The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4)

by Larry McMurtry

  “Who told you to sit on my stoop and guzzle my buttermilk?” she asked, her black eyes snapping. Jake was taken aback by her look, which was icy, and her tone, which was hot. He jumped to his feet in embarrassment.

  “I suppose you got the buttermilk from that yellow bitch,” she said. “I’ll quirt her soundly when I get back.”

  “Why, the crock was full, I thought I could drink one glass,” Jake said, very nervous.

  “That’s the Captain’s buttermilk, it’s not for common use,” Inez said. “I instructed the butler to inform you that we didn’t need you around here anymore. I suppose I’ll have to whack that old sot a time or two, if he forgot to tell you.”

  “He told me, I was just resting a minute,” Jake said, confused by the coldness in Madame Scull’s tone. Only yesterday she had pressed hot affections on him—today she acted as if she scarcely knew him.

  “Get off my step, I told you,” Inez said. “I don’t want you around here—and stay away from that yellow bitch, too. I don’t want you indulging in any irregularities with the servants.”

  Madame Scull poked him, not gently, with the toe of her riding boot. Jake jumped up and hurried down the steps. Then he remembered that he still had the tumbler in his hand.

  “I thought you liked me!” he blurted out.

  Madame Scull’s lip curled. “Like you? A common thing such as yourself? I’ve stooped to many follies but I doubt I’d allow myself to like a common farm boy,” she said.

  Jake sat the tumbler on the step, where Felice would find it and take it in.

  He was walking slowly and sadly back down the main street of Austin, trying to puzzle out why he had been welcome one day and shunned the next, when he heard a horse galloping close behind him. Madame Scull was coming, on her fine thoroughbred, Lord Nelson. The horse was worth as much as a house, some of the rangers claimed. Two men stood guard over Lord Nelson, all night, at the Scull stables, lest Indians try to sneak in and steal him. Madame Scull raced Lord Nelson over the prairies at full speed, usually alone.

  As Inez Scull came abreast of Jake she drew rein and ran her quirt lightly through his hair, which she herself had just cut, the day before, with her scissors, after their sweaty sport.

  “It was the curls, Jakie,” Inez said, the ice still in her voice. She flicked her quirt again through his short hair.

  “The curls,” she said. “I suppose I found them briefly appealing. But then I cut them off. So that’s all done now, ain’t it?”

  Then she put the spurs to Lord Nelson and went galloping straight out of town.

  14.

  KICKING WOLF could move without sound. When he decided to steal the Buffalo Horse he only took Three Birds with him—except for himself, Three Birds was the quietest warrior in the band. Fast Boy and Red Badger were brave fighters, but clumsy. They could not approach a horse herd in the soundless way that was required if a tricky theft was being contemplated. Kicking Wolf prayed every night that he could keep his grace with animals—few Comanches could go into a horse herd at night without alarming the horses. Buffalo Hump could not do such delicate work, not at all. He was a great raider, Kicking Wolf acknowledged. Buffalo Hump could run off many horses, and kill whatever white men or Mexicans got in his way. But he could not go into a horse herd at night and steal a mare or a stallion—he was too impatient, and he did not bother to disguise his smell. Mainly, he was a fighter, not a thief.

  Kicking Wolf, though, was very careful about his smell, and he had instructed Three Birds how to eliminate his odor before going into a horse herd. Kicking Wolf would eat little, for a day or two before a raid. He wanted his body to empty out its smells. Then he gathered herbs and rubbed them on himself, on his armpits, on his privates, on his feet. He chewed sweet roots to make his breath inoffensive. He prepared carefully, but mainly it was his grace, his ability to move without sound, that enabled him to go into a herd of strange horses at night and not alarm them. He wanted to be able to move close to the horses and stroke them—he wanted the stroking to begin before the horse was even aware that a man was there. Once he had the horse’s trust he could move through the herd seeing that all the horses stayed calm. It was important to start with a horse that had calmness in him—often Kicking Wolf would study a horse herd for a few days, until he had selected the horse that he would approach first—it had to be a horse with calmness in it, a horse unlikely to panic.

