"Well, I'll pay your bill right now," Augustus said. "My reasoning ain't your concern."
"Are you a man of property?" the doctor asked.
"I've funds in a bank in San Antonio," Augustus said. "Also I own half a cattle herd. It ought to be north of the Yellowstone by now."
"I brought pen and ink," the doctor said. "If I were you I'd make your will while you're still sober."
Augustus drank all afternoon and did not use the pen or ink. Once, when the music stopped, he looked out the window and saw a skinny pockmarked girl in a black dress standing in the street looking up at him curiously. He waved but could not be sure she saw him. He took another twenty-dollar gold piece from his pants pocket and sailed it out the window toward her. It landed in the street, to the puzzlement of the girl. She walked over and picked up the gold piece, looking up.
"It's yours, for the music," Augustus said loudly. The pockmarked girl smiled, picked up the money and went back into the saloon. In a minute, Augustus heard the piano again.
A little later his fever rose. He felt hungry, though, and banged on the floor with his pistol until a timid-looking little bartender with a walrus mustache as good as Dish Boggett's opened the door.
"Is beefsteak to be had in this town?" Augustus asked.
"No, but I can get you venison," the bartender said. He was as good as his word. Augustus ate and then vomited in a brass spittoon. His leg was as black as the one that had been lost. He went back to the whiskey and from time to time recovered the misty feeling that he had always been so fond of — the feeling that reminded him of Tennessee mornings. He wished for a woman's company and thought of having someone ask the pockmarked girl if she would come and sit a while. But there was no one to ask, and in time he lost the impulse.
In the night, sweating heavily, he awoke to a familiar step. W. F. Call stepped into the room and set a lantern on the bureau.
"Well, slow but sure," Augustus said, feeling relieved.
"Not too dern slow," Call said. "We just found Pea Eye yesterday."
He turned back the covers and looked at Augustus's leg. Dr. Mobley was also in the room. Call stood looking at the black leg a minute. Its meaning was clear enough.
"I did plead with him, Captain," Dr. Mobley said. "I told him it should come off. I regret now that I didn't take it when we took the other."
"You should have," Call said bluntly. "I would have known to do that, and I ain't a medical man."
"Don't berate the man, Woodrow," Augustus said. "If I had waked up with no legs, I would have shot the first man I saw, and Dr. Joseph C. Mobley was the first man I saw."
"Leaving you a gun was another mistake," Call said. "But I guess he didn't know you as well as I do."
He looked at the leg again, and at the doctor. "We could try it now," he said. "He's always been strong. He might still live."
Augustus immediately cocked the pistol. "You don't boss me, Woodrow," he said. "I'm the one man you don't boss. You also don't boss most of the women, but that don't concern us now."
"I wouldn't think you'd shoot me for trying to save your life," Call said quietly. Augustus looked sweaty and unsteady, but the range was short.
"Not to kill," Augustus said. "But I'll promise to disable you if you don't let me be about this leg."
"I never took you for a suicide, Gus," Call said. "Men have gotten by without legs. Lots of 'em lost legs in the war. You don't like to do nothing but sit on the porch and drink whiskey anyway. It don't take legs to do that."
"No, I also like to walk around to the springhouse once in a while, to see if my jug's cooled proper," Augustus said. "Or I might want to kick a pig if one aggravates me."
Call saw that it was pointless unless he wanted to risk a fight. Gus had not uncocked the pistol either. Call looked at the doctor to see what he thought.
"I wouldn't bother him now," the doctor said. "It's much too late. I suppose I'm to blame for not outwitting him. He was brought to me unconscious, or I might have figured out what a testy character he is."
Augustus smiled. "Would you bring Captain Call a glass, and some of that venison?" he said. "I imagine he's hungry."
Call wasn't ready to give up, although he felt it was probably hopeless. "You got those two women, back in Nebraska," he pointed out. "Those women would race to take care of you."
"Clara's got one invalid already, and she's bored with him," Augustus said. "Lorie would look after me but it would be a sorry life for her."
"Not as sorry as the one you rescued her from," Call reminded him.
