He observed that Gus McCrae seemed to be considerably less interested in the matter of the thousand cattle than was Captain Call. Gus McCrae was looking downriver, in the direction of Lonesome Dove.
Call produced the letter, which he had wrapped in oilcloth—two or three violent rainstorms had doused them lately. Inasmuch as the letter was their only hope of getting the cattle they needed, he wanted to make sure it didn’t get wet.
“That was my bull Solomon you just saw—you’ll not see his equal in America,” Captain King said, taking the letter from Call. “He strayed off last night—tempted by a Mexican heifer, I suppose.”
He started to read the letter but then looked again at Gus.
“McCrae, you seem jumpy as a tick,” he said. “What do you see that’s upset you so?”
“It’s down the river and it’s blue, Captain,” Gus said. “I expect it’s a shark.”
Captain King glanced at what Gus pointed at and immediately burst out laughing—just as he did a gust of wind took the Governor’s letter out of his hand and blew it into the river. Before anyone could move it sank.
Call jumped off his horse and ran into the river—he was not a little vexed at Captain King, who sat astride his horse enjoying a fit of laughing. Call was able to pull the letter from the water, but not before it had become a sodden mess.
Call felt like giving Captain King a good dressing down, for being so careless with an important document, but it was hard to dress down a man who was laughing; and, anyway, Captain King was the one man who might help them succeed in their mission.
“I wish you’d read it before you let it blow in the river,” Call said. He spread the letter on a good-sized rock, thinking it might dry if given time.
“I beg your pardon, Captain,” Captain King said, attempting to control his amusement. “I don’t usually throw letters into the river, particularly not if they’re letters from a high potentate like Ed Pease. But I must say this is the best laugh yet. Captain McCrae here has mistook our blue sow for a shark.”
“Sow . . . what sow?” Gus asked, annoyed by the man’s jocular tone.
“Why, that sow,” Captain King said, with a wave of his hand. “She probably caught a snake—a moccasin, perhaps. There’s not much to Lonesome Dove but at least it’s mainly clean of snakes. The sow eats them all—she’s thorough, when it comes to snakes.”
“But Captain,” Gus said, appalled by his mistake. “Whoever heard of a blue pig? I ain’t.”
Captain King evidently didn’t welcome challenges to his point of view—he looked at Augustus sharply.
“That’s a French pig, sir,” he said. “She’s silvery in the main, though I suppose she does look bluish in certain lights. She comes from the region of the Dordogne, I believe. In France they use pigs to root up truffles, but you’ll find very few damn truffles in this part of the world—so mainly she roots up snakes. Madame Wanz brought her over, and a fine boar too. I expect the boar is off girling, like my bull Solomon. When you get a closer look you’ll find she’s unusually long legged, that sow. She ain’t low slung, like these runty little Texas pigs. The long legs are for climbing hills, to seek out the truffles, which don’t flourish in low altitudes.”
Call was listening carefully, impressed by Captain King’s quick manner. Gus had had the rangers half spooked, with his talk of sharks, when it was only a pig in the water, downriver. He didn’t know what a truffle was, or why one would need to be rooted up.
“What is a truffle, Captain?” he asked, putting up the rifle he had pulled during the alarm.
“Truffles are edible delicacies, Captain,” Richard King said. “I have not had the pleasure of digesting one myself, but Therese Wanz swears by them, and she’s as French as they come.”
“If she’s French, why is she here? This ain’t France,” Gus said. He was a good deal embarrassed by the matter of the shark that was only a sow; he felt sure he would be ribbed about it endlessly by the other rangers, once they got to town—if there really was a town.
“She should have stayed in France, and her pig too!” he said, in a burst of annoyance. “They’ve got no call to be disturbing the local stock!”
Captain King had been about to turn his fine bay horse and ride down the river, but he paused and looked at Gus sharply again.
“As to that, sir, you’ve got no call to be coming down here asking me for cattle when I’m hellish busy selecting worthy wives for my bull Solomon,” Captain King said. “When was the last time you had a drink of whiskey, Captain?”