  Once Kicking Wolf had chosen the first horse, he would pray in the morning that his grace would not desert him; then he could move into the herd with confidence and stroke the lead horse. He liked a night that was cloudy but not entirely moonless, when he went to steal horses. He wanted to be able to see where the ground was—and so would the horses. In complete darkness a horse might brush up against a thornbush and panic if it rattled. A whole herd might break into a run in an instant, if they heard a strange sound.

  Kicking Wolf was proud of being the best of the Comanche horsethieves—he had honed his skills for many years. Simply stealing many horses had never been enough for him; he only wanted to steal the best horses—the horses that would run the fastest, or make the best studs. He wanted to steal the horses that the Texans would miss most. Plow horses he never touched. Invariably, when he got back to camp with the horses he had stolen, the other warriors would be jealous. Even Buffalo Hump was a little jealous, although he pretended not to notice Kicking Wolf and his horses.

  The other warriors always offered to trade Kicking Wolf for his horses—they would offer him guns, or their ugly old wives, or even, occasionally, a young pretty wife; but Kicking Wolf never traded—he kept his horses and because of them was envied by every warrior in the tribe.

  From the moment Kicking Wolf first saw the Buffalo Horse he wanted to steal it. The Buffalo Horse was the most famous horse in Texas. If he could steal such an animal it would make the Texans look puny. It would shame their greatest warrior, Big Horse Scull. It would bring glory back to the Comanche people—the women and the young men would all make songs about Kicking Wolf. The medicine men could take piss from the Buffalo Horse and use it in potions that would make the young men brave and the women amorous. Buffalo Hump would sulk, for he would know that Kicking Wolf had done a great thing, a thing he himself could never have done.

  When he saw that the Texans were not going to go chase him to the Rio Pecos he rested for three days in a little cave he had found. He built a warm fire and feasted on the tender meat of one of the young mares he had killed. Then he heard from Red Badger that Blue Duck had attacked the Texans with a few young warriors and killed one ranger. Red Badger was so fond of one of the young women who had come to the camp with Slow Tree that he could not stay in one place. He was in love with the young woman, who was the wife of old Skinny Hand. Though old, Skinny Hand was a violent fighter; Red Badger had to be careful, for Skinny Hand would certainly shoot him if he caught him slipping out with his young wife. Red Badger said that Buffalo Hump was bored with Slow Tree but was trying to be polite.

  Kicking Wolf soon got almost as bored with Red Badger as Buffalo Hump was with Slow Tree. Red Badger was a foolish person who was so crazy about women that he could not accomplish much as a warrior. He talked about women so much that everyone who had to listen to him was bored. Fast Boy was so bored that he wanted to tie Red Badger up and cut out his tongue. Everyone was almost that bored, but of course they could not simply cut out a warrior’s tongue.

  The fact that it was so cold made Kicking Wolf decide that it might be a good time to steal the Buffalo Horse. The Texans did not like cold. They did not know how to shelter themselves and keep themselves warm, as he was doing in his little cave. When it was cold the Texans all huddled around fires and went to sleep. New snowflakes were falling outside his little cave—it was not going to be warm for many days. Even if the Texans went on south across the llano, the cold and sleet would follow them. With the weather so cold the Texans would not be very watchful of the horses.

  At night Scull hob
bled the Buffalo Horse, but did not keep it on a grazing rope. Once Kicking Wolf had called the Buffalo Horse by whistling at him—he whistled twice and the big horse came trotting right to him.

  Kicking Wolf also noticed that the Buffalo Horse was very alert. If a wolf crossed the prairie, or even a coyote, the Buffalo Horse would be the first to raise its head and look. It did not whinny, though, like some of the younger horses, who might be frightened by the smell of a wolf. The Buffalo Horse had no reason to fear wolves, or anything else on the llano.

  When the morning dawned, gray as sleet, Kicking Wolf walked a mile from his cave and sat on a low hill to pray. When he had prayed some hours he went back to camp and told the few warriors there that he had decided to steal the Buffalo Horse. It was a plan he had never mentioned to anyone. The warriors were so surprised that they could not think of any words to say—it was such a bold idea that everyone was a little scared, even Fast Boy. Kicking Wolf was a great horse stealer, they all knew that. But the Buffalo Horse was a special horse; he was the horse of Scull, the terrible captain with the long knife. What would Scull do if he woke up to find his great horse missing?