"You don't get the point, Woodrow," Augustus said. "I've walked the earth in my pride all these years. If that's lost, then let the rest be lost with it. There's certain things my vanity won't abide."
"That's all it is, too," Call said bitterly. "Your goddamn vanity." He had expected to find Gus wounded, but not to find him dying. The sight affected him so much that he felt weak, of a sudden. When the doctor left the room, he sat down in a chair and took off his hat. He looked at Gus for a long time, trying to think of some argument he might use, but Gus was Gus, and he knew no argument would be of any use. None ever had been. He could either fight him and take off the leg if he won, or else sit and watch him die. The doctor seemed convinced he would die now in any case, though doctors could be wrong in such matters.
He tried to gird himself for a fight — Gus might miss, or not even shoot, though both were doubtful — but his own weakness held him in the chair. He was trembling and didn't know why.
"Woodrow, I wish you'd relax," Augustus said. "You can't save me, and it would be a pity if we fought at this stage. I might kill you accidentally and them boys would sit out on the plains and freeze."
Call didn't answer. He felt tired and old and sad. He had pressed the mare all day and all night, had easily found the river where the battle took place, recovered Pea Eye's rifle and even his boots and shirt, found Gus's saddle, and raced for Miles City. He had risked ruining the Hell Bitch — he hadn't, though she was tired — and still he had arrived too late. Gus would die, and all he could do was keep a death watch.
The bartender brought a plate of venison, but he had no appetite. He accepted a glass of whiskey, though, and then another. They had no effect.
"I hope you won't become a drunkard over this," Augustus said.
"I won't," Call said. "You can uncock that pistol. If you want to die, go ahead."
Augustus laughed. "You act like you hold it against me," he said.
"I do," Call said. "You got a good head, if you'd use it. A man with a good head can be useful."
"Doing what, braiding ropes?" Augustus asked. "Not my style, Captain."
"Your goddamn style is your downfall, and it's a wonder it didn't come sooner. Any special funeral?"
"Yes, I've been thinking of that," Augustus said. "I've a big favor to ask you, and one more to do you."
"What favor?"
"The favor I want from you will be my favor to you," Augustus said. "I want to be buried in Clara's orchard."
"In Nebraska?" Call asked, surprised. "I didn't see no orchard."
Augustus chuckled. "Not in Nebraska," he said. "In Texas. By that little grove of live oaks on the south Guadalupe. Remember, we stopped by there a minute?"
"My God," Call said, thinking his friend must be delirious. "You want me to haul you to Texas? We just got to Montana."
"I know where you just got," Augustus said. "My burial can wait a spell. I got nothing against wintering in Montana. Just pack me in salt or charcoal or what you will. I'll keep well enough and you can make the trip in the spring. You'll be a rich cattle king by then and might need a restful trip."
Call looked at his friend closely. Augustus looked sober and reasonably serious.
"To Texas?" he repeated.
"Yes, that's my favor to you," Augustus said. "It's the kind of job you was made for, that nobody else could do or even try. Now that the country is about settled, I don't know how you'll keep busy, Woodrow. But
if you'll do this for me you'll be all right for another year, I guess."
"You're one of a kind, Gus," Call said, sighing. "We'll all miss you."
"Even you, Woodrow?" Augustus asked.
"Yes, me," Call said. "Why not me?"
"I take it back, Woodrow," Augustus said. "I have no doubt you'll miss me. You'll probably die of boredom this winter and I'll never get to Clara's orchard."
"Why do you call it that?"
"We had picnics there," Augustus said. "I took to calling it that. It pleased Clara. I could please her oftener in those days."
"Well, but is that any reason to go so far to be buried?" Call said. "She'd allow you a grave in Nebraska, I'm sure."
"Yes, but we had our happiness in Texas," Augustus said. "It was my best happiness, too. If you're too lazy to take me to Texas, then just throw me out the window and be done with it." He spoke with vehemence. "She's got her family in Nebraska," Augustus added, more quietly. "I don't want to lie there with that dumb horse trader she married."