“More than a week’s passed—I last touched liquor before we struck this dern brush,” Gus said.
“No wonder you’re surly, then,” Captain King said. He pulled a flask out of his saddlebag and offered it to Gus. Gus was startled—he politely wiped the top of the flask on his sleeve before taking a good swig and handing the flask back to Captain King. Lee Hitch and Stove Jones looked on enviously.
“Thank you, Captain,” Augustus said.
“A man needs his grog,” Captain King said. “I’m goddamn surly myself, when deprived of my grog.”
Call was annoyed with Gus. Why would he say a woman he had never met should have stayed in France? It was rude behavior, though Captain King was mainly right about the grog. Gus McCrae was scarcely able to be good company now unless he had had his tipple. He was anxious, though, that the rude behavior not obscure the fact that they needed Captain King’s help if they were to secure the thousand cattle.
“Captain, what about the cattle?” he asked—but Richard King was too quick for him. He had already turned his horse and was loping down the river toward where the blue pig lay.
40.
WHEN THE RANGERS finally rode into Lonesome Dove, the town they had been seeking, thicket by thicket, for several days, the wet blue sow, who was indeed large and long legged, followed them at a trot, dragging a sizable bull snake she had just killed.
“I wouldn’t call this a town,” Augustus McCrae said, looking around disappointed. There were four adobe buildings, all abandoned—despite what Captain King had just said about the sow’s efficiency as a snake killer, the buildings all looked snaky to him.
“No, but it’s a nice-sized clearing,” Call said. “You could put a town in it, I guess.”
On the west side of the clearing a large white tent had been erected—near it, construction was under way on what was evidently meant to be a saloon. A floor had been laid, and a long bar built, but the saloon, as yet, had no roof. One table sat on the floor of the barroom-to-be; a small man dressed in a black coat sat at it. There was a tablecloth on the table, as well as a bottle of whiskey and a glass, although the small man did not seem to be drinking.
Outside the tent a small plump woman whose hair hung almost to the backs of her knees was talking volubly to Captain King.
“Do you reckon that bar’s open, Gus?” Ikey Ripple asked.
Augustus didn’t immediately comment. He was watching the blue sow suspiciously—on the whole he didn’t trust pigs—but Stove Jones spoke up.
“Of course it’s open, Ike,” he said. “How could you close a saloon that don’t have no roof?”
Before the matter could be debated further, Captain King came back.
“That tent belonged to Napoleon once,” he said. “At least that’s Therese’s line. That’s Xavier, her husband, sitting there at his table. I guess the carpenters ran off last night. It’s put Therese in a temper.”
“Run off?” Gus said. “Where could a person run off to, from here?”
“Anywhere out of earshot of Therese would do, I expect,” Captain King said. “The carpenters in these parts ain’t used to the French temperament, or French hair, either. They think Therese is a witch.”
Call looked with interest at the tent. He had not made much progress in the book Captain Scull had given him about Napoleon, but he meant to get back to it once his reading improved. He would have liked to have a look inside the tent, but didn’t suppose that would be po
ssible, not with a talky Frenchwoman in it.
“It’s a nuisance,” Captain King admitted. “Now I’ll have to go try to corral the carpenters—I expect it could take half a day.”
Just then a flock of white-winged doves flew over the clearing, a hundred or more at least. Mourning doves were abundant too—the one thing that wouldn’t need to be lonesome in such a remote place were the doves, Augustus concluded.
“Even if there was a town here I don’t see why it would be called Lonesome Dove,” he said. “There’s dove everywhere you look.”
Captain King chuckled. “I can tell you the origin of that misnomer,” he said. “There used to be a traveling preacher who wandered through this border country. I knew the man well. His name was Windthorst—Herman Windthorst. He stopped in this clearing and preached a sermon to a bunch of vaqueros once, but while he was preaching a dove lit on a limb above him. I guess Herman took it as a holy omen, because he decided to stop wandering and start up a town.”
Captain King gestured toward the four fallen-in adobe huts.