  “We will all go with you,” Red Badger said, after a few minutes’ thought.

  “Three Birds will go with me,” Kicking Wolf said. “No one else.”

  Red Badger wanted to go—stealing the Buffalo Horse was a great and audacious thing; any warrior would want to help do such a great thing. But the firm way Kicking Wolf had spoken caused Red Badger to swallow his protests. Kicking Wolf had spoken in a way that did not invite disagreement.

  Fast Boy had meant to say something, also, but Kicking Wolf had such a cold look in his eye that Fast Boy did not speak.

  “Where will you take the Buffalo Horse when you steal him?” Red Badger asked. The more he thought about what Kicking Wolf planned, the more his breath came short. It was a big thing, to steal such an animal. Many of the Comanches thought the Buffalo Horse was a witch horse—some even thought it could fly. Some of the old women claimed they had heard the whinny of a great horse, coming from high up in the sky, on dark nights when there was no moon.

  “I will take him to Mexico,” Kicking Wolf said. “To the Sierra Perdida.”

  “Ah, the Sierra Perdida,” Red Badger said. “I don’t know if the Texans will follow you that far.”

  “If they try to follow us past the Brazos you can shoot them,” Kicking Wolf added. It was a little joke. Red Badger had a repeating rifle of which he was very proud; he cleaned it and rubbed it every night. But Red Badger had weak eyesight; he couldn’t hit anything with his rifle. Once he had even missed a buffalo that had been lying down. Red Badger’s poor vision made the buffalo seem as if it were standing up, so he kept shooting over it. In battle he shot wildly, hitting no one. Some of the warriors were even afraid Red Badger might accidentally shoot one of them. He would not be the one to protect them from the Texans, if they followed past the Brazos.

  Fast Boy was taken aback by Kicking Wolf’s statement about the Sierra Perdida. Those mountains were the stronghold of Ahumado, the dark-skinned bandit whom the whites called the Black Vaquero, because he was so cruel and also because he was so good at stealing cattle from the big ranches of the Texans, down below the Nueces River. Ahumado hated the Texans and killed them in many cruel ways; but what made Kicking Wolf’s statement startling was that he also hated Comanches—when he caught Comanches he killed them with tortures just as bad as those he visited on the Texans.

  “The Black Vaquero lives in the Sierra Perdida,” Fast Boy reminded Kicking Wolf. “He is a bad old man.”

  “That is where I am going—the Sierra Perdida,” Kicking Wolf repeated, and then he was silent.

  Fast Boy didn’t say more, mainly because he knew that it was easy to put Kicking Wolf in a bad mood by questioning his decisions. He was far worse than Buffalo Hump in that regard. Buffalo Hump didn’t mind questions from his warriors—he wanted the men he fought with to understand what they were supposed to do. And he gave careful orders. Problems with Buffalo Hump would come only if the orders were not carried out properly. If some warrior failed to do his part in a raid, then Buffalo Hump’s anger would be terrible.

  With Kicking Wolf, though, it was unwise to rush in with questions, even though what he wanted to do seemed crazy. Stealing the Buffalo Horse was a little crazy, but then Kicking Wolf was a great stealer of horses and could probably manage it; but the really crazy part of his plan was taking the horse to Ahumado’s country, a thing that made no sense at all. Even Buffalo Hump was careful to avoid the Sierra Perdida when he raided into Mexico. It was not from fear—Buffalo Hump feared nothing—but from practicality. In the Sierra Perdida or the villages near it there were no captives to take, because Ahumado had already taken all the children from the villages there—if he did not keep the captives as slaves, he traded them north, to the Apaches. Some people even speculated that Ahumado himself was Apache, but Famous Shoes, the Kickapoo, who went everywhere, said no, Ahumado was not an Apache.

  “Ahumado is from the south,” Famous Shoes said.

  When questioned about the statement Famous Shoes could not be more specific. He did not know what tribe Ahumado belonged to, only that it was from the south.

  “From the south, where the jungle is,” he said.

