The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  It was vexing, because it made him distrust his own instincts. Maybe he had slipped a notch, as a tracker; or maybe he had just begun to imagine things. Never before had he followed his instincts and come up totally empty.

  All he could do was travel cautiously. At night, he made no fires; he slept little, and kept his horse saddled and the bridle reins in his hand when he lay down. During the day, he kept as much space around him as possible. He tried to stay a mile or more from any cover that might shelter a killer with a fine rifle and a telescope sight. He whirled his horse often, hoping to catch a flash of reflection on a spur or a bridle bit, but he saw no reflections.

  He was alone; yet, he knew he wasn’t.

  Then it occurred to him that perhaps the boy wasn’t on horseback. Perhaps he was a runner, like Famous Shoes, or some of the celebrated Apaches. If so, he was bold indeed. Few men of experience would voluntarily put themselves afoot in such country, in the wintertime. Few would be able to do without fire to rest by, in the freezing night.

  Call’s own hands ached terribly in the mornings. Three days passed without his even unsaddling his horse. He was afraid he might not be able to pull the saddle straps tight again, with his sore hands. When the horse grazed, he walked with him. One night, he napped on his feet, leaning against the horse for warmth. He took the trigger guards off both rifles; his knuckles were too swollen to fit through them.

  On the fifth day, he crossed the trail of Mox Mox and his men. They were traveling toward Fort Stockton. The trail was fresh—the gang had just passed. In fact, to the northwest, Call did see a flash, as the sun struck some piece of equipment.

  Call checked the loads in both rifles and took his extra Colt out of the saddlebags. It was midafternoon. He turned northwest, on the easily followed track of the killers. He put his horse into a lope, debating with himself about the timing of his ambush.

  He could try to overtake them that day; his mount was fresh enough. If he could kill Mox Mox and the Cherokee, the others might run. But he needed good light to shoot by, and he also needed to be close. He was not shooting a German rifle with a telescope sight. He was confident of his marksmanship, but only if the range and the light were favorable. If he attacked at night, as Gus had once attacked Blue Duck’s camp, it would all be guesswork, and anyhow, he had never been as reckless on the attack as Gus McCrae.

  Within an hour, it became apparent that catching up with the gang would be no trouble. They were idling along. Call soon had to drop back and veer west of them to lessen the danger of being observed. He decided then to try to close the gap and hit them as they made camp. They didn’t know he was following them, and might not immediately set a guard.

  The outlaws were even lazier than Call judged them to be, at first. It was only a little past midafternoon when they made camp. Call walked his horse for the last three miles, as he approached. He was one against many, and he wanted to be as meticulous as possible in what he had to do.

  He could not expect to thunder in and kill all the men, or even cripple them sufficiently to remove them as a threat. Above all, he had to try to kill the fighter, Jimmy Cumsa, first.

  As Call cautiously moved, foot by foot, to within two hundred yards of the camp, he heard a child scream. It was a rude surprise—Mox Mox must have taken a child from some farm or ranch, in his marauding. The outlaws had not even made a campfire yet; surely they couldn’t be burning the child.

  But the child continued to scream, as Call crept closer. The child’s screams rang in Call’s ears, echoing other screams, heard years before. On one of his first forays against hostile Indians, when he was a young Ranger, the troop had surprised a little cluster of Comanche, on the Washita. They recovered two young white captives, both girls. Just before the Rangers raced down on the camp, one of the little girls screamed. An old Comanche woman was beating her with a stick. Call shot the old woman, the only female he ever killed in his years of battle. The little girls had lost their minds, from the cold and the beatings. The one the old woman was beating recovered and married; the other one was never right.

  When Call got close enough to look over a low ridge, down into the camp where the child was screaming, he saw that Mox Mox had two children, a boy and a girl. They were bound together by a short length of chain. Mox Mox was quirting the boy savagely, whipping him in the face. The little girl seemed too terrified to even whimper, but the boy screamed every time the quirt struck him. Call looked first for Jimmy Cumsa, but saw at once that he had no clean shot at him—the Cherokee was among the horses, preparing to hobble them for the night. The three Mexicans, the giant, and a small man were standing idle, easy targets. But the giant was standing between Call and Mox Mox, watching him quirt the child. The last man Call couldn’t immediately see, which worried him.

