Comanche Moon

by Larry McMurtry

  Famous Shoes was amused at the young ranger's frantic efforts to keep him in sight, a thing, of course, which was quite unnec. The young man looked worried and nervous all day and was so tired when they made camp that he was barely capable of making a decent fire. Famous Shoes liked the young man and thought it might help a little if he instructed Corporal Parker in the ways of scouting.

  "You do not have to follow me or stay close to me," he told Pea Eye. "I do not follow a straight trail." "Nope, you don't," Pea Eye agreed.

  He had been almost asleep, from fatigue, but the strong coffee Famous Shoes brewed woke him up a little.

  "I have many things to watch," Famous Shoes told him. "I do not think we will catch up with Captain McCrae for a few days. I think he is going far." "Can you tell how far he's going just from the tracks?" Pea Eye asked.

  "No--it is just something I am thinking," Famous Shoes admitted. "He has lost his wife. Right now he does not know where to be. I think he is going far, to look around." In the night Pea Eye found that he could not sleep. It occurred to him that he had never been alone with an Indian before. Of course, it was only Famous Shoes, who was friendly. But what if he wasn't really friendly? What if Famous Shoes suddenly got an urge to take a scalp? Of course, Pea Eye knew it was unlikely--Captain Call wouldn't send him off with an Indian who wanted to take his scalp.

  He knew it was foolish to be thinking that way.

  Famous Shoes had scouted for many years and had never scalped anybody. But Pea Eye's mind wouldn't behave. The part of it that was sensible knew that Famous Shoes meant him no harm; but another part of his mind kept bringing up pictures of Indians with scalping knives. He was annoyed with his mind--it would be a lot easier to do his task well if his mind would just behave and not keep making him scared.

  Late in the night, while the young ranger dozed, Famous Shoes heard some geese flying overhead, and he began to sing a long song about birds. Of course he sang the song in his own Kickapoo tongue, which the young white man could not understand. Famous Shoes knew that the ^ws of the song would be mysterious to the young man, who had awakened to listen, but he sang anyway. That things were mysterious did not make them less valuable. The mystery of the northward-flying geese had always haunted him; he thought the geese might be flying to the edge of the world, so he made a song about them, for no mystery was stronger to Famous Shoes than the mystery of birds. All the animals that he knew left tracks, but the geese, when they spread their wings to fly northward, left no tracks. Famous Shoes thought that the geese must know where the gods lived, and because of their knowledge had been exempted by the gods from having to make tracks.

  The gods would not want to be visited by just anyone who found a track, but their messengers, the great birds, were allowed to visit them. It was a wonderful thing, a thing Famous Shoes never tired of thinking about.

  When Famous Shoes finished his song he noticed that the young white man was asleep.

  During the day he had not trusted enough, and had worn himself out with pointless scurryings. Perhaps even then the song he had just sung was working in the young man's dreams; perhaps as he grew older he would learn to trust mysteries and not fear them. Many white men could not trust things unless they could be explained; and yet the most beautiful things, such as the trackless flight of birds, could never be explained.

  The next morning, when the first gray light came, Pea Eye awoke to find that he had not been scalped or hurt. He felt so tired and so grateful that he didn't move at once.

  Famous Shoes squatted by the campfire, bringing the coffee to a boil. Pea Eye wanted to be helpful, but he felt as if his joints had turned to glue. He sat up, but felt incapable of further movement.

  Famous Shoes drank coffee as if he were drinking water, although, to Pea Eye's taste, the coffee was scalding.

  "I am leaving now," Famous Shoes said.

  "You do not have to go where I go. Just travel to the west." "What? I won't see you at all?" Pea Eye asked. Never since joining the rangers had he spent a whole day alone, in wild country.

  Even if he hadn't been feeling that his joints had melted, the prospect would have alarmed him.

  If he met a party of Comanches, he would be lost.

  "You haven't seen no Indian sign, have you?" he asked.

  Famous Shoes was not in the mood for conversation just then. There was a ridge to the north that had some curious black rocks scattered around it; he wanted to examine those black rocks. The sky to the east was white now--it was time to start.

  "No, there are no Indians here, but there is an old bear who has a den in that little mountain," he said, pointing toward a small hill just to the west. "You should be careful of that bear--he might try to eat your horse." "The rascal, I'll shoot him if he tries it," Pea Eye said, but with his joints so gluey he didn't feel confident that he could kill a bear.

  Determined to make a show of competence, he stood up.

  "I will find you when the evening star shines," Famous Shoes said. "Bring the coffeepot." Then he slipped into the grayness. Pea Eye sipped his coffee, which was still barely cool enough to drink; but he kept his hand on his rifle while he sipped, in case the surly old bear was closer than Famous Shoes thought.

  When Augustus left Austin he had no aim, other than to ride around for a while, alone.

  To be in Austin was to be under orders: the Governor was always summoning them or sending them off, consulting with them or pestering them about details of finance that Augustus had not the slightest interest in.