“Herman was holier than he was smart,” he said. “He lived here a year or two, preaching to whatever vaqueros would stop and listen.”
“Where is he now?” Gus asked.
“Why, in heaven I expect, sir,” Captain King said. “Herman preached his last sermon about five years ago. He thought he had a nice crowd of vaqueros but in fact it was Ahumado and some of his men who stopped to listen. As soon as Herman said ‘Amen’ they shot him dead and took everything he had.”
Captain King fell silent for a moment, and so did the rangers. Mention of the Black Vaquero reminded them of their dangerous mission.
“But they still call it Lonesome Dove—the name stuck,” Call said.
“Yes sir, that’s true,” Captain King said. “The preacher’s gone, but the name stuck. It’s curious, ain’t it, what sticks and what don’t?
“I better get after those carpenters,” he went on. “I need to get a roof on this saloon. There’s a fine crossing of the river, there—I can do some business in this town, once it gets built. We need that roof—otherwise it will shower one of these days, and if Xavier ain’t quick it will get his tablecloth wet.”
Augustus looked at the small man in the black coat, sitting stiffly with the bottle of whiskey, at the one table.
“What’s he need a tablecloth for?” he asked. “Why worry about a tablecloth if you ain’t even got walls or a roof?”
“He’s French, sir,” Captain King said. “They order things differently in France.”
Without further explanation he turned his horse and rode off.
“I wish he could have waited until we talked to him about the cattle,” Call said, disappointed.
“I don’t,” Augustus said.
“Why not?” Call asked. “We’ve been at this two weeks and we don’t have a single cow. We need to get some and go.”
“You need to, Woodrow,” Gus said. “I don’t. All I need is to see if that fellow with the tablecloth will sell this thirsty bunch some whiskey.”
Call was annoyed with Captain King for leaving before they could discuss the business at hand, and annoyed, as well, with Gus McCrae, for being so quick to seize every opportunity to loaf.
All the rangers dismounted and the older men headed for the roofless bar.
On impulse, Call loped after Captain King, thinking perhaps they could negotiate for the cattle while looking for the carpenters—it might speed things up a little.
Lee Hitch and Stove Jones began to feel anxious when they saw Call leaving.
“Now Woodrow’s leaving . . . what’ll we do, Gus?” Lee asked.
“I’d like to get drunk, myself . . . I suppose you can do as you like, Lee,” Gus said.
It occurred to Lee that there weren’t many of them. What if the pistoleros who finished the preacher came back and went for them? With Call gone and Gus drunk, they might all be massacred.
“Yes, but then what?” he asked.
“Why, then, nothing, Lee,” Gus said. “I guess we can all sit around and watch that French pig eat snakes.”
41.
“INISH SCULL’S just a Yankee adventurer,” Richard King said directly, when Call overtook him. “He went up against Ahumado once with a strong force and he lost. What the hell made him go back alone?”
“I can’t say, Captain,” Call admitted. “We were on our way home and he just peeled off, with the tracker—the next thing we heard he was captured.”
“Speaking of peeling, what do you think of Madame Inez?” Captain King asked. “I hear she peels the pants off the lads quicker than I could core an apple.”
Call had managed to depart Austin without having accepted Madame Scull’s invitation to tea. He knew what Maggie thought about her, but what Madame Scull did was none of his business. He had no intention of gossiping about her with Captain Richard King.
“I scarcely know her,” Call said. “I believe the Governor introduced us once. I suppose she’s anxious to have her husband back.”
“Possibly,” Captain King said, eyeing Call closely. “Possibly not. As long as she has lads to peel she might not care. You’re a circumspect man, ain’t you, Captain?”
Call was not familiar with the word.
“Means you don’t gossip about your superiors, Captain—that’s a rare trait,” Captain King said. “I wish you’d quit the rangers and work for me. I need a circumspect man with ability, and I believe you have ability to go with your circumspection.”
Call was surprised by the statement. He knew little about Captain King—just that he owned a vast stretch of land, south along the coast. The two of them had met scarcely an hour ago. Why would the man try to hire him on such short acquaintance?