  Call had never seen a man beat a child so savagely. What the old Comanche woman on the Washita had done to the young girl was merely rough, compared to the whipping he was witnessing. Call felt he had to act quickly; otherwise, Mox Mox might whip the boy’s eyes out, or even kill him with the quirt. There was no time to plan; he had to shoot, if he wanted to save the child’s eyesight and possibly his life. He could not shoot the Cherokee first, or the manburner, either. He had to act, if he hoped to save the little boy’s vision.

  Call shot the giant man first, hoping he would fall clear and give him a clean shot at Mox Mox. But the giant staggered, leaving Mox Mox mostly hidden. Call went ahead, risked one shot and hit him, but Mox Mox did not fall. Even before he could lever a third shot, he heard horses racing away and knew that Jimmy Cumsa was escaping. The Cherokee had taken two horses and was hanging between them; Call couldn’t see him at all.

  He shot again at Mox Mox and hit him in the shoulder; then Mox Mox, too, was among the horses. The three Mexicans and the small man were running for their rifles, which had been propped against their saddles. They were slow, perhaps drunk. Call shot all four of them and put them down, not for good, probably, but down.

  Mox Mox couldn’t ride as well as Jimmy Cumsa. Even without a broken shoulder, he could not have handled animals well enough to hang between two horses, but he managed to do the next best thing, which was to spook all the horses and raise a dust. Call snapped a shot at one of the horses Jimmy Cumsa was escaping with; the horse went down, but the Cherokee didn’t go down with it. He switched to the other horse and struggled into the saddle. Call shot again, but by then the range was long and the bullet kicked up dust.

  One of the fallen Mexicans was trying to run to his horse, but his horse was carrying Mox Mox away. Call shot the Mexican again and then threw one more shot at Mox Mox. He could scarcely see him, for the dust, but he thought he hit him in the leg. The big man was stirring, so Call shot him again. What nagged him was the last man—where could he be? Almost as the question registered in his mind, he saw a man trying to pull up his pants, a good distance beyond the camp. He had been shitting and was trying to get his pants up so he could run away, when Call saw him. He was a long way from camp, but Call took a slow aim and brought him down.

  Mox Mox and Jimmy Cumsa were far out of range, but still going. Maybe they would keep running, but there was also a chance they would return and make a fight of it. It would depend on how badly Mox Mox was wounded, and whether he was disposed to fight. Jimmy Cumsa had run from Quanah Parker; probably he would run again, but that was not a certainty.

  Call reloaded, took both rifles, stuck one in his belt, and with a pistol in one hand and a rifle in the other, leading his horse—he had to hold the bridle reins in his teeth—came down into the camp. Of the men down, only the last one, the one who had been shitting, was dead; when, a little later, Call walked out and turned him over, he found a boy in his late teens, with black teeth. The other men he had to dispatch with his pistol, which he did quickly. He was not in a position to take prisoners, much less to nurse wounded outlaws who would only recover to be hung, if they recovered at all.

  Call had no difficulty freeing the children. Th
e short chain that held them was only fastened with wire. The little boy was still moaning; his face ran blood. Call washed the blood away with water from one of the dead men’s canteens. One of the boy’s eyes had swollen shut, probably from being hit with the tip of the quirt. The eye itself did not appear to be hurt, and the other eye was not damaged. The cuts on the boy’s face were deep, but he was young, and he would recover.

  The little girl grabbed Call’s leg and clung to it so tightly he had to pull her arms loose in order to lift her up.

  “Want Ma. . . .” she said. “Want Ma. . . .”

  The little boy had stopped moaning. He seemed numb. He looked at Call with his one open eye gratefully, though.

  “He said he’d whip my eyes out,” the boy said. “He said he’d burn Marcie.”

  “He’s gone—he won’t put your eyes out and he won’t burn your sister. Can you stand up?”

  The boy stood up. He was shaky, from the shock of the violence, and probably from lack of proper food. But he could walk.