"This would make a story if there was anybody to tell it," Call said. "You want me to carry your body three thousand miles because you used to go picnicking with a girl on the Guadalupe River?"
"That, plus I want to see if you can do it," Augustus said.
"But you won't know if I do it," Call said. "I reckon I'll do it, since you've asked."
He said no more, and soon noticed that Augustus was dozing. He pulled his chair closer to the window. It was a cool night, but the lamp made the little room stuffy. He blew it out — there was a little moonlight. He tried to doze, but couldn't for a time. Then he did doze and woke to find Augustus wide awake, burning with fever. Call lit the lamp but could do nothing for him.
"That was the Musselshell River, where you holed up," he said. "I met that old trapper and he told me. We may take him with us to scout, since he knows the country."
"I wish I had some better whiskey," Augustus said. "This is a cheap product."
"Well, the saloon's closed, probably," Call said.
"I doubt they got better, open or closed," Augustus said. "I have a few more instructions, if you're ready to hear them."
"Why, fine," Call said. "I suppose now you've decided you'd rather be buried at the South Pole."
"No, but do stop in Nebraska a night and let the women know," Augustus said. "I'm leaving my half of the herd to Lorie, and don't you dispute with me about it. Just see she gets what money's coming to her. I'll leave you a note to hand her, and one for Clara."
"I'll pass them on," Call said.
"I told Newt you was his pa," Augustus said.
"Well, you oughtn't to," Call said.
"I oughtn't to have had to, but you never got around to it, so I did," Augustus said. "All you can do about it now is shoot me, which would be a blessing. I feel mighty poorly, and embarrassed to boot."
"Why embarrassed?," Call asked.
"Imagine getting killed by an arrow in this day and age," Augustus said. "It's ridiculous, especially since they shot at us fifty times with modern weapons and did no harm."
"You always was careless," Call said. "Pea said you rode over a hill and right into them. I've warned you about that very thing a thousand times. There's better ways to approach a hill."
"Yes, but I like being free on the earth," Augustus said. "I'll cross the hills where I please."
He paused a minute. "I hope you won't mistreat Newt," he said.
"Have I ever mistreated him?" Call asked.
"Yes, always," Augustus said. "I admit it's practically your only sin, but it's a big one. You ought to do better by that boy. He's the only son you'll ever have — I'd bet my wad on that — though I guess it's possible you'll take to women in your old age."
"No, I won't," Call said. "They don't like me. I never recall mistreating that boy."
"Not naming him is mistreatment," Augustus said. "Give him your name, and you'll have a son you can be proud of. And Newt will know you're his pa."
"I don't know that myself," Call said.
"I know it and you know it," Augustus said. "You're worse than me. I'm stubborn about legs, but what about you? Women are goddamn right not to like you. You don't want to admit you ever needed one of them, even for a moment's pleasure. Though you're human, and you did need one once — but you don't want to need nothing you can't get for yourself."
Call didn't answer. It seemed wrong to quarrel while Gus was dying. Always over the same thing too. That one thing, after all they had done together.
Gus slept through the morning, fitful and feverish. Call didn't expect him to wake. He didn't leave the room. He was finally eating the plate of cold venison when Gus came to his senses briefly.
"Do you want me to do anything about them Indians?" Call asked.
"Which Indians?" Augustus asked, wondering what his friend could be talking about. Call's cheeks looked drawn, as though he hadn't eaten for days, though he was eating even as he asked the question.
"Those that shot the arrows into you," Call said.
"Oh, no, Woodrow," Augustus said. "We won more than our share with the natives. They didn't invite us here, you know. We got no call to be vengeful. You start that and I'll spoil your appetite."
"I don't have much, anyway," Call said.
"Didn't I stick that sign in the wagon, that one I made in Lonesome Dove that upset Deets so much at first?" Augustus asked.
"Upset me too," Call said. "It was a peculiar sign. It's on the wagon."
"I consider it my masterpiece, that and the fact that I've kept you from not getting no worse for so long," Augustus said. "Take the sign back and stick it over my grave."
"Have you wrote them notes for the women yet?" Call asked. "I won't know what to say to them, you see."
