager wife, Captain Call suddenly turned in his saddle and looked hard at him.

  “Do you want to quit, Deputy?”
he asked. It seemed to him that the deputy had developed a faltering manner, and developed it quickly. If the man was going to quit, he wanted him to quit now. It wasn’t admirable, but it wasn’t a crime, either. Like Pea Eye, the deputy had a wife. They were going in pursuit of a youth who might kill them all. The man had not hesitated in making his decision. Now, he probably had second thoughts.

  “Quit?” Deputy Plunkert said, stunned. The old man had suddenly read his thoughts.

  “Yes, that’s what I asked,” Call said. “Do you want to go back to your wife?”

  “Doobie? Why, she’ll get along fine without me, I expect,” the deputy replied.

  “Then you don’t want to quit? You’re sure?” Call asked.

  “Why, Captain, no. I signed on and I’m staying on,” Ted Plunkert said. It amazed him that he couldn’t seem to help lying. What he heard himself say to the Captain was exactly the opposite of what he had just been feeling, the opposite of what he had planned to say. But he couldn’t help himself. Saying the truth wasn’t possible, not when Captain Call was looking at you, hard.

  “What do you think, Brookshire?” Call asked. Though skeptical of Brookshire at first, he had come to respect the man’s judgment in some areas. He might be a fool about hats, but he wasn’t such a fool about people.

  One of Brookshire’s boots was rubbing his heel so badly that he wasn’t capable of giving much thought to anything else. He was wondering whether he’d have a heel left, when they got to camp that night. Also, he was suffering from a touch of his blowing-away feeling again. He had supposed that he had that feeling well under control, for it hadn’t afflicted him since they reached the brushy country around San Antonio. But they were not in San Antonio now. They were not in the brushy country, either. To his eye, Mexico looked even emptier than Texas, emptier, and more forbidding. The night before, he had slipped over to Nuevo Laredo and purchased a few minutes with a Mexican girl, and the experience had been a disappointment. The girl had been inexpensive, but she had also been skinny and had a sad look in her eye during their brief commerce. The poverty in Nuevo Laredo had been a surprise to him too. He had read about Juarez, and Emperor Maximilian, and had expected at least a little splendor. Even in Canada, a country he disliked, there would occasionally be some splendor, at least in Montreal. But there seemed to be none, in Mexico. There were just sad women and children, and old men who gave him unfriendly looks.

  “You’re buying their daughters, or it might be their wives,” Call had said, when Brookshire mentioned the unfriendly looks.

  Now the Captain was soliciting his opinion about Deputy Plunkert, and the fact was, Brookshire really didn’t have one. The man had been a hasty choice, in his view, but that didn’t necessarily mean he had been a bad one.

  “It’s your expedition, or your Colonel’s,” Call reminded him. “Do you think we ought to keep this man, or send him back?”

  “Captain, I can’t go home!” Ted Plunkert said. He was nearing panic. It was as if his deepest thoughts were suddenly being held open to public discussion, a fact that appalled him. Once the Captain had fixed him with the hard look, Ted Plunkert remembered who he was: a deputy sheriff, well respected in Laredo, Texas. Now that he remembered himself, he had begun to feel irritated at Doobie, his wife. It seemed to him that it was mainly her fault, that he had wavered that morning. She had cried so, at the thought of his going, that it weakened him and made him less resolute than he normally was. If Doobie had any serious consideration for him, she should comport herself a little better when he had serious business to attend to. And there couldn’t be business more serious than attending to whatever Captain Call might require of him.

  Doobie had nearly caused him to make a mistake of the sort that could ruin him forever as a lawman, and he meant to speak to her sharply about it, when he got home. He himself might consider that Captain Call looked old and stiff, but that wasn’t the general opinion, along the border. Most people, of course, never saw the real Captain Call, the very one he was riding with into Mexico. Most people only knew the man by reputation, as the Ranger who had protected the border south of Laredo for so long.

  Captain Call had protected the border from bad Mexicans, bad Indians, and bad white men, too. Life was changing, along the border. It was becoming more or less settled. For many years, though, the thought of Captain Call had enabled many people to sleep better at night. They would not soon forget him, and most of them would never know that he was a man who had trouble lifting his leg high enough to catch his stirrup.

  Now that he had strongly reiterated his desire to go, Ted Plunkert couldn’t imagine how he could ever have contemplated quitting, although, in fact, he had contemplated exactly that very thing, not ten minutes earlier. He had never quit anything in his life, unless you counted cotton farming, and that was not a job he had chosen. He just happened to be born on a cotton farm.