Captain King, though, did not seem to expect a reply, much less an acceptance. The trail narrowed, as it entered the thick mesquite. The two of them had been riding side by side, but that soon ceased to be possible. Call fell in behind the Captain, who kept a brisk pace, ducking under the larger limbs and brushing aside the smaller. Call, less experienced in brush, twice had his hat knocked off. He had to dismount to retrieve it and in the process fell some ways behind Captain King. Fortunately the trail was well worn. He pressed on, as fast as he could, but, despite his best efforts, could not draw in sight of the Captain, or hear him, either. He was beginning to feel anxious about it—perhaps the trail had forked and he had missed the fork. Then he heard shouts from his left. Suddenly a large form came crashing at him, through the brush. His horse reared and threw him against the base of a mesquite tree just as Solomon, Captain King’s great brown bull, passed in front of them with a snort. Call just managed to hang on to his rein and stop his horse from bolting up the trail. As he fell a thorn had caught his shirt and ripped it almost off him, leaving a cut down one side. The cut didn’t worry him but it was a nuisance about the shirt because he only had one other with him. The shirt was so badly torn he didn’t think it could be mended, even though Deets was adept with needle and thread.
The great bull had passed on, its head up, its testicles swinging. The trees over the trail were so low that Call didn’t immediately remount. He walked, leading his horse. Then he heard a sound and turned in time to see the old vaquero Captain King had put in charge of the bull slipping through the brush, in close pursuit of the great animal.
It was all puzzling to him: why would anyone try to raise cattle in a place where you could scarcely see twenty feet? Even if you owned ten thousand cattle, what good would it do if you couldn’t find them? He wondered why Texas had bothered taking such brushy country back from Mexico. In his years of rangering he had become competent, or at least adequate, in several environments. He could ranger on the plains, or in the hills, or even in the desert; but now he had been thrust into yet another environment, one he was not competent in at all. Captain King could move through the brush, the vaqueros could move through it, Solomon, the great bull, could move through it, but so far all he had done was
get lost and ruin his shirt. He would have done better to have stayed with Gus and got drunk.
Just as Call was beginning to wonder if he should try to retrace his steps and at least get back to Lonesome Dove, he heard voices ahead of him. He went toward the voices and soon came into a sizable clearing. Captain King was there, talking to four black men who were sitting on the thick lower limb of a big live oak, their feet dangling.
“Why, there you are, Captain, what happened to your shirt?” Captain King asked.
“Thorns,” Call said. “Are these the lost carpenters?”
“Yes, Solomon kindly treed them for me,” Captain King said. “They’re not eager to come down while Solomon’s in the vicinity. They don’t think the treeing was kindly meant.”
“I don’t blame them,” Call said. “He nearly treed me.”
“Nonsense, that bull is gentle as a kitten most of the time,” Captain King said. “I expect it was those Mexican heifers that stirred him up. Anyway, Juan is taking him home. It’s unfortunate about your shirt, Captain.”
The black men did not seem at all inclined to leave their limb. While they watched, Solomon trotted quickly through the clearing, with the old vaquero, Juan, right behind him. The bull did not look their way.
“See there, men, Juan’s taking Solomon home,” Captain King said. “He won’t chase you no more. It’s perfectly safe to come down.”
The black men listened respectfully, but didn’t move.
“Now, this is vexing, I don’t know if Lonesome Dove will ever get built, though there’s a fine river crossing there to be taken advantage of,” Captain King said. “Between the bull and the French witch, these men are badly spooked. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to lead them back to Lonesome Dove, could I, Captain?”
“Well, I guess I could take them back, if they ever decide to come down,” Call said. “But what about the cattle to ransom Captain Scull?”
Captain King simply ignored the question.
“I’ve decided to proceed to my headquarters,” he said. “I’d be obliged if you’d take these men back. They’ve got a saloon to build, and then a house. Therese Wanz will not be wanting to bivouac in Napoleon’s tent forever.”
The Lonesome Dove Chronicles (1-4) Page 94