"Dern, I forgot, and my two favorite women, too," Augustus said. "Get me some paper."
The doctor had brought in a tablet for Augustus to write his will on. Augustus drew himself up and slowly wrote two notes.
"Dangerous to write to two women at the same time," he said. "Especially when I'm this lightheaded. I might not be as particular in my sentiments as women expect a fellow to be."
But he wrote on. Then Call saw his hand drop and thought he was dead. He wasn't, but he was too weak to fold the second note. Call folded it for him.
"Woodrow, quite a party," Augustus said.
"What?" Call asked.
Augustus was looking out the window. "Look there at Montana," he said. "It's fine and fresh, and now we've come and it'll soon be ruint, like my legs."
Then he turned his head back to Call. "I near forgot," he said. "Give my saddle to Pea Eye. I cut his up to brace my crutch, and I wouldn't want him to think ill of me."
"Well, he don't, Gus," Call said.
But Augustus had closed his eyes. He saw a mist, red at first but then as silvery as the morning mists in the valleys of Tennessee.
Call sat by the bed, hoping he would open his eyes again. He could hear Gus breathing. The sun set, and Call moved back to the chair, listening to his friend's ragged breath. He tried to remain alert, but he was tired. Some time later the doctor came in with a lamp. Call noticed blood dripping off the sheet onto the floor.
"That bed's full of blood and your friend's dead," the doctor said.
Call felt bad for having dozed. He saw that one of Gus's notes to the women was still on the bed. There was blood on it, but not much. Call wiped the note carefully on his pants leg before going downstairs.
97
WHEN CALL TOLD Dr. Mobley that Gus wanted to be transported to Texas to be buried, the little doctor merely smiled.
"People have their whimsies," he said. "Your friend was a crazy patient. I imagine we'd have quarreled if he'd lived."
"I imagine," Call said. "But I intend to honor the wish."
"We'll pack him in charcoal and salt," the doctor said. "It'll take a barrel or two. Luckily there's a good salt lick not far from here."
"I may need to leave him all win
ter," Call said. "Is there a place I could store him?"
"My harness shed would do fine," the doctor said. "It's well ventilated, and he'll keep better in the cool. Do you want his other leg?"
"Well, where is it?" Call asked, startled.
"Oh, I've got it," the doctor said. "Contrary as he was, he might have asked me to sew it back on. It's a rotten old thing."
Call went outside and walked down the empty street to the livery stable. The doctor had told him to rest and had offered to locate the undertaker himself.
The Hell Bitch looked up when he came into the livery stable, where he had put her. He felt an impulse to saddle her and ride out into the country, but weariness overcame him and he threw his bedroll on some straw and lay down. He couldn't sleep, though. He regretted not trying harder to save Gus. He should have disarmed him at once and seen that the other leg was amputated. Of course, Gus might have shot him, but he felt he should have taken the risk.
It seemed he only dozed a minute when the sun streamed into the livery stable. Call didn't welcome the day. All he had to think about were mistakes, it seemed — mistakes and death. His old rangering gang was gone, only Pea Eye left, of all of them. Jake was dead in Kansas, Deets in Wyoming, and now Gus in Montana.
An old man named Gill owned the livery stable. He had rheumatism and walked slowly and with a limp. But he was a kindly old man, with a rusty beard and one milky eye. He came limping in not long after Call woke up.
"I guess you need a coffin," the old man said. "Get Joe Veitenheimer, he'll make you a good one."
"It will have to be sturdy," Call said.
"I know," the old man said. "That's all the talk is in this town today, about the feller who wants to be hauled all the way to Texas to be stuck in the ground."
"He considered it his home," Call said, seeing no reason to go into the part about the picnics.
"My attitude is, why not, if he can find someone to tote him," old man Gill said. "I'd be buried in Georgia, if I could have my way, but it's a far piece to Georgia and nobody's gonna tote me. So I'll be buried up here in this cold," he added. "I don't like this cold. Of course, they say when you're dead the temperature don't concern you, but who knows the truth on that?"
Lonesome Dove Page 97