  As a rule he did not, like his friend Call, enjoy solitude. Woodrow was virtually incapable of spending a whole evening in the company of his fellow men--or women either, if Maggie's account was to be trusted. At some point in the evening Woodrow Call would always quietly disappear.

  He would slip off in the night, ostensibly to stand guard, when there was not a savage within one hundred miles. Prolonged stretches of company seemed to oppress him.

  With Augustus it was the opposite. When night fell, if he was in town, he wanted company, the livelier the better; he sought it and he found it, whether it involved a card game, a few talky whores, a singsong, or just a session of bragging and tale telling with whatever gamblers and adventurers happened to be around. He had never particularly liked to sleep, and rarely did for more than three or four hours a night. Even that necessity he begrudged. Why just lay there, when you could be living?

  A little rest at night was needful, but the less the better.

  Now, though, his lovely Nellie's death had arrested, for the moment, his taste for company; it seemed to him that he had been under orders for his entire life, and he was tired of it. Once it had been captains who ordered him around; now it was governors, or legislators or commissions.

  The war in the East was barely started and already the Governor was pressing him and Call to pledge themselves to stay in Texas.

  Augustus didn't want it; he had been ordered around enough. The war could wait, the Governor could wait, Woodrow could wait, and the whores and the boys in the saloons could wait. He was going away because he felt like it, and he would come back when he felt like it, if he felt like it, and not because of some governor's summons.

  He rode all the first day in brilliant weather, not thinking of Nellie or the war or Call or anything much. His black mare, Sassy, was a fine mount, with a long easy trot that carried them west mile after mile through the limestone hills. He had not rushed off improvidently this time, either; he had four bottles of whiskey in one saddlebag, some bullets and a good slab of bacon in another.

  He was not much of a hunter, and he knew it.

  Stalking game was often boresome work. He would cheerfully shoot any tasty animal that presented itself within rifle range, but he seldom pursued his quarry far.

  Despite the Comanches, the country west of Austin was rapidly settling up. Those settlers who had survived the great raid of 1856 had by now rebuilt and remarried; cabins were scattered along the valleys, or anywhere there w
as sufficient water. Several times Gus had heard a large animal in the underbrush and pulled his rifle, expecting to flush a bear or a deer, only to scare out a milk cow or a couple of heifers or even a few goats.

  A little before dusk he smelled wood smoke and saw a faint column rising from a copse of cedar to the southwest. He knew there must be a settler's cabin there, but, on this occasion, decided to ride on. The grub at these rude little homesteads was apt to be uncertain; frequently the families lived on nothing but corn cakes. He didn't feel inclined to sit for an hour, making conversation with people he didn't know, only to eat corn cakes or mush. A good many of the new settlers were Germans, who spoke only the most rudimentary English; also many of them were, to Augustus's way of thinking, excessively pious. Some kept no liquor in their houses at all, and, on several occasions when he had been invited in for a meal, the grace was said at such length that he had all but lost his appetite before anyone was allowed to eat.

  This night, he decided not to gamble on the cabin. A dog began to bark but Augustus left it to its barking and slipped on by. He rode only another few miles before making camp. It was rocky country, the footing in some places so uncertain that he felt he risked laming the black mare if he travelled further.

  In any case, he was not going anywhere in particular and was on no schedule except his own.

  The cedarwood and low mesquite burned nicely; he soon had a fragrant fire going. It was not cold; he only fed the fire a stick now and then because he liked to have a fire to look at.

  Over the last years he had looked into many campfires and only seen one face: Clara's.

  His fat wife, Geneva, and his skinny wife, Nellie, were dead; the memory of their forms and faces didn't disturb him. That night when he looked into the fire he saw no one. Women had been constantly in his thoughts since his youth, but that night he was free of even the thought of them. He thought he might just keep on riding west, into the desert, where there were neither governors nor women.

  His absence would vex Woodrow Call, of course, but he didn't see that he needed to live like a bound servant, just to spare Woodrow Call a little vexation. The bright stars above him seemed to act like a drug. He dreamed of floating on air like a gliding bird, gliding into a slumber so deep that, when he woke, the stars had faded into the light of a new day. At the edge of sleep he heard a clicking sound, the sort a tin cup might make, or a coffeepot; the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a pair of legs standing by his campfire, which blazed beneath the coffeepot.

  "The coffee's hot, I suggest you rouse yourself up, Captain," a voice said. Recognizing that his visitor was none other than Charlie Goodnight, Augustus immediately did as the man suggested.

  "Howdy--I'm glad it was you and not Buffalo Hump, Charlie," Gus said. "I may have taken ill. Otherwise I fail to understand why I would sleep this late." "You don't look ill to me, just idle," Goodnight observed. He was a stout man, a little past Gus's age, fully as forceful in speech as he was in body. He had been at times a superlative scout and ranger, but lately his interest had shifted to ranching; he now only rode with the rangers when the need was urgent. He was known for being as tireless as he was gruff.

  Conversations with Charlie Goodnight were apt to be short ones, and not infrequently left those he was conversing with slightly bruised in their feelings.