  The horse Call shot was on its feet again; it stood pawing the ground, about a hundred yards away. It was saddled. If it was not too badly injured, it might do for the children. Call was keenly conscious that he needed to move, and move at once. The ridge that had provided his cover before the fight would provide the same cover for the Garza boy, who, if he was following, would undoubtedly have heard the shooting. All Joey Garza would have to do would be to crawl up behind the ridge and shoot; he wouldn’t need his telescope sight. Call and the children were within easy range.

  “Stay a minute, I need to catch this horse so we can go,” Call told the children. He left them standing together. The little girl tried to run after him, but the boy grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

  Call caught the wounded horse easily and was relieved to see that its wound wasn’t crippling. The wound was in the neck. It was bleeding profusely, but he could stop the bleeding, and the horse could carry the two children. Fort Stockton was not more than forty miles away.

  “Mister, have you got a biscuit?” the boy asked, when Call returned, leading the horse. “Me and Marcie ain’t had no food. That squint-eye wouldn’t give us none.”

  Call rummaged quickly in the dead men’s kit and found some jerky and a few stiff tortillas. He gave them to the children.

  “This is all I can do for now,” Call said. “We have to leave here. Can you ride a horse?”

  “I guess I can,” the boy said, with some pride. “Pa got me Brownie when I was three, and I’m nine now.”

  His wounds were still running blood. The whole front of his shirt was stained with it. But that could be attended to later, when they were safe.

  “We have to move,” Call said. “We ain’t safe here. The man who quirted you might come back.”

  “Why didn’t you kill him, mister?” the boy asked.

  “I tried—I hit him,” Call said.

  “I wish you’d kilt him,” the boy said. “He said he’d burn Marcie.”

  Call gathered up serapes from the dead men. He wrapped the children well, against the cold, and put them on the wounded horse. Probably neither of the children had been warm in days. The little girl shivered so badly that Call thought he might have to tie her to the horse, but he didn’t. It wouldn’t do to have her tied to a horse if there was another fight.

  He took several blankets and what food he could find. At the last minute, he discovered a piece of antelope haunch, wrapped in some sacking. That was lucky. He cut off two pieces and gave them to the children, to gnaw as they rode.

  He decided to lead the wounded horse. With Mox Mox and Jimmy Cumsa somewhere ahead of him, perhaps waiting in ambush, and with Joey Garza behind him, if it was Joey Garza behind him, he needed as much control over the animals as he could get.

  “What’s your name?” Call asked the boy, before he mounted. “Bob,” the boy said. “Bobby Fant.”

  “Why, son . . . is Jasper your pa?” Call asked. “Jasper Fant?”

  “That’s our pa. How’d you know his name, mister?” the boy asked. His wounds had stopped bleeding and had crusted over. Call had packed some sand in the wound in the horse’s neck, and it was no longer bleeding so badly.

  “Your pa worked for me once,” Call said. “We went to Montana together. I didn’t even know he had married. Last I heard of him, he was in Nebraska.”

  “Nope, we live out by Comstock now,” the boy said.

  “Say, are you Captain Call?” he asked, his eyes widening. He even got the swollen eye open, in his amazement.

  “Yes, I’m Captain Call,” Call replied.

  “Pa always talks about you,” the boy said. “He said if anyone ever took us, he’d get you to find us, even if it was Indians that got us.”

  “Well, it’s your good luck that I did find you,” Call said. “You hold on to your sister and don’t let her fall off.

  “We may have to ride all night, Bob,” he said. “There’s a town we can get to tomorrow if we don’t stop. Once we get there, you’ll both be safe and I can send you home to your ma and pa.”

  “Want Ma. . . .” the little girl said again. “Want Ma. . . .”

  “You’ll have her,” Call said. Despite being wrapped in two serapes, the little girl was still shivering, chilled through by the long cold, Call supposed.

  “Don’t let her fall,” he said again, to the boy.

  “Oh, I don’t guess Marcie will fall off. She’s got her own pony, back home,” the boy said.

  Call took the lead rope and headed immediately into the widest space he could find, well away from the ridges. He was glad that Fort Stockton was no farther than it was. It was bitter weather, and the children had gone through a brutal experience. They might sicken yet, and probably would. He wanted to get them to a place where there were warm houses and a proper doctor. They seemed to him to be remarkably plucky children. That was even more remarkable in view of the fact that their father was Jasper Fant, a man who complained constantly about his ills, real or imagined. He had been a Hat Creek cowboy and had made the drive to Montana. His main terror was of drowning, but it took only a sniffle to bring out Jasper’s complaints.