  “I came to ride the river with you, Captain,” he said. “It’s something I had always hoped to do. I sure ain’t going home now.”

  Call turned back in his saddle, and let the matter go. Many men wavered, as they were riding into danger. They thought about their own deaths too much, or imagined injuries and pain that might never come. That was what excessive thinking could do, even to men who were moderately brave. Often, the same men, once in a conflict, settled down and fought well. Pea Eye himself had always been a reliable, if not a brilliant, fighting man. Yet he was the most nervous man in the company until hostilities commenced. He was almost too delicate for the rangering life. Call had concluded as much on more than one occasion, but had never quite gotten around to letting the man go. On the trail of Indians or bandits, Pea was prone to headaches, heartburn, upset stomachs, and runny bowels, all of it from nerves, Call was convinced.

  Call felt a brief anger, because Pea hadn’t come with him. But he knew that his anger was wrong, to a degree, and that he needed to let it go. Pea Eye had long since done his share, more than his share, of dangerous traveling with Call. If he now preferred his wife and children and dirt farming, that was his right.

  That night, they camped on the monte, ten miles south of the river. Call had made a snap shot at a small javelina and hit it, so they had young pig to eat. After eating, he sat a little apart, thinking about the task ahead. He had not yet made up his mind where to take up the hunt—take it up seriously, that is. He thought he should probably cut up the Rio Grande, past the great bend, and start hunting there. The boy had bought his fancy rifle in Mexico City, and he had stopped a train in Coahuila, and another in Van Horn, Texas. That showed a remarkable propensity for travel, in a boy so young. It also showed that Joey Garza could cover country. The boy was said to be from a village north of Boquillas, a poor village, it was said. Not many Mexican boys from poor villages would travel to Mexico City to secure a German rifle. It took some thinking about.

  “Do you ever get upset before a fight, Captain?” Deputy Plunkert asked. He addressed himself to the Captain, although the man sat apart, because he did not feel comfortable talking to a Yankee. So far, he had addressed only a few words to Brookshire, mainly yes and no, when the man asked him a question.

  “No, I can’t say that I fret much,” Call said.

  “Now, that’s brave,” Brookshire said. “When I was in the War, I was scared all the time. I was only in the hospital corps, too, I wasn’t shooting at anybody. But I kept having them bad dreams.”

  “What’d you dream?” the deputy asked. He himself was often afflicted with bad dreams.

  “Mainly of having one of them big shells come in low and knock my head off,” Brookshire said. “That very thing happened to a man I know. He was from Hoboken and his name was Johnny Lowe.”

  “Bad luck, I suppose,” Call said.

  “Yes, I’d say it was bad luck,” Brookshire said. “The man gave me his biscuit the morning it happened. He said he was too nervous to eat. He was afraid his stomach would gripe him, if he ate the biscuit. Johnny drove the wagon we hauled the wo
unded in. Off he went, while I stayed by the mess and ate his biscuit. While I was sipping coffee, General Grant rode by. That was the one time I saw General Grant. Then, me and Jackie O’Connor went down the road in a buggy, squinching down as best we could. The shells were just whistling around us like ducks. Most of them hit in the trees. They broke off a world of limbs. We weren’t five minutes down the road, when we saw a bunch of the boys standing around the wagon Johnny had been driving. We thought maybe they were looking at a dead Reb, but no, it was Johnny, and his head was gone. There was just a red bone, sticking out between his shoulders.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Ted Plunkert said. “That’s awful. It was just a bone?”

  “Yes, a red bone,” Brookshire said. “I suppose it was the end of his spine.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Ted said, again. “His neck bone?” The detail he didn’t like was that the bone was red. Of course, all the bones were inside you, where the blood was, but he still felt himself getting queasy at the thought of red bones.

  Call listened with some amusement—not that the incident hadn’t been terrible. Being decapitated was a grisly fate, whether you were a Yankee or not. But then, amusing things happened in battle, as they did in the rest of life. Some of the funniest things he had ever witnessed had occurred during battles. He had always found it more satisfying to laugh on a battlefield than anywhere else, for if you lived to laugh on a battlefield, you could feel you had earned the laugh. But if you just laughed in a saloon, or at a social, the laugh didn’t reach deep.

  In this case, what mainly amused Call was the contemplation of how amused his old partner, Augustus McCrae, would be if he could see the crew he was riding out with on his manhunt. Augustus had a well-developed sense of humor, too well developed, Call had often felt. Yet he missed Augustus’s laughter as much as he missed anything else in his life. Gus enjoyed the predicaments of his fellowmen, and would have laughed long and hard at the spectacle of Call, Brookshire, and lanky Ted Plunkert.