  "Heard about the war?" Augustus asked.

  "Heard," Goodnight said. "I'd appreciate a bite of bacon if you have any.

  I left in a hurry and took no provisions." "It's in my saddlebag, with the frying pan," Gus said. "You'll pardon me if I don't offer to cook it. I prefer to contemplate the scriptures in the morning, at least until the sun's up." Goodnight got the bacon and the pan. He didn't comment on the war, or the scriptures.

  Gus saw that a fine sorrel gelding was nibbling mesquite leaves, alongside his mare. Not only had he not heard the man approach, he had not heard the horse, either. It was fine to be relaxed, as he had been last night, but in wild country there was such a thing as being too relaxed.

  Goodnight's silence irked him a little: what good was a guest who consumed bacon but didn't contribute conversation?

  "Do you fear God, Charlie?" Augustus asked, thinking he might pursue the religious theme for a moment.

  "Nope, too busy," Goodnight said.

  "Are you a God-fearing man? I would not have supposed it." "I expect I ought to be," Gus said. "He keeps taking my wives, I suppose he could take me at any time." "He might as well, if you're going to sleep till sunup," Goodnight said. He had already cooked and eaten fully half of Gus's bacon. He stood up and returned the rest to the saddlebag.

  "Are you going somewhere?" Goodnight asked.

  "Why yes, west," Augustus said. "How about yourself?" "Colorado," Goodnight replied.

  "There's a lively market for Texas beef in Denver, and an abundance of beef on the hoof down here in Texas." Augustus considered the two remarks, but in his groggy state failed to see how they connected.

  "Have you got a herd of cattle with you, Charlie?" he asked. "If so, I guess I'm blind as well as deaf." "Not presently," Goodnight said.

  "But I could soon acquire one if I could find a good route to Denver." "Charlie, I don't think this is the way to Colorado," Augustus said. "Not unless your cattle can drink air. There's no water between here and Colorado, that I know of." "There's the Pecos River--t's a wet river," Goodnight said. "If I could just get a herd as far as the Pecos, I expect the moisture would increase, from there to Denver." Mention of Denver reminded Gus of Matilda Roberts, one of his oldest and best friends. In the old days everyone had known Matty, even Goodnight, though as one of the soberer citizens of the frontier he had no reputation as a whorer.

  "You remember Matty Roberts, don't you, Charlie?" Gus inquired.

  "Yes, she's a fine woman," Goodnight said. "She's in the love business but love ain't been kind to her. I've not visited her establishment in Denver but they say it's lavish." "What do you mean, love ain't been kind?" Gus asked. He realized that he had no recent information about his old friend.

  "Matilda's dying, that's what I mean," Goodnight said. He had unsaddled his horse, so the sorrel could have a good roll in the dust; but the sorrel had had his roll and in a few minutes Goodnight was ready to depart.

  "What--Matty's dying--what of?" Augustus asked, shocked. Now another woman of his close acquaintance was about to be carried off.

  The news struck him almost as hard as if he had been told that Clara was dying. Even Woodrow Call would admit a fondness for Matty Roberts; he would be shocked when he heard the news.

  "I don't know what of," Goodnight informed him. "I suppose she's just dying of living--t's the one infection that strikes us all down, sooner or later." He mounted and started to leave, but turned back and looked down at Augustus, who still sat idly at the campfire.

  "Are you poorly today?" Goodnight asked.

  "No, I'm well--why would you ask, Charlie?" Gus said.

  "You don't seem to be in an active frame of mind today, that's why," Goodnight said. "You ain't ready to die, are you?" "Why, no," Augustus said, startled by the question.

  "I'm just a little sleepy. I was sitting up with Nellie quite a few nights before she passed away." Goodnight did not seem to be satisfied by that answer. The sorrel was nervous, ready to leave, but Goodnight held him back, which was unusual.

  When Charlie Goodnight was ready to go he usually left without ceremony, seldom giving whomever he was talking to even the leisure to finish a sentence. He had never been one to linger--yet, now, he was lingering, looking at Augustus hard.

  "If you were under my orders I'd order you home," he said bluntly. "A man who can't get himself in an active frame of mind by this hour has no business travelling in this direction." "Well, I ain't under your orders and I never will be," Augustus retorted, a little annoyed by the man's tone. "I ain't a child and nobody appointed you to watch over me." Goodnight smiled--al a rare thing.

  "I was concerned that you m
ight have lost your snap, but I guess you ain't," he said, turning his horse again.

  "Wait, Charlie ... if you're bound for Denver I've got something for you to take to Matty," Gus said. The news that she was dying struck him hard--he was beginning to remember all the fine times he had had with the woman. He went to his saddlebag and pulled out the sock where he kept his loose money. The sock contained about sixty dollars, which he promptly handed to Goodnight. As he did his face reddened, and he choked up. Why were all the good women dying?

  "I was always behind a few pokes with Matilda," he said. "I expect I owe her at least this much. I'd be obliged if you'd take it to her, Charlie." Goodnight looked at the money for a moment and then put it in his pocket.