  Night fell, and Captain Call kept riding. He stopped now and then to check on the wound in the horse’s neck. The little girl had gone to sleep, propped against her brother’s chest. Bobby, the boy, was wide awake.

  “We’re gonna keep going,” Call told him. “Gnaw on that meat and give your sister some if she wakes up.”

  “My hands are freezing off,” the boy said. “I wish it wasn’t so cold.”

  “Keep your hands under the blanket,” Call said. “I can’t stop and make a fire. Mox Mox might find us.”

  “That squint—I wish you’d kilt him,” Bobby said.

  “Well, I didn’t, but I might yet,” Call said.

  Call rode on, trying to knot an old bandanna around his neck to protect it from the cutting wind. The little gun battle had been badly handled, he knew. Bobby Fant was right to reproach him for not killing Mox Mox. The boy’s screams had caused him to rush what he ought not to have rushed. It would have been wiser to let the boy endure the whipping for another few seconds. The large man might have moved out of the way and given him a clear shot at Mox Mox. He might even have had a clear shot at Jimmy Cumsa, if he had waited a minute more to start firing.

  As it was, he had rushed, and the result of his rushing was that he had killed several incompetents and let the two really dangerous men escape. It was foolish behavior. He had rescued the children, but he hadn’t removed the threat. He should have kept his mind on the prime object, which was to kill Mox Mox. Jimmy Cumsa might be deadly, but he hadn’t been leading the pack, and he didn’t quirt children for his amusement.

  Another truth, just as discouraging, was that he had not shot well. Only the boy who had been caught with his pants down had been killed cleanly, with one shot, and that was probably luck. All the others had required two or more bullets. It was poor shooting, and yet he�
��d had all the advantages: not a shot had been fired at him, he had been shooting from less than fifty yards’ distance, and he had taken the men completely by surprise.

  Call blamed his swollen knuckles. Also, he wasn’t as sure of his eyesight as he had been. If the men had been better fighters, he would have been in trouble. If Mox Mox and Jimmy Cumsa had taken cover instead of running, the outcome of the struggle might have been different.

  Call often picked over battles, in his mind. There were few fixed rules. Once men started shooting at one another with deadly intent, strategies and plans were usually forgotten. Men acted and reacted according to their instincts. Experience didn’t always tell; veterans of many battles made wild, inexplicable mistakes. Even men who remained perfectly calm in battle did things that they could not make sense of later, if they survived to rehash the battle.

  But, right or wrong, it was done. At least he had Jasper Fant’s children, and they would survive, if he could get them to a warm place soon enough.

  As Call rode on, the cold grew more intense. His mind returned again and again to the shooting. It troubled him that he had shot so poorly. Augustus McCrae, given similar advantages, would probably have killed all the men with a pistol.

  Before the night ended, the children got so cold that Call had to stop and risk a fire. He could barely gather sticks with his stiff fingers. The children’s feet were so cold that Call knew he was risking frostbite if he didn’t do something. Fortunately, there was enough scrubby brush that he soon had adequate wood. He made two fires and put the freezing children between them. The crusted blood on the boy’s face was icy. He had been plucky when first rescued, but had gone into a kind of shock and couldn’t speak. The little girl was so cold she was past whimpering.

  Call built up the fires and kept them flaming as the children slept. He himself hunkered near the flames only a few minutes at a time. It was so cold that he doubted any killer would be vigorous enough to take advantage of them. But he couldn’t be sure, and he didn’t want to get too warm himself. When he hunkered by the fire, fatigue began to suck at him, a deep fatigue. He was accustomed to sleeping in snatches; squatting, leaning against a horse; he had even slept riding, if the country was flat and the horse reliable. In the Indian-fighting days, he had tried to acquire the abilities and the endurance of his foes. He wanted to be able to do anything a Comanche could do, or an Apache. Gus had scoffed at the notion. He said no white man could live as an Indian could, or travel as fast, or subsist on as little.