  None of the Comanches knew the word, so Famous Shoes explained that the jungle was a forest, where it rained often and where Jaguar, the great cat, hunted. That was all Famous Shoes knew.

  Fast Boy did not ask any more questions, but he thought he ought to make his views clear about the foolish thing Kicking Wolf wanted to do. Fast Boy was a warrior, a veteran of many battles with the whites and with the Mexicans. He had a right to speak his mind.

  “If we go into the Sierra Perdida, Ahumado will kill us all,” he said.

  Kicking Wolf merely looked at him coldly.

  “If you are afraid of him you don’t have to go,” Kicking Wolf said.

  “I am not afraid of him and I know I don’t have to go,” Fast Boy said. “I don’t have to go anywhere, except to look for something to eat. I wanted you to know what I think.”

  Red Badger was of the same opinion as Fast Boy but he didn’t want to state his views quite so plainly.

  “Once I was in Mexico and a bad thorn stuck in my knee,” he said. “It was a green thorn. It went in behind my knee and almost ate my leg off. That thorn was more poisonous than a snake.”

  He paused. No one said anything.

  “Ever since then I have not liked going to Mexico,” Red Badger added.

  “You don’t have to go, either,” Kicking Wolf said. “Once Three Birds and I have the Buffalo Horse we will go alone to Mexico.”

  Three Birds looked at the sky. He had heard some geese and looked up to see if he could spot them. He was very fond of geese and thought that if the geese were planning to stop somewhere close by, he might go and try to snare one.

  The geese were there, all right, many geese, but they would not be stopping anywhere nearby. They were very high, almost as high as the clouds. No one else had even noticed them, but Three Birds had good hearing and could always hear geese when they were passing over, even if they were high, near the clouds.

  He made no comment about the business of Mexico. It seemed risky, to him, but if Kicking Wolf wanted to go, that was enough for Three Birds. When there was discussion he rarely spoke his thoughts. He liked to keep his own thoughts inside him, and not mix them up promiscuously with the thoughts of other warriors, or of women, or of anyone. His thoughts were his; he didn’t want them out in the air. Because of the firm way he stuck to his preference and kept his thoughts inside himself, some Comanches thought he was a mute. They thought he was too dumb to talk and were puzzled that Kicking Wolf put so much stock in his ability.

  Sometimes even Kicking Wolf himself was annoyed by Three Birds’ silence, his unwillingness to give an opinion.

  “What is wrong with you?” he asked Three Birds one time. “You
never speak. Where are your words? Are you so ignorant that you have forgotten all your words?”

  Three Birds had been a little offended by Kicking Wolf’s rude speech. When Kicking Wolf asked him that question Three Birds got up and left the camp for a week. He saw no reason to stay around if Kicking Wolf was going to be rude to him. He had not forgotten his words and would speak them when he felt like it. He did not feel he had to speak idle words just because Kicking Wolf had decided that he was in a mood to hear him speak.

  What Three Birds saw, when he looked in the sky, besides the geese that were not stopping, was that it was going to get even colder than it had been; it was going to stay very cold for a while yet. There would be more snow and more sleet.

  “When will you steal the Buffalo Horse?” Red Badger asked. Red Badger was the opposite of Three Birds. He could not hold in his questions, or stay quiet for long. Red Badger often talked even when he had nothing to say that anyone at all would want to hear.

  Kicking Wolf didn’t answer the loquacious young warrior. He was thinking of the south, and of how angry Big Horse Scull would be when he woke up and discovered that his great warhorse was gone.

  15.

  MAGGIE COULD TELL by the footsteps that the man outside her door was drunk. The footsteps were unsteady and the man had just lurched into the wall, though it was early morning. A man so drunk at that hour of the morning that he could not walk steadily might have been drinking all night. The thought made her very apprehensive, so apprehensive that she considered not opening her door. A man that drunk might well be violent—he might beat her or tear her clothes. Maybe he would be quick and pass out—that sometimes happened with men who were very drunk—but that was about the best that she could expect, if she opened her door to a drunk. Some drunks merely wallowed on her, unable to finish; or the exertion might agitate the man’s stomach—more than once men had thrown up on her or fouled her bed with